I have no penis. I am sorely (ahem) tempted to leave it at those four little words; it implies - if you'll skip a few steps with me - society's longing for more, as well as unacceptance of different people, which means unacceptance of all. But if I left it at that, I wouldn't be able to warn you of the dangers. Take a trip with me back in time. The year is 1997; Yan Can Cook is making a comeback in the TV ratings, the toy of choice amongst children is, for the fourth year running, money, the Microsoft Corporation is but a glint in Bill Gates' eye, and Terry Pratchett still sucks the rancid sweat from an aging gorilla's big fat hairy balls.
I was a butt, a young upstanding boy, taking his first unaided bath since the messy break-up. Back in the day there was only one way to occupy one's time in the bath without resorting to scrubbing dead skin from the neck with a flannel: I was playing with a can of shaving foam. Luckily it rotated back round and I was able to get it out, otherwise that would have been a whole nother trip to the hospital, and one that would have made for one or two embarrassing glances from those nice people at Disney. Don't get me wrong though, this is no jolly happy story where everything turns out for the best, for, if your memory hasn't been eroded by those nice people at Disney, I have no penis. Only a retard would presume that this bathtime adventure isn't the source of the amputation. (Tempting, but not enough).
Now I'm not the kind of guy who's gonna pretend to know what the temperature of a bath is; if you want that kind of anal, accurate shit, go find it elsewhere. (You're always more than welcome here whenever, but a certain dichotomy must be maintained). On that day, my bath must have been over 50° C, or for those of you with a need for F numbers, 122°. Being a dreamer, I don't understand either set of numbers, although I know water freezes at 0°C and boils as 100°C, and I also know that blood temperature is 37°C. Most importantly I know that cans of shaving foam explode at 50°C, although there must be a little leeway allowed or there'd be far more shaving foam related explosions than we hear of. What I don't know is the temperature of my bath. At over 50°C, should I be hideously scalded, or is there a small window where "Aieee, that's hot," won't be heard until after "Aieee, the can of shaving foam exploded, severing my penis and leaving nasty shrapnel scars all over my stomach and thighs"? Thinking back to the fateful day, I do recall a tingling sensation running along the length of my legs, but I just put it down to that whole toadstool/mushroom mix up. Could it, perhaps, be Dick, Sherm and Ike haunting me from beyond the grave, telling me to duck and cover and let the scalding water and exploding metal do its worst on my invulnerable neck? You answer that, I've got better things to do.
The evil bitchwhore nurses were wonderful, and very supportive; the doctors did all they could, but failed miserably in reattaching aforementioned severed penis (which is why I started off saying "I have no penis," not "I have a hideously scarred penis and a colostomy bag.") My brief sojourn into the world of hospitals was uneventful; they couldn't do a damn thing for me, and as soon as I stopped squirting blood I was back outside on to the cold, unfriendly streets. Bastards wouldn't even let me change out of my hospital gown. So I sued them for emotional distress and was awarded a new set of clothes. Cool huh? I guess it wasn't all a total loss. I also still have my testicles, which means I'm constantly horny and all I can do to relieve the tension is to caress the wound, but it's not too bad. Like the cool antiseptic sting of a pus-filled budgie, you get used to it.