Return of the testicle

I am a magnet for crazy shit…really I am.  I know I am always preaching about getting back what you put out into the universe, but come on! 

I am putting out kindness, patience, tolerance, love, blah blah blah.

If there is a drunk, foul mouthed man at a bank machine at 8:30am, you can guarantee he is standing beside me yelling at his points reward card and calling the machine, and I quote, a “hairy nutsack”.

Where there is a perverted old man at the grocery store wondering if his “cucumber” is firm enough, chances are, he is going to ask me for my opinion.

How about the time I had a HUGE rip in the ass of my capri pants, didn’t know it until the man behind me in line commented on the attractive pattern of my “undies”.

Oh and how can I forget the old man riding his bike down the middle of our main street flipping the bird to everyone.  Cars and people scattering to get out of his way, while he shoots the finger to anyone and everyone telling us all to “have a f’in fabulous day.”

Can’t forget the old lady in the local health food store who cut one so loud that it shook the shelves and then proceeds to give me  a dirty look…Hey, just because you are deaf doesn’t mean you didn’t know you let that one rip lady. 

I could go on, but you get the point.

I seem to attract the bizarre…why?  This is a burning question I have. 

Today was a great example…please see the post linked below in regards to my Emergency Room visit to understand this one.

http://adventuresinfindingme.blogspot.com/2012/01/testicles-and-hair-straightening.html

So…I am in the grocery store, minding my own business when I feel someone staring at me.  I mean, I could feel the eyes burning into the back of my head.  I am a little disturbed, but I still don’t look behind me. I keep moving down the row to check out the tomatoes.

I still feel like someone is “following” me and it’s starting to creep me out.  Seriously.  So I make the decision to turn around and make eye contact with my “stalker.”

Sweet Jesus, it’s the testicle guy from the emergency room.  I stand there horrified, while he stares at me intently.  All of a sudden, he registers who I am and says, “Oh hey, how’s the wrist?  I thought I recognized you.   Looks like you don’t have that cast anymore.”

Ok…here’s the dilemma.  What the hell do I say to him?  I mean, I had to sit in the same room, divided by a curtain, while he gets poked, prodded and scanned for his apple sized testicle.  I think I might have totally lost it if we were actually in the apple aisle.

I think about a minute passed, although it felt like an hour, before I could stammer out something that resembled a logical statement.  Because really, all I am thinking about at this point are his testicles.

I went on and on about my wrist, the misdiagnosis of the break, the cast, the subsequent allergic reaction I had to the plaster cast.  All the while, trying not to make direct eye contact.  At this point I realize I am holding a tomato in my hand, a little too firmly, as I notice I am leaving finger prints in it. 

He proceeds to tell me about his weekend, his recurring urinary infection and what he was buying at the grocery store.   Phew…nothing about the condition of the “boys.” 

I feel like I should ask him how he is doing, but really, how do you ask a total stranger how his “apple sized” testicles are? 

I make up some lame excuse to get the hell out of there.  I pretty sure I muttered something about Mormons coming over. 

As I am briskly walking, oh hell, who am I kidding, running out of the produce department, he shouts “Thought you would want to know...testicles are all healed up…be back on my bike in no time.”

The whole produce section stopped.  People stopped dead in their tracks, a lonely cantaloupe rolled down the aisle like a tumbleweed.  I heard someone muffle a laugh and another shopper snort.  I didn’t look back. 

Oh. My. God. 

I kid you not.

Like I said, why me?