A DAMP Order...Don't Leave Home Without It

Thanks to my friend over at Butchy Crocker, I am happy to say I will not have to worry about my penis being removed without my consent.

The great (and twisted) mind of Butchy has created a very official and serious looking document called the Kentucky Emergency Medical Services Don't Amputate My Penis (DAMP) Order. Neither of us is an attorney, but I am sure it will hold up in court. There is even a place for a notary to sign. You can't get much more official than that. If anyone questions you on the legality of it, just tell them two bloggers gave it to you. That should be enough for it to hold up in court.

Here is a peek at the form:

Kentucky Emergency Medical Services

Don’t Amputate My Penis (DAMP) Order

Person's Full Legal Name _______________________________________________________________

Surrogate's Full Legal Name (if applicable) _________________________________________________

I, the undersigned person or surrogate who has been designated to make health care decisions in accordance with Kentucky Revised Statutes, hereby direct that in the event of my unconsciousness that this DON’T AMPUTATE MY PENIS (DAMP) ORDER be honored. I understand that DAMP means that if my penis appears to have morphed into cancerous cauliflower, no medical procedure to remove my vegetable penis will be started by surgical personnel.  

I highly recommend you click on over to Butchy Crocker's Compendium of Conduct and read the entire form. Then, if you are a man, print one out and sign it. If you are a woman who knows a man, print one out and give it to him. It will count as your paying-it-forward-Oprah-moment for the day.

Oh, and one more thing:

From the file marked, "SHUT THE FRONT DOOR"

Last week, while flipping through the Lexington Herald Leader newspaper, I saw this headline:

Judges skeptical of doctor's case in man's penis removal

I was of course intrigued. Who wouldn't be? A man's penis had apparently been removed by a doctor resulting in a court case in which the judge was skeptical. But skeptical of what? That the penis had, in fact, been removed? That the person who removed the penis was a true doctor? I dove into the article with the gusto of a fat man at all-u-can eat Chinese buffet. After reading the entire story, I was not only horrified, but also totally freaked out that my friends and family may not know my wishes in case something similar were to happen to me. 

Here's what went APPARENTLY went down (I say apparently because this is case is still ongoing so who knows when the truth will appear, probably when Chris Hanson from NBC’s Dateline arrives on the scene):

            In 2007, a Kentucky man went into surgery for a circumcision. After the man was put under and surgery began, the doctor noticed the tip of the patient’s penis “had the appearance of rotten cauliflower, indicating cancer.” I will stop here for a minute and let you catch your breath because if you are anything like me, you just became nauseated and this shit just got real.

Deep cleansing breath.

Okay, let’s continue. Because the man’s penis was rotten, the surgeons decided to cut it off, figuring they would have to do it anyway so why not now since the bloke was already knocked out and they had the operating room reserved for another twenty minutes.

When the patient later revived in the recovery room, the doctors were happy to tell him the news that he’d had cancer but they took care of it—by cutting off his penis. He was, understandably, upset. He thought he was having a simple circumcision, a little taken off the top so to speak, and someone had gotten all scissor happy and had given him a high-and-tight.

Thus began the process of lawsuits and name calling that resulted in a 2011 trial. The jury found in favor of the doctor in the case, siding with the argument that the surgeons were doing what was necessary to save a man’s life by preventing his cancer from spreading.

The case was appealed which brings us to last week’s headline. The appeals judge is troubled (rightly so) by the fact that the patient did not sign a consent form to have penis removed. She is quoted as saying, “The point is ... a patient has a right. The doctor does not have the right to do whatever he wants, even if it turns out to be reasonable."

Click here to read the first article of the trial in 2011  

Click here to read the second article about the 2012 appeal 

          You are now caught up.

            Oh boy, where to begin with this? 

First off, my question for the patient is if the tip of your penis looks like rotten cauliflower, then why are you (a) not concerned about it and (b) having the skin that covers it removed? Seriously, surely you have seen pictures of other men’s bits or taken a shower in a locker room with other men in your life. Heck, I know you have a urinal in a busy restroom with other’s beside you. You would have to know that veggie tip ain’t right. Cauliflower, fresh or rotten, is not an accurate look for a penis head.

Second, to the doctor I ask did you not glance at the man’s penis BEFORE his scheduled circumcision? Did it never occur to you to ask why a grown man wanted one or why there appeared to be A HEAD OF ROTTEN CAULIFLOWER hanging out of his boxer shorts when he came in for his exam? Really?

Finally, and most importantly, let’s shift the focus back to me. I would like it to be known to all that if I am ever in a situation remotely similar, i.e. unconscious for any reason and someone wants to cut my penis off, I do not consent. I assure you if my tool begins to rot I will take matters in my own hands and tell my family doctor. Together we will decide if he should remove it. Under no other circumstances do I wish to have my member severed—not during an eye exam, hip replacement, broken bone setting, or a heart cath, nothing.

My penis is very dear to me and one of my favorite things. I have even been accused of thinking with it at times. I promise to take care of mine if you promise never to let anyone near it with anything sharp while I am sleeping. Deal?

Road Trip Poetry Part Two - Mississippi

So you know when you are using your phone to take notes or send texts and auto-spell check changes words for you without telling you? I hate that. I particularly hate that I assumed that the name of the town in Mississippi I had fondly remembered from my passenger seat window was Popularville since that is what my iPhone thought it should be. Never mind, that clearly the town name is Poplarville.

For any of you who are now saying to yourself that is an awfully weird and surprisingly specific word for auto-check to change and you wouldn't think that either Popularville or Poplarville would be in my phone's dictionary to begin with, I say, "Bite Me."

On the off chance I may have mistyped the word and only discovered my mistake after writing my poem and looking for pictures of Popularville, Mississippi, but could not find any because it doesn't exist but found plenty of Poplarville, Mississippi, because it does exist and is in the same location I thought Popularville was in, I will throw in a few fun facts about the town:

It is the Blueberry Capital of Mississippi.




Okay, I threw in only one fun fact. That's plenty.

By the way, if anyone from Poplarville is reading, I would strongly encourage you to think about starting a petition to change your town's name to Popularville. Popularville is cool and sounds like a place people would want to visit. It even inspired this poem:


Popularville, Mississippi

I don't know why I said those things,
or how it leaked from my mouth.
One minute we're having a splendid time,
the next, things just went south.

I don't for a second think you lied about Earl,
or Jim or Fred or Tuttle.
It's just when those fellers started telling tales
it made my mind all muddled.

You said you were done, that we were over
you got in the car and tore out.
Now here I sit on this cold park bench
by myself and full of doubt.

I see lovers walk by hand and hand,
too in love to notice me.
I am left all alone, solo and outcast
in Popularville, Mississippi.

Road Trip Poetry - Louisiana

I have made two road trips to New Orleans this year, and there is a very good chance I will be making a third before 2012 closes up shop.

The drive itself is not that exciting if you stick to the interstate which I do because I am not a person that needs to be lost and rambling around the Deep South by myself. Although the scenery out the window of my car is pretty similar in Tennessee, Alabama, and Mississippi, one thing I did notice were the awesomely named towns and cities along the way. If there is one thing I know, it is a aptly named town. I hail from a county that has communities called Hell-Fer-Certain, Cutshin, Thousandsticks, and Greasy.

To cope with the boredom of the long drive from Kentucky to New Orleans, I began to write down the names of some places we passed. I then thought about these places and decided to write a little poem about each of them. Thus, began Road Trip Poetry.

We kick it off heading back home to Kentucky from New Orleans. When I saw the big green sign stating that Pearl River, Louisiana, was only two miles ahead, I picked up my pencil.




Pearl River, Louisiana

This time you've gone and done it.
This time you've turned the tide.
This time you went way too far.
This time I can't abide.

I saw you with that low down trash.
I saw you dancing close.
I saw you grab that thang's ass.
No, this ain't a joke.

I've taken all I'm gonna take,
I've taken all I can stand.
I'm sick and tired of being lonely,
it's time I had a man.

To my prove my point that we are done,
I shout Glory! and Hosanna!
Today I flung your ring of gold
into Pearl River, Louisiana.

What Ever Happened To Sunday Dinner?

Sunday is the traditional day of the week that families come together for one thing that binds us all as one--to eat. There are very few of us Southerns who did not grow up sharing Sunday dinner with extended family members. Cousins, aunts, uncles, neighbors, and even a few strangers would pile around the table, pass bowlfuls of vegetables, pans of casseroles, and platters of chicken, roast beef, or ham. In some families, one person would insist on making all the food, usually the matriarch. She would have a name like Meemaw, Granny, Big Mommy, or Mamaw. And this much I know is true, no food ever tasted better than food from her kitchen.

Although times have changed and people are much busier doing less important things on Sunday than spending time with those they love, I always try to have a Sunday dinner of some sort. Whether I break bread with just my intimate family of two or with my family of souls I have created for myself as an adult or with my actual blood family, I enjoy that meal more than any other.

I have my favorite meals, depending on who is cooking that day. My mother happens to be one of the better cooks in all of Leslie County so it is tough to actually pinpoint a favorite dish of hers. I will eat most anything she puts in front of me, with the exception of liver (fried or sauteed), gizzards, or her coleslaw (sorry, Mom). My sister is a safe cook. She doesn't go for anything too exotic and she is very guarded with her use of spices.  As long as I have a salt shaker nearby, I am good with most anything she cooks as well. Andy is a fabulous cook, and I can not remember ever not liking something that he has served for dinner. I think you can see a pattern here, and that pattern is the path to my obesity.

There are many times on Sunday when I have been expecting meatloaf only to walk in to the kitchen to find a chicken casserole baking. I have been pumped about tearing into my father's fried catfish only to arrive at my parent's to find burgers on the grill. There are times when no one even felt like cooking and a pizza was called in as a substitute. I just roll with the flow. We still have a good time and eat whatever is put in front of us.  Again, I know my path to obesity is quite clear. I see it, too.

However, I read this morning of a man in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,who is not so easy going about his dinner expectations. This fella came home from work anticipating a meal of fried chicken only to discover that his daughter-in-law had BAKED the fowl. I know, I know. "What's the big deal?" you are asking me right now.

The big deal is that he pitched such a fit a fight broke out between him and his family. Not an argument, but a full-fledged-I'm-going-to-hit-you-with-a-chair-fight that overflowed from the kitchen into the street outside the family's home where the neighbors called the police, resulting in George's arrest.

"He's usually an easy-going guy," his mother stated, although to tell the truth, she didn't sound that convincing.

His girlfriend said very matter-of-factually, "They didn't do it right and George got mad." She shrugged her shoulders as if this is all the explanation that anyone needed.

After watching the report from a local news station, here is the scenerio as I imagine it:

The brouhaha all started with the peas and corn. The daughter-in-law prepares her in a bowl in the microwave. George doesn't like that to begin with, but when she didn't drain them after she removed the nuked veggies, that pissed George off. I gotta say, at this point, I am with George. If you are so lazy you just microwave some puny peas and corn, at least drain the poor things after they are sufficiently hot enough on the outside to scald your mouth but still frozen in the middle.

Before George could gather his thoughts and forget about the the peas and corn fiasco, his son placed the platter of chicken on the table. George was stunned to see that it had been baked, not fried. I imagine George had made his position on baked chicken perfectly clear to the family on several occasions. The man didn't like it. There was only one way to enjoy a tasty bird leg and that was fried, by God.

George grumbled and cussed under his breath and took a bite of his chicken leg.  He threw it down on to his plate in disgust and told everyone sitting there that the bird was dry.

That was the final straw for daughter-in-law. She then stood up, picked her chair up, and proceeded to pound George with it. All Hell then broke loose in that kitchen. Peas and corn were thrown, the undrained water burning whatever it touched; the over baked brown-n-serve rolls were used as rocks and hurled at people's heads; the dried, jerky-like chicken was flung to the ground. The melee looked very much like a rugby scrum as the family moved from the kitchen, out the door to the carport, and further out to the street. Mrs. Nimthistle who lives next door was appalled and could barely dial 9-1-1 for fear of missing part of the action.

George was taken in for harassment and assault charges. I bet George told the police he should be charged for assault with a deadly weapon because that damned chicken was so dry, but I am just guessing. Not surprisingly, both the son and daughter-in-law were wanted for unrelated charges in another county and were arrested for that when the police arrived. I bet it had something to do with KFC introducing their baked chicken a few months ago, but again, just a hunch.

So if you sit down to dinner tonight in hopes of a nice juicy steak or plateful of spaghetti with homemade sauce and instead you get handed a bologna sandwich, potato chips, and a pickle spear, my advice would be to roll with it. Ultimately, Sunday dinners are about spending time with those you love and not the quality of the food, unless you are eating at George's house. If you are eating there, grab a drumstick, hunker down, and pray for daylight.

Here is the actual news story: