WordPress allows “tagging” posts, though I’ve yet to use the feature… until now. This post shall be tagged, “TMI,” so if you don’t want it, stop reading now.
I’m guessing I was 6 or 7, since “the incident” occurred on Homer Street in East Boston, and we moved to Wakefield in May of ’66, the year I turned 8. My best bud Paul lived down the hill and one circumstance I remember is that Paul had a hot older sister so I was in a hurry to get down there. I have only two other memories of the event: 1. I was putting on my green, Navy flyer suit, just like the one “Dubya” wore on that aircraft carrier to declare “mission accomplished” a few months after the Iraq war commenced; and 2. In my effort to expedite the process, I did not properly stow all um, stuff before aggressively ripping the long zipper up… “AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!” Yeah, just think Robert Shaw as
Quint” in “Jaws when the blood was being squeezed out of his body via his mouth.” That kind of scream.
The one article I found referred to the pre, um dicament as “Penile Zipper Entrapment.” I’ll tell you, the scene definitely lacked the hilarity of “There’s Something About Mary.” Author Satish Chandra Mishra, wrote the most ri, um diculous sentence ever with, “Entrapment of penile foreskin is quite a distressing situation for the child and the parents and can be a frustrating management problem.” You know, I’d ask my mom just how frustrating a “management problem” it was, but I’m afraid the memory might kill her. I don’t recall any blood, just serious “Mr. T” level “PAIN!”
That’s all I remember. I must have passed out. Since then, I’ve always been very careful with the old zipperoo. That’s one lesson a boy doesn’t forget, and I have the scar to prove it.