Home Penial Self-Surgery Procedure

Subject: Home Penial Self-Surgery Procedure
From: gbernath@usa.edu (Gregory Bernath)
Date: Sat, 5 Mar 1994 00:20:20 GMT
Organization: your education tax dollars at work
Lines: 282


I once chopped pieces of foreskin off my penis with a pair of cuticle scissors.

Now that I've got your attention, I'll go back and tell the whole story. Apologies if it gets a little lengthy, but this yarn deserves to be spun well.

BACKGROUND

After I was circumcised as an infant, the wound was not taken care of with sufficient diligence, and it healed incorrectly. Portions of the raw edge of the remaining foreskin bonded to the glans, a little bit above the lower edge of the glans. This left a series of "skin bridges", basically sections of foreskin which can't be retracted, because they are fused to the glans at one end and the shaft at the other. These varied in width from about 1/16" to 1/4", and were attached off and on over about 2/3 of the circumference.

This was never a major problem. It was a long time before I even realized it was abnormal. Everything functioned properly, but there were a few minor problems with it which made me wish I could fix it. Mainly,

1. It was a cosmetic defect -- it didn't look good.

2. It was tough to keep clean under the bridges -- I had to swab it with a Q-tip now and then to knock down smegma buildup.

3. Some of the most sensitive parts of the glans were hidden under relatively insensitive chunks of foreskin, robbing me of the proper stimulation which was mine and every man's birthright.

Over the past few years, I'd been thinking of getting it corrected, but there were problems. Doctors cost money, and I didn't have it, and student insurance sure wasn't gonna cover it. Plus, the thought of some strange doctor chopping at my peepeehead gives me chills.

Now, all a doctor would do it sterilize it, numb it, cut it and bandage it. "Hell, maybe I can do that!", I thought. The problem was how to kill the pain. I experimented with cutting myself (with an x-acto knife), but seeing as it always hurt like hell before I even cut anything, I never went through with it.

Recently, I came back and studied the situation. Again, the problem with the self-surgery approach was dealing with pain. There had to be some way of numbing the area, but how? One winter day, it hit me. If cold can make fingers go numb, then cold can also make a ManTool[tm] go numb. With this in mind, I pioneered a the "home penile self-surgery procedure".

SURGERY KIT

Cuticle scissors (1 pair)
Rubbing alcohol (1 bottle)
Antibiotic ointment (1 tube)
Anti-bacterial soap (1 bottle)
Gauze pads (lots, various sizes)
Ice cubes (iodine added to water for sterility)
Clean Washcloth (freshly laundered with lots'o bleach)
Well-lit work area (the kitchen table)

PROCEDURE

Wipe down work area with alcohol. Clean penis with soap and water, then with alcohol. Wash hands thoroughly. Soak scissors in alcohol.

Holding the ice cube with the washcloth (to prevent your fingers from going numb), apply the ice cube to the target area. Hold for 5 to 10 minutes, until area is numb.

Using the cuticle scissors, sever the skin bridge as closely as possible to its connection with the glans. Then sever the foreskin end of the bridge in such a location as to leave an even edge on the foreskin.

Use gauze pads and direct pressure to stop the bleeding, then apply antibiotic ointment and bandage.

THE OPERATIONS

Though the operations are not painful if done correctly, the healing process is a real pain in the ass. It also takes a certain state of mind to be able to cut your own flesh. I would kind of put myself into robo-man zombie mode for the operations, in that I never dwelled on what I was doing, I just mechanically plodded through all the steps without thinking about how totally gross it was.

Since the ice cube could only numb a small portion of the penis, and since I could only tolerate so much trauma to my dick in one session, it took 6 separate operations, spread out over a two week period, to cut/remove all of the skin bridges.

Operation #1 (Day 1)

The test cut. I chose a small thin skin bridge, about 1/16" across. I held the ice cube on for 5 minutes. The ice caused a peculiar kind of "cold ache", but it wasn't that bad. I gingerly made the cuts, and sliced through with no pain at all. There was some minor bleeding, but because
of the speed at which I worked, I had finished and had the gauze on it before the wound had any chance to bleed significantly. After about 10 minutes the bleeding was stopped and I bandaged it up, no problem at all. Only a tiny little speck of flesh had been removed, rather unimpressive looking.

Operation #2 (Day 3)

Operation #1 turned out so well, I decided to go for big game this time. The target was the mother of all skin bridges, about 1/4" across and very thick and meaty.
Again, I made the preparations and applied ice for 5
minutes.

I made the first cut along the glans, and was surprised at how much I had to bear down on the scissors. This skin was surprisingly tough. I finished that cut, and then turned my attention to the cut on the foreskin side. Wanting to get it done quickly, I decided that two large, powerful snips should do the job. I bore down and made the first cut, and realized with a shock that IT HURT LIKE HELL.

Well, it turns out that due to the thickness of the skin bridge on that end, the cold hadn't penetrated deeply enough, and it hadn't gone numb. So, I was left with a problem. I had a half severed bit of foreskin hanging off me, and no anesthetic. My only recourse was to finish the
cut. I thought, "Shit. This will hurt.". So I lined up the scissors, closed my eyes, and as quickly and powerfully as I could, I made the snip. My prediction was correct; it did hurt (don't you hate when you're right about things like that?). I managed to avoid shouting out, instead opting for a few simple gasps and whimpers.

I resolved to hold the ice on for much longer in future operations.

Being that this was a bigger cut than the first, it bled much more profusely. It took about 20 minutes of direct pressure and a lot of gauze until I could staunch the main flow. Even then it kept oozing blood for a few hours. I spent the rest of the evening with nothing on below the waist, sitting in front of the TV with a few brews (this became standard procedure for all forthcoming operations). Any motion tended to make it break open and bleed again, so I moved around very little. I was functioning (that is, walking) almost normally again by the next day, but it took about 5 days before this one completely stopped oozing blood.

As I gingerly hobbled back into the kitchen for another brew, I spotted IT, the severed hunk-o-foreskin that I had left on the table. It was of fairly good size, about 1/2" by 1/4" and maybe as thick as a piece of bacon. Suddenly, strange thoughts entered my skull, and a raging
mental battle between good and evil ensued.

EVIL: "Eat the foreskin."
GOOD: "Don't do it!! That's gross!!"
EVIL: "Eat the foreskin."
GOOD: "Stop thinking about it!!"
EVIL: "You know what you must do. Eat it. It is your destiny."
GOOD: "But that's cannibalism!"
EVIL: "So what?"
GOOD: "Cannibalism is shunned for a reason! It spreads diseases!"
EVIL: "Look dipshit. It's your own fucking flesh. Any diseases in there, you already got."
GOOD: "But it's SELF-cannibalism!"
EVIL: "So is chewing on the piece of skin you bit off your fingertip. BFD."
GOOD: "But this is weird, deranged and perverted!"
EVIL: "Exactly"
GOOD: (Hauls its sorry whupped ass away and shuts up)

So, I ate it. Turns out it was very tough and chewy, kind of like biting a little piece of rubber. I chewed for about 5 minutes, but didn't make any progress on breaking it down, so I swallowed it. It had a little bit of blood flavor at first, but after that it had no flavor at all; rather disappointing in that respect. Maybe I should have cooked it.

Operation #3 (Day 10)

A medium sized cut. I held the ice cube on much longer (10 minutes instead of 5), so there was no problem with pain. Not nearly as much bleeding, but still a respectable amount.

A word about erections: they were a bad thing. Any hard-on would tear the wounds open and start them bleeding again. This would be a problem for about 3 or 4 days until the wounds had healed sufficiently. Basically, I had to spend a long, long time without even thinking a nasty thought. Of course, when I was asleep I had no control over the process, which would always result in me waking up with a dick that hurt and bloody bandages. I was really lovin' life at moments like these.

Operation #4 (Day 12)

Another medium sized cut, but with the added bonus of having a small vein (about 1 mm in diameter) running through the skin bridge. Now, the blood supply for the penis mainly runs through blood vessels buried deep inside. When you get down the the small vessels, the
circulatory system becomes more of a spiderweb, with redundant paths going to every point. So I knew it wasn't actually dangerous to cut it, but it was still a kind of psychological obstacle. I expected this one to be a heavy bleeder, and I wasn't disappointed. It took about a full hour of direct pressure to get the severed ends of the vein to close up. Otherwise, not too much of a problem.

Operation #5 (Day 14)

I was planning on more time to let the others heal, but due to changes in the way skin tension was being applied to the remaining bridges (because I'd cut some others away), one small bridge was getting a lot of stress and starting to hurt. So I chopped it quick and easy, no real problems.

Operation #6 (Day 15)

The problem with operation #5 was that it just transferred the stress to the next bridge down the line. So even though I had about 3/4" of flesh left to cut, I resolved to do it all at once in one last cutting frenzy.

Due to the size of the operation, it took a while to complete (maybe 1 minute total), which gave the blood a chance to flow. I had to stop a few times and wipe away blood so I could see what I was doing. Strangely, this didn't bother me at all. It seemed perfectly normal that I
should be wiping up copious amounts of blood flowing from my bleeding pecker which I had sliced open myself. Actually, it seemed kind of cool at the time, which led me to speculate at the time that I had gone insane, which I also thought was pretty cool.

Anyway, except for the excess blood which had dripped on to the chair, it went quite well. The only thing that really grossed me out was when I noticed I had blood all over my hands. If any psychoanalysts want to analyze that tidbit for me, feel free, though I really don't care.

The wounds are now completely healed, and the results are good. Mainly:

1. There are no scars to speak of, just a few bumps on the glans. This is because I didn't trim the flesh quite close enough in a few spots. They kind of resembling little warts. I thought about going back and trimming them off, but I kind of like 'em now. After all, it's not everyone
who has the privilege of appearing to have warts, with actually being diseased.

2. Without the skin tension holding things back, total dick length has increased by 1/4". (Of course I've measured the length of my dick. Like you haven't?)

3. It's a great topic for dinnertime conversation. Women generally seem to find it quite interesting. Men generally turn kind of pale.

With my newfound surgical skills, I've been contemplating a few more self-surgical procedures. You know, mole removal, wart removal, nose jobs, the whole vista of cosmetic surgery. I'll need some help for that mole on my back, which means training an assistant. Ah,
the future looks interesting indeed ...
--
Greg Bernath gbernath@usa.edu

My favorite dog story (true!)

Subject: My favorite dog story (true!)
From: dehall@hellcat.somewhere.edu (David Hall)
Date: 2 Aug 1994 03:30:52 GMT
Summary: kilt a dog!Lines: 237



A fews days ago, while finishing up a private flame to some PC minded asswipe lawyer (not Canter or Siegal), I realized that it had been a *long* time since I had posted to our illustrious
group. Had nothing tasteless happened to me in recent months? Not that I could think of. I hadn't been sick. Nobody I knew had been sick. I couldn't even claim a good road kill (I ride a motorcycle, hitting a skunk would probably kill me too!). But then the great god of AT posts blessed me: my grandmother died.

So I bet you all are thinking that this post is filled with some tasteless details of her death and or her funeral. Nope, sorry. There wasn't anything good to report about them. BUT!!! During the long drive to Misery (Missouri?) I had time to ponder my childhood and came up with a classic adventure from my youth.....

When I was about 16 years old, my uncle's neighbors owned a piece of shit poodle that they routinely let run loose in the neighborhood. This little rat (not big enough to really be a dog....
it was nothing more than a curly haired, overgrown rodent) would run around, shitting in everybody else's front yard and barking incessantly. The cops had been called about the dog several times but the results never lasted more than a couple of nights (the results being the owners putting the dog in their back yard).

Well, it seems that our favorite neighbors decided to go on a one week vacation one summer and mind you, I *hated* that dog. So, with said hatred in my blood (and a sadistic streak down my spine) I decided that I would use the time alloted to me by our neighbors to take care of
the "problem."

My uncle was all for it, of course, and let me spend the week over at his place. After all, I was 16 and it was summer, did I have anything better to do than kill rodents? Not likely. And besides, this wasn't murder, or even cruelty to animals. No, this was to be a public service.


DAY ONE: RECON

The first night I decided that the best course of action was to see just what exactly I could get away with in regards to noise and neighborhood response. I spent the night pseudo chasing the dog around the neighborhood. The dog barked for *hours*. And yet, not a single light came on. Everybody was so used to the fuzzy fuck that it's barking didn't seem to cause even one raised eyebrow. "Perfect." I thought. The odds of getting caught doing whatever devious deed I should choose were small at worst.


DAY TWO: CAPTURE

Based upon the assumption that prying eyes would not be a problem, I decided that the best course of action would be to capture the shit dog, drive it out into the middle of nowhere, and then kill it in the most twisted, yet entertaining method I could think of. The mission would have three phases: capture, transport, and disposal.

Transport would not be a problem. My uncle had a plastic "instrumentation" case that was about 2 feet on a side with heavy duty latches. All I had to do was throw the box into the back of my truck (with the dog inside it, of course) and proceed to the sticks. Then I could dispose of it in the privacy of 10,000,000 acres of open desert. But how *should* I dispose of it?

My mind reeled at the possibilities. Burned alive, buried alive, bludgeoning, dismemberment, and poisoning. Yes, all were likely candidates, but I chose strangulation for it's simplicity. Oh, and the fact that I would get to look into the pooch's eyes as it died.

Unfortunately, capture was still a problem. Searching my uncle's house for something appropriate, about the only thing I found that would be of use was a 20 foot long piece of nylon rope and a pair of heavy leather gloves. They would have to do.

After fashioning a lasso out of the rope, I began the hunt in ernest. I figured that I would corner the dog with a fence or something, play cowboy (lasso the dog), pick the dog up and away we would go.

No such luck. The moment I would try to approach the dog it would run like a bat out of hell and hide under the nearest car. Have you ever tried to throw a rope over something that is hiding under a Toyota?

It was back to the drawing board...


DAY THREE: BLUDGEONING

After the previous night's fiasco, I decided to beat the dog to death. The plan was based on the assumption that I could run just as fast as any shit poodle (9 years of track, baby!). So when the rodent made it's break for the nearest car I would catch it and crack it's skull *before* it made it to the safety of the Toyota.

But what instrument of destruction should I use? My uncle didn't golf, nor did he play softball. So golf clubs and baseball bats were out. I searched the house for something appropriate. In the garage I found a choice instrument: a 1/2 inch diameter rod of solid aluminum about three feet long. It should do nicely.

That night I stalked the beast as best I could. I watched the dog from a distance of 50 or so yards for the better part of an hour waiting for it to do something stupid. My prayers were answered. The shit decided to take a shit. While the dog squatted in some poor sap's front lawn, I moved in for the kill.

The dog didn't hear me coming until I was about 10 feet away. By then it was too late to avoid my attack. I swung the rod as hard as I could as I ran past him. *WUMP!* I hit the dog sqarely behind his right shoulder. I could see his (hell, I never checked, it might have been a her) body deform around the rod as it transferred it's energy into his rib cage. Feefee was knocked about three feet sideways by the blow (interestingly enough, the dog never yelped). I didn't know how much damage (if any) I had done, but I was sure that I had the dog's *full* attention now.

Bringing myself to a stop about 10 yards past the ratfuck, I turned around to make another pass. But he was on the move, too. As he ran towards the nearest car I could tell my initial assumption was correct: I *could* run faster than he could. Unfortunately, he had a lead on me and it wasn't too far to cover. DAMN! He made it to some pickup truck before I could hit him again. And try as I might, I couldn't seem to get him under there.

It was time to rethink things (again).


DAY FOUR: BLOW GUNS

The previous two nights failures told me that whatever method of destruction I should choose, it *had* to be effective underneath a vehicle. To me, this said that it needed to be a projectile of some sort. Guns were out for two reasons: noise, and consequences of a chance meeting with Mr. Policeman while running around the neighborhood at 4am with a gun. Checking my resources I found three possibilities. The first, and probably most effective was the old bow and arrow set that I had played with as a kid in my uncle's back yard (OK, he spoiled me rotten!). But this too was ruled out as it was identifiable as a weapon from a block away. I didn't want to push my luck. The second, was a slingshot. While accurate and powerful, the balls shot by it lacked the ability to penetrate (or so I reasoned). This left my third option, my trusty home made blow gun.

Feeling like a ninja, I searched for my prey yet again. I found him sniffing a mound of dog shit (probably his) about a block away. He saw me approaching, and, apparently growing lery of me ran for the nearest parked car.

"No problemo," I said to myself as I walked up to the car. Crouching down I loaded up the blow gun. The dog just sat there as I pumped the first dart into his chest. *THWACK!*

I reloaded.

The second shot I aimed at the bastard's throat. *THWACK!*

This time he yelped loudly and ran from underneath the car. Smelling victory, I chased him down the street. He hid under another car.

And I hit him again. This time I hit him in what I hoped would be his intestinal cavity. He yelped and ran again.

And so the night continued. *THWACK!* *YELP!* *THWACK!* *YELP!* In all, I put about 20 darts into him that night. But as my supply of ammo began to dwindle, I realized that despite all the festivities, the dog did not appear to be *hurt*. Perhaps what I was doing was no worse
than letting a vet pump 20 needles into him? I regrouped a third time.


DAY FIVE: POISON

Despite the apparent lack of results from the previous night, I was encouraged by my ability to hit the dog at will. This being so, I decided to learn the lessons taught by jungle bunnies everywhere: I would use poisoned darts. But how would I get poison from the dart into the
animal? Scientists use hypodermic needles to do it. I didn't have hypos. Natives soaked their darts in poison, mine were steel and thus wouldn't absorb jack shit. But where there is a will there is a way!

I took two of my remaining darts and used a file to create serrations along the entire length to the dart (except the cone). Now all I needed was a poison that would cling to the serrations well enough to withstand handling, flight, and impact with the animal. This requirement implied that the poison needed to be a paste of some sort.

But what sort of poison is a paste? After eliminating all available *poisons* I began searching the garage for something, anything, that was both a paste and had a "HARMFUL OR FATAL IF SWALLOWED" warning on the side. I found something (I think it was some *old* paint) and promptly coated my darts with it.

Finding the dog proved to be easy and right on que he hid underneath the nearest car. Taking my time, I loaded up a poison dart and aimed for the heart/lung region on the hellhound. Since this dart was important, I blew has hard as I possibly could. *WACK!* It sounded a lot like a
single hand clap. 30 seconds later the second poison dart joined the first.

My work done, I called it a night.


DAY SIX: ARROWS FROM SLINGSHOTS

When I awoke to the bark of *the* dog the next afternoon it suprised the hell out of me. But even more, it inspired me to *really* take care of business that night.

I surmised that the poison darts had been just as ineffective as the unpoisoned darts, but the ease of weapons delivery kept me clinging to the concept of projectiles as the weapon of choice. Using spearguns for inspiration, I wondered if I could use my slingshot to shoot arrows. Such
a configuration would eliminate the high visibility of a bow while providing excellent penetration. After some tinkering and minor modifications to my slingshot, I found that such a set up could indeed work.

But that night, the dog was nowhere to be found. DAMN!


DAY SEVEN: MIA

The absence of the dog the previous night had me hopeful that the poison had, after all, done it's job. But alas, I was not so lucky. That afternoon I spotted the shit dog lying in the shade on his master's front porch looking quite alive (and terrified of me :).

That night was my last chance. The neighbors would return from God knows where sometime the next afternoon. Searching the neighborhood, I spotted our favorite dog about a block away underneath a street light. It was moving much slower than it had in the past. Perhaps a sign that our little get togethers were taking their toll on Fido.

Slingshot and arrows in hand, I walked calmly down to the corner where I had seen the beast and looked around. The dog had vanished into the night. After several more hours of searching, I aborted the mission.

Ashamed of my failure, I awaited the return of *the* neighbors and the continued reign of terror that the mutt had inflicted upon the land.


EPILOGUE:

I never saw the dog again. Sometime later I found out that the dog had died a full *week* after the return of the neighbors. It seems that upon returning home they had found their poor pooch sicker than a dog (no pun intended) and had promptly taken it to the vet's office for
emergency care. The dog then spent it's last six days on earth in a small 2 foot by 2 foot cage, unable to roam it's territory, slowly dying of liver failure induced by an "unknown toxin."

And so, I can look myself in the mirror and know that I caused a poor excuse for an animal die a miserable death drawn out over the course of *TEN DAYS*. Yes, revenge was mine. And for that, I will forever smile upon the memory.

But I wonder, did the neighbors find any darts in him?


OBDogs: I actually love dogs. But my definition of a dog is a bit different than most. My definition basically says, "If the thought of that animal attacking you does not strike fear into your heart, then it is not a dog, but an overgrown rodent. *DOGS* can rip you to
pieces."