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The jelly fish incident on the shores of Cambodia

Something strange and terrible happened the other day.

I was at the beach, waiting for a mango salad at one of the many restaurants lined up along the shore. When a routine fart turned into a shart. Instinctively I ran towards the ocean resembling a penguin while I did so. Once in the water I navigated out of the shorts and underwear I was wearing, inspected how tainted they were. The undies seemed like a write-off. The shorts, thanks to their bagginess were safe from shit stains. Then, while I tried to outside-in the shorts, a jellyfish swam right into the base where my dick meets the right ball.

The immediate wave of pain shot me out of the intoxicated state that was half guilty of my sharting in the first place. The co-conspirator was the red Thai curry I had for breakfast if you must know. I managed to get my legs back into the shorts and awkwardly trampled out of the water and head to the sun chair where the mango salad happened to be waiting. The waiter asked if everything was OK. I ask for a bottle of vinegar in between gasps. He obeyed. I began to eat while standing up, frequently half bending my upper torso with a knee-jerk reaction in my left leg, as someone who is resisting the urge to take a piss. Occasionally pouring vinegar in my crotch region and inspecting my penis. At this point the dozen bystanders sensed something wrong could have been going on.

No one laughed or asked but could not take their looks away from me. Halfway through the salad it dawns on me that heading to the hospital might be a better idea than standing around looking like a tourist with an unusual food fetish.

This was the first time I actually wanted a moto-taxi since in the time I spent in Cambodia, a place where Murphy’s law applies just as anywhere else. After walking six blocks I managed to get a hold of a tuk-tuk. The slowest tuk-tuk with the dimmest driver took me through the scenic route. Because fuck you tourist.

Once at the hospital I went to the emergency ward, a burn victim, a young kid with a bone piercing his forearm’s meat, a pregnant woman, and an old man whose ailment was not self-evident but smelled bad enough to make me want to vomit gave me the impression that saving a farang’s dick was not a priority. Still, a male nurse approached me inquiring about the motive of my visit.

I reply “I need someone to pump poison out of my dick.” Awkward moment of silence. “A jellyfish stung me.” I added. His laughter reinforced the belief that my dick was doomed. Once he calmed down he told me to man up and gave me directions for a place where poison is routinely pumped out of penises. It was all mildly amusing, if it wasn’t for the burning.

I went back to my hotel. The story was the highlight of the day for everyone at the bar. Subsequent jokes about how this could be a spider-man-like situation where my dick will forever remain like jelly, invisible, and giving insufferable pain to whoever dares touching it ensued.

Then they shouted me a few drinks and I was drunk again. Eventually the pain wore off. It all went better than expected.


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