Instant, Crotch-Directed Karma!  

Time for another fun flashback from the days of yore, i.e. a repost from my original blog that I deleted several years back. This is a particularly great one, as it deals with a topic everyone can get on board with -- my pubes!


A Pain Not Easily Forgotten
originally posted February 1, 2006

I've decided it's time to share the long overdue story of how my favorite conversation piece, which I affectionately refer to as "Wrong Side of the Tracks," came into my possession. Here's a shot of its full glory, adorning a wall in my home office:

Look at it for a second. At first glance the warning it conveys may strike you as absurd. What kind of (sober) idiot would ever find themselves in this situation? Apparently it happens all the time, a statement supported by a roommate I once had who met the exact fate it depicted upon it. Although to be fair, he was a drunken idiot, so it was destined to befall him eventually.

Nonetheless, It was due to the seemingly unnecessary nature of this sign that my best friend McLean and I made a solemn vow that we would acquire one of them not too long after they were erected throughout NW Portland, in conjunction with the opening of the new streetcar. As aging pros in a child's game we realized this could very well be our last foray into sign thievery, but at the same time were excited to face this, possibly our greatest challenge. NW Portland is a ridiculously busy area at all times, so the only chance we had at pulling this off was to do it on a weeknight, and grab one of the few signs located under cover of the freeway overpass.

When the night was finally upon us, we were prepared with the usual tools: wrenches, pry bars, and a hacksaw blade. It was prime time for the grab, given the late hour and the relatively low number of people around. Our confidence soared even further as I easily boosted McLean up to detach the sign, but we immediately hit a snag. These brand new signs were attached to their poles in a brand new way. A steel band that wrapped around the pole and the backing of the sign rendered both the wrenches and the pry bar utterly useless. Even with my unmatched physical prowess, the hacksaw blade proved too flimsy to get a cut started in the steel bands. Our heads held low, an early retreat was called.

Ashamed but still determined, we regrouped later that week and formulated a new plan. For our second attempt, a cordless drill was teamed up with an abrasive stone bit (similarly pictured right) that had tested very well during our highly scientific trial runs in McLean's garage. Right around midnight I was standing on McLean's bent knee, having a go at the steel band. The manner in which the band was secured left it flush against the sign, something we failed to consider during the testing phase. This made it pretty much impossible to get the angle required to make the cut. After 10 solid minutes of zero progress, I prophetically said, "I don't think this could go any worse".

I should have known better than to tempt the universe, because that turned out to be the exact moment when things got much worse. "Car!" warned McLean, lowering me to the ground. In my second stupid move of the night, I attempted to conceal the large drill by jamming it -- stone bit first -- into my pocket. The bit wedged deep into the fleshy intersection of my upper thigh and crotch, and the drill's trigger was then pressed ALL THE WAY DOWN by the outside edge of the pocket.

My body froze in susprise agony as the bit dug in and and began twisting, ensnaring the entire right side of my pubic hair along with it. I yelped like a beaten puppy and doubled over, trying to take some of the pressure off the drill's trigger. It finally came to a stop, but not until it had ripped through my man fur like a tornado in a trailer park. The overall sensation could have only been matched were I actually dangling from a tree by nothing but my love nest.

Like the world's worst bomb technician, I backed the drill out slowly, methodically, and in between bouts of manly sobbing. A survey of the damage revealed at least a hundred brave soldiers had given their life to the cause. As I was too mortified to continue, we chalked up another victory to the stupid sign and I wobbled home to ice my half-Brazilianed goods (and ego) for the rest of the night, unsure that we would ever find a way to complete this mission.

As evidenced by it hanging upon my wall, we obviously managed to get our white whale in the end. However, that part of the story is anticlimactic at best. A few days after that drill bit liberated a mass of pubis from me, McLean bought a pair of special tin snips from Home Depot, and the sign was brought down in 10 seconds flat. In fact, it proved to be so easy with this new hardware that we procured a second sign the same night from right in front of one of the busiest restaurants on 21st Ave. A mighty victory indeed, as well as a poetic finish to our vanadalistic tendencies. Just totally not worth the permanent bald spot/mark of shame on my junk.

Not pictured - the bag of frozen peas shoved in my pants

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9 Reasons to Live

  • Some Guy  
    April 7, 2010 at 3:39 PM

    That is a tale that definitely warranted re-telling. Good god, man! The pain!

  • Jennifer  
    April 7, 2010 at 4:53 PM

    I'm not sure what's more dumb - your silly attempts to steal the sign or the sign itself.

  • The Funny Farm  
    April 7, 2010 at 5:46 PM funny, nice work. Totally worth it and a great story to tell grandkids. (provided you did not do any damage to reproductive organs :) then you could just tell it randomly to other people's grandkids)

  • Fat Sparrow  
    April 7, 2010 at 9:25 PM

    "What kind of (sober) idiot would ever find themselves in this situation?"

    Riding a bike? I ask myself that all the time!

    I take it there's not a whole lot to do round Portland of a weeknight? Or you were busy during the day? Because when we wanted to jack a sign, we got some orange vests and some cones and borrowed Alan's dad's construction truck and went around and did it in the daytime. Just a thought, for next time.

    Don't tell me there won't be a next time, you know there will.

  • Johnson  
    April 8, 2010 at 9:41 AM

    Nice. Adding to my enjoyment of the story was the fact that, even though he spells it differently, every time I read the name "McLean" I was picturing Bruce Willis in Die Hard.

  • Gillian  
    April 8, 2010 at 12:39 PM

    Haha and also ew.

  • Shannon  
    April 9, 2010 at 9:52 AM

    Remind me to make it a top priority to hang out with you.

  • Anonymous  
    April 9, 2010 at 12:45 PM

    Your half-brazilianed male goods have paid their dues. My favorite part:

    "...not until it had ripped through my man fur like a tornado in a trailer park. The overall sensation could have only been matched were I actually dangling from a tree by nothing but my love nest."

    This needs to be embroidered on something.

  • jin  
    April 18, 2010 at 6:38 PM

    You are truly the master of the nether-region stories. I laugh heartily in the face of your pain.

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