Warning: this entry contains TMI (too much information), which means you’ll probably read the whole thing.
No-see-ums (aka midges and sandflies) are nasty insects, second only to mosquitoes in my loathing of female bloodsuckers of the anthropod world.
We call them little shit flies.
They are no bigger than the size of a pin head. Their major offensive attack is to bite and suck blood. The bite itself causes no immediate pain or other sensation but leaves a small red bead of blood.
Moments later the area surrounding the bite swells. The resulting welts can last for a week or more, and unlike mosquito bites, seem to itch the entire time. Our legs are covered in them and the scabs look like the work of a deranged connect the dots puzzle maker.
I woke up this morning and left the tent to take care of my morning business. Also up early were swarms of no-see-ums, which pestered me as I squatted to answer nature’s call.
On my way back to the tent, I started getting an itching feeling on my joystick. Of course I had to scratch. Inside the tent I checked myself out and counted thirteen bites on my trouser snake.
In some pubescent boy fantasies gone horribly wrong, thirteen bone starved ladies had gobbled my knob. The result was that my johnson was itchy and swollen. At this point I was scratching and laughing. Sarah was outside the tent making coffee. I called out to her, “Come here and look at this!”
Poking her head inside the tent she exclaimed, to what every man hopes to hear when flapping his man bits about, “OH MY GOD IT’S HUGE!”
She proceeded to start laughing at the hilarity of the situation, which usually causes a man to turn tail. However, bolstered by my scratching and the thirteen love nips of the little shit flies, my little man was in no condition to retreat.
Sarah continued to laugh and yell over to Leah in her tent, describing the situation involving my red rocket.
In solidarity with the awful plight that befell my tent pole, dear reader, please join in a sing-a-long with a song that Dr. Dirty (aka John Valby) popularized, “There’s a Skeeter on my Peter!” and join Chuck Berry trying not to laugh at white people attempting to dance in “My Ding-A-Ling“.
For those of you that are braver and still want more schlong, click here to witness the damage to my one-eyed willie.
Luckily, the rest of the day turned out better with butterflies and a swim in a river where the cool water helped reduce the swelling in my third leg.