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Jock
Itch
The Other
Tragic Events of September 11th
written by
Jon originally for Backwords
It was about 2
A.M. on September 11th, 2001. I lay awake in bed, legs
spread apart, eyes bugging and fixed on the small bumps in the
ceiling paneling. I longed to sleep, but was not afforded the
luxury. The room temperature was a comfortable 68 degrees, yet my
sweat began to bead. 13, I thought to myself. 14, 15,
16 – GYYYYAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
For a moment, however brief, I weakened. My hand sprung to my crotch, and began to scratch ravenously. I breathed rapidly. Sixteen seconds without scratching, I said to myself. A new record. I enjoyed a few seconds of reprieve, then folded my hands behind my head so as to hinder them from darting to my crotch out of reflex. Okay, let’s try it again. 1, 2, 3, 4 – DAMMIT! AAAAAUUUGGGGGHHH!!!!!, I thought. “AAAAAUUUGGGGGHHH!!!!!” I yelled.
I didn't think of the words "pain" or "searing flesh". I was going to my cave to find my power animal.
I folded into the fetal position, as broken as a man can be, and prayed for the winged messenger of death to descend upon me swiftly. Alas, it would never come, and I spent the remaining six hours of the night staring, counting, scratching, staring, counting, scratching. After spending all night performing this routine, I finally passed out from exhaustion.
My TV’s alarm turned on at about 11:00, and I woke to the voice of Dan Rather. I watched in horror as a shaken Rather reported, “Once again…the two structures have been reduced to a fiery mass.”
I nearly jumped out of my bed. But – how does he know, I thought feverishly. I examined my testicles. The scrotum was red and swollen. Yep, that was a pretty accurate description.
“What once was a majestic display of power and strength… now lies in ruins.” I looked south once again. Again Rather’s words rang true. I struggled to hold back tears, and wondered if my nether regions would ever be the same.
Rather continued to note that perhaps hundreds of NYPD were at Ground Zero searching for bodies, and I sighed in relief after finding no big, uniformed men between my legs.
"No
Dennis Franz?...Thank God."
* * *
I am about to share with you the understanding I now have of this menace known as “jock itch.” Another common name for it is “jock rot,” and though it paints a more accurate picture, it also paints a much more horrifying one, so I will herein refer to the menace as “jock itch.”
In the days leading up to September 11th, I had noticed some minor scrotal itching. It was a nuisance, but I could live with it. I was still able to walk normally, talk without sounding like I had a rat crawling around in my pants, and sleep through the night.
And we all know what took place on that fateful date. I still cannot speculate on exactly why the enemy chose that date to strike, and strike with such force. The only solution I can give is that I possess what are likely the only prophetic testicles in existence. (Yes, I know that Prophetic Testicles would be a cool band name. No, your crappy punk band cannot have it.)
You were probably wondering why I woke up to Dan Rather broadcasting to the world about the status of my nut sack on that morning. Well, here’s the real irony. September 11th, as you may or may not know, was also the day that hijacked planes crashed into both of the Twin Towers. The towers collapsed not long after, taking thousands of lives. I acknowledge that for my balls to be truly prophetic, the attacks should have been made on two adjacent indoor stadiums or something else that better resembled a pair of testicles, but the correlation between these two events cannot, nay, must not be ignored.
Please understand, I am not attempting to trivialize the World Trade Center tragedy. I am only making it known that to know the future, Miss Cleo need look no further than my crotch. There are forces at work here, and to ignore them would be folly.
As you may or may not know, in the months ensuing the attack, mysterious anthrax-sprinkled letters showed up in mailboxes and post offices throughout the country, leading to widespread fear throughout the nation. At the same time, widespread jock itch occurred throughout my pubic area. It committed an act of treachery by spreading into the “no fly zone” that is the delicate area between the scrotum and ass crack. It spread above to my penis, and were it not for the thousands of lives at stake, I would say it’s almost a pity that an attack was not made on the Empire State Building to correlate with this attack. Or maybe the Sears Tower. Or Mount Everest. (Allow me to smack you in advance for suggesting the Space Needle.)
Above:
Not my penis.
The disaster reached its height of terror within a week. It ascended the penis, slowly but surely, and then proceeded to make the horrifying descent into the urethra. It hurt to urinate, and I had to stand there and take it, because I was not about to try to itch in there. By this point I had realized the correlation, and I began to cower in fear of a nuclear warhead being drilled to the Earth’s core and detonated.
America was a shattered nation at this time, and I a broken man. It hurt to walk, because my legs were constantly brushing against my raw, inflamed scrotum. Public situations grew awkward when those around me began to wonder why I would turn toward a wall at random times and put my hand on my crotch. Scratching down there came to be one of my habitual mannerisms, such as scratching my head or writing consistently funny articles. In class, I struggled to pay attention while squirming in my seat, and at times it got so bad I would simply skip the class. I was halfway tempted to ask my professors to excuse my absences because I was still feeling the effects of the tragic events of September 11th, but I knew they wouldn’t understand.
Now, believe me when I say I was desperate, to paraphrase our president, “to hunt down and punish those responsible.” The day of the attack, lotion was the only weapon at my disposal, and using it only made things worse. So I got smart, and applied some hydrocortisone cream the next day. It helped slightly, but I was still left in a limp, and was asked more than once if I had just finished riding a horse.
Of course, I showered daily, and I was told that it was very important to wash thoroughly down there. I did so wincing and yelping. Eventually, I began to take my showers at night, because the incentive of such a painful experience first thing in the morning was hardly a reason to get out of bed.
Then I hobbled to the store and picked up some Micatin. I used it diligently for a week…and slowly but surely…it receded. The War On Jock Itch had been won.
Or so I thought.
A sense of normalcy began to return. Summer became fall, and golden brown leaves blanketed the landscape. Every day was the greatest day of my life, as I was able to run with ease, whereas before I could hardly walk normally. Sure, it still itched a little now and then, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.
I spent the night at a friend’s house on November 11, 2001. The itch had been noticeably persistent that day, but I ignored it. That evening, we rented Reqiuem for a Dream.
How sadistically ironic. That film reflected more emotional devastation than I had ever experienced, and even that was one-upped that night. I crawled into bed, and prepared to enjoy the LONGEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE.
The attack on this night was even more severe than that of September 11th. I would have been more comfortable if someone had held a lighter on my balls, because at least then the burning sensation would subside once the nerve endings withered away. And throughout the experience, the Requiem for a Dream soundtrack was running over and over in my head. Never have I felt such despair as I felt on this night.
I desperately yearned for some Micatin, but I searched the house, and none could be found. I had a car, but no money, and it was at this time that I engaged in the most pathetic petty theft in the history of shoplifting.
I limped to the car, but the furious itching got the best of me before I reached it, and I was forced to pause and entertain it. Finally, I made it to the car and jumped in the front seat, then paused to scratch again. I drove the entire way with a hand on my crotch.
Once I got to the grocery store, I proceeded to do the impossible. So as to appear inconspicuous, I abandoned the wide, staggered gait I had relied on, and walked upright into the store. The pain was infuriating, and grew less and less bearable as I approached the medicine aisle. I scanned the shelf, and chose the most expensive tube of jock itch cream since it was on the house. Cream in pocket, I walked out to the car as nonchalantly as possible before giving in to my id and running in a dead sprint. I jumped inside and applied it. Right then and there. By the time I finished, about a quarter of the tube was gone.
Soon, the intense itching gave way to intense stinging, which I was grateful for. I went home and passed out, and when I woke up, the itch was gone. My life is once again worth living. Since this day, I have written more than one thank-you letter to the benevolent souls that manufacture Lamisil AT, whose $9.00 product I stole.
This
stuff is so powerful that it can partially levitate off the
ground.
The horror of that night led me to forget my sack’s prophetic tendencies. That morning, another passenger plane crash-landed in a New York suburb. And I felt partially responsible for not informing authorities about the strange happenings taking place in my crotch.
Hopefully, thought, there is an upside to all of this. I can’t wait until we finally catch bin Laden, because that will mean one thing and one thing only...
Scoring with Shakira.
