Scrote-Gate

The last thing one would expect in a room of 75 people. It's all fun and games until someone whips it out.

As a wise movie villain once put so eloquently: “There is nothing so glorious in it’s beauty as a freshly shorn scrotum.” Never truer words spoken. Unless it’s pulled all taut and shiny, surrounded by an equally glorious bush, and pointed point-blank at your face.  Beauty is the last thing on ones mind. In fact, scratch those first two lines. You don't expect to come face to scrote in a “respectable company" call center w/ 75 people in the room. It was a College gig, and it was the glory days of the latest exercise machine destined to be a clothes hanger within weeks of purchase. They idiotically paid us $50 a machine, for basically taking 20-30 orders per week. America throwing down shekels for the machine that’s finally gonna solve their fat problem. 

On this particular Saturday afternoon, the nuttiness and back and forth was escalating. The goal was always to cause your neighbor to, the technical term, “lose his s**t completely” while on the phone w/ a would be customer. It was in the air, something bizarro was bound to happen. 

What actually kicked it off, was very unexpected. The mousy and quiet daughter of a long term U.S. Senator lit the fuse by abruptly throwing out a filthy little joke about girl on girl something or other. It was on like Donkey Kong. In the middle of a call, I hear something that grabs my attention. A year before, I’d lost, then found my wedding ring on my honeymoon in the Bahamas, and I’d been paranoid about losing it ever since. ScroteMaster didn’t know this, he just got damn lucky. “Matty” being me, I heard ScroteMaster say “It must’ve fallen off Matty’s wedding ring, huh? Weird.”  Before I could wrap up the call, I get a hard tap on the shoulder. “Hey Matty, did you lose this from your wedding ring?”  I wheel around, and less than a foot from face, eye level, SM has his entire nutsack pulled through his zipper. With two fingers, he was squeezing the base of sack, hence, pulled all taut and shiny. Like a bald old man who’d just spent an hour under the buffer. Most people would probably offended or pissed off. Not this guy. 

I lost my s**t completely. I started into a cackle that not only grabbed the attention of all 75 people, 4-5 minutes later I was on all fours. Tears streaming down my face, trying my best to stop cackling, or at least turn down the volume a bit. No use. Like when you were a kid around the Sunday dinner table, the more pissed off Dad became, the more he threatened you w/ banishment and no Sunday dinners for a month, the harder you laughed. So it was here. 

The only thing that brought me under control was the biggest kiss-a*s dickhead supervisor in the joint standing over me. Displeased in the extreme. “What the hell is going on?”  “Nothing, someone told a joke.”  “Yeah right, a joke doesn’t cause a scene like that!”   “Well, it just did. Obviously.”  He took me to an office and slammed the door. He proceeded to interrogate me for an hour, threatening me w/ all manner of terrible outcomes. I repeated my original explanation, over and over. The more I did, the more it looked like his giant meat-head was going to explode. Well, that wasn't the only reason he was on the redline of going full homicidal. All the while, I’d been using my middle finger to get the non-existent eye bookers out of my eye. Right in his face. I got the scrote, he got the finger. 

“What are you doing? With your middle finger?"  “Huh?  Eye boogers. Hay fever. Sometimes I wake up in the a.m. and my eyes are sealed shut w/ eye boogery maximus. I have to soak em' w/ water just to break the booger seal and open my peepers. Sucks”   “Yeah, right.”   “I’ve said all I’m gonna, are we done here?”   I was naive enough to think I could save ScroteMaster’s job. Nope. SM made the mistake of telling a nearby kiss-a*s what he’d done. Two kiss-asses in one room, SM didn’t stand a chance. Supervisor Dickhead’s interview w/ Kiss-a*s lasted about 5 minutes, tops. Before you could utter “glorious bush” SM was s**t-canned and escorted out. Poor b*****d. He had two young kids, trying to make it through College. I thought I’d never see SM again. I was wrong. 

After graduation, I got a job w/ a brokerage firm and got all licensed up. One beautiful spring day, someone darted toward the closing elevator door and asked me to hold it. I stick my foot in, and let the guy in. We turn and look at each other, then quickly look away. Then again. Almost a mirror image of each other. I smile, fully remembering this is ScroteMaster. He turns away and begins to fidget. What seemed like forever, he finally turned and faces me again. “Matty, right?”  “ScroteMaster!”  Sheepishly, he gives me a “sshhhh, c’mon” expression. Before I could say another word, “Ya know, where we worked. What happened there. Well, I’m doing really good here, and um, I didn’t put that on my resume obviously…”  I interrupt. 

“Hey, I spent 90 min. flipping off dickhead to his face, despite all his threats, I said nothing. I don’t plan to start to now. Your scrote is safe w/ me.”  I was pretty proud of myself, being able to say that last line improv. I continued, “But dude, I do think you lost your f*****g mind! WTF were you thinking? I’ve never laughed until I was in such physical pain and out of tears. Damn. That was nuckin’ futs.”  He started to respond, “Yeah dude, I dunno. That day was crazy and Senators daughter really cranked it up a few notches.”  “She did indeed.”  

SM was confident I would keep his secret. We shook hands, and walked away. Despite being in the same company, in the same building, I never saw SM again. I like to think he found the courage to break out his Scrote stunt again, in better surroundings. That he didn’t abandon it from his repertoire altogether. Though, with man-scaping being so commonplace, I doubt modern day SM could match the bush/sack glory combo he achieved on that wacky Saturday afternoon behind the Zion Curtain. Stay Frosty, Stay Aerodynamic, Me gone.