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Legal Issues
According to experts quoted in a New York Times
article concerning circumcision-related litigation, "About 1.2
million newborns are circumcised in the United States every year."* Now, that's a lot of tender, inflatable meat parted from the wailing fatherland -- which reminds me of the old joke about the mohel who made fine foreskin wallets from the leftovers. (They turn into suitcases when stroked! Bada bing!) But this is no time for silly jokes and apparently the parties involved in all the slicing and dicing are starting to sue each other for medical malpractice, breach of fiduciary duties, ritual child abuse and aggravated assault with an exacto knife.
"Judge Rothe-Seeger ... suggested that Josiah could sue
his parents some day if he could show that they failed to act in his best
interests"* in the execution of his circumcision. [My bad luck: Mom and Pop are dead -- beyond the long arm of justice.]
The doctor who performed the circumcision ... issued this statement:
"The mother was given information ... The circumcision was done
because she requested it."*
Baby neither read nor signed the disclosure, and now Mumsy has regrets and has consulted counsel. She didn't fully understand what
the operation entailed. (A helpless, blameless, newborn johnson, small and cute as a button; a vise, a scalpel, a red-hot cauterizing iron; baby's O-face of horror; the screams of pain; blood splashing the walls and ceiling: Jeez, help me out here, what's to misunderstand?) Plus she could use the gelt to pay off her credit card bills. As soon as Josiah can grasp the atavistic pruning wrought upon his poor little string bean, he'll get his own lawyers, and will try taking Mom down.
I see major class-action litigation choogling down the pike, shysters
getting rich, and it still won't bring anybody's foreskins back.
Look, I'm a dues paying Democrat -- but maybe the Republicans are right about tort reform.
* "Circumcision Opponents Use the Legal System and Legislatures," 1/23/03, by
Adam Liptak. Except where specifically noted otherwise, all quotes derive
from this source.
But...What About Me?
I don't really have a handle on how I feel about my lost (or stolen) prepuce. I do know that when I gaze inside my heart during the odd alcohol-hazed moment of self-reflection, instead of the gorgeous love-butterflies I deserve to behold, all I see are a few shitflies
buzzing aimlessly above the rank, putrescent offal of my once buttery hopes and well-marbled dreams. (Every now and then, I'll use an artful metaphor to try and "pretty up" a nasty business.) I've got other issues, you bet, lots of 'em, and I can't help wondering if they might not be due to the haircut given my innocent "little piggy" half a century ago. Somebody's got to take responsibility for how I've turned out.
Perhaps I need outside help -- cognitive therapy or Lipitor. Or a manly support group -- maybe one I could find on Craigslist -- to get me over grief's lumpy hump.
We'd dedicate all our free time and disposable income to reenacting Korean War battles with perfect-replica burp-guns, but after the appropriate carnage had been wrought, we'd be unafraid to trade fierce, sweaty hugs on the field of honor, and grunt the tender, healing words that can only be said between brothers in arms: "Your spear, Long Rifle, though notched--and apparently charred in spots--is yet strong and true as weathered oak. Or teak."
On the other hand, primal screaming sounds much the most appropriate, and unquestionably the most cathartic, therapy. My fear is, once started, I'd never stop...screaming. I've had the uncontrolled screaming response triggered by past events -- the scene in "The Tin Drum" where the slime eels poured out of the horse skull; my introduction to the southern bar treats of boiled peanuts and pickled eggs; the 2000 election -- and consciously inducing it again, even for sound therapeutic reasons, is not undertaken lightly.
I don't know. I suppose the truth is my inner child just isn't ready to confront
the offhand maiming of my outer child: My red, over-large, pulpy-soft
head gets tonged out of the nicest, moisty-warmest place one could hope to call home. I'm hit by the floodlights as if over the wire at San Quentin. And
then my gentle, guileless, trusting smile is slapped off my face. (I dislike being slapped by strangers--or tasered for that matter--though I grew used to both
later in life.) Finally it's decided -- what the hell? Let's carve up his
tiny pecker since we're already here. Why not? Hee, hee, it's a slow day, might be
fun.
Theological Musings
Is it possible my parents or the medical authorities mistook me for a child of the Jewish persuasion? Even a
squirrelly Shaigetz* like me knows Yahweh feels pretty strongly about
kosher franks. And, really, I'd be proud to be Jewish: they're
intelligent, talented, kind of exotic, the chicks dig 'em. Bob Dylan is
usually Jewish, Sammy Davis Jr. was Jewish before he became a Satanist, Jon Stewart is a very funny Jewish fellow. But...do we really need the butchery and the blood? Wouldn't a secret handshake do the trick, something like the
wacky Skull & Bones rigmarole W uses with his best buds? Or we could tip out hats to each other in a secret, special way.
Honestly, you'd think Jehovah would have more important things to worry
about -- worshiping the Golden Calf, for example, has made a helluva comeback. And how about the Holy Land? My my, that's a bad situation. The world's
going to hell in a hand basket, and we're still dealing with prelapsarian penis-fixation issues.
* Footnote: "Shaigetz" is Yiddish for a non-Jewish male,
similar to the female "Shiksa." This is how the Bronx parents of
my first live-in girlfriend referred to me: "The Shaigetz" or, if
they were feeling especially affectionate, "The
Pimp."
To be fair to the Almighty, at the time the practice was
institutionalized, circumcision was a comparatively benign theological requirement.
Other deities of the period -- Moloch, Huitzilopochtli, Kali, Spiny Norman,
just to name a few of the biggies -- were much more demanding. They wanted
gurgling newborns, pubescent virgins, organ meats on the half-shell, skulls
brim-full with hot, viscous blood; an angle shrewdly driven home in Yahweh's celebrated
membership campaigns of the time - "Not an arm and a leg" and "Never a cover charge for the ladies!" - to
which the fairer sex proved particularly receptive. But nowadays, there
are plenty of incarnations, preachers, lamas,
shamans, alien entities, Scientologists and real estate seminar leaders, all competing for the
same consumer dollar. They've got cassettes, DVDs and cable shows; they
take credit cards, give airline mileage points and they don't ask for even the smallest tidbit of
one's erogenous zones. This may have something to do with Jehovah's
declining market share in a booming marketplace.
On the other hand, I suppose we should be grateful our Infinitely Compassionate Lord allowed the transition
from obsidian knives. Still, watch out for those old-school, Maneschevitz-pickled mohels advertising
"Authentic Biblical-Reenactment Circumcisions" -- you could find yourself
pinned down on a stone slab while "Doc" whittles a new point to your pencil.
Abe said, where you want this dick whittlin' done?
Good work if you can find it. From baked beans to capital punishment, it
seems the public can't get enough of anything dubbed "old
style" or "original recipe."
Unpalatable Facts
"If performed without adequate anesthesia, it is very
painful." (The New York Times again.)
No! Say it ain't so, Shoeless Joe! Nerves on the
penis? This smacks of urban myth at its ugliest and most outlandish, like
the curious crocodile pushing up through your toilet seat in Manhattan. A grim fairy tale to stimulate panicky Internet purchases of "8-Hour De-sensitizing Keep-Pumpin' Hardon Drops." I, for one, am not buying it. (That is, I'm not buying the fairy tale; I purchase the Hardon drops in industrial-size barrels.)
"A hospital spokeswoman...declined to elaborate."
Sometimes it seems I've been playing the same losing game with women all my
life. Out of nowhere, they say something outrageous and even a little mean-spirited -- "all men are
dishonest, ass-licking weasels" or that thing about penises having nerves -- really yanking my
chain, you know? I'm doing my best to make things work, so I respond
politely, "What do you mean by that, my sweet, pendulous
pear-bottom?" Then, she makes a Brooklyn lip-fart and "declines to elaborate."
A
Woman's Point of View
Did my mother simply believe that my John Thomas would look tidier, more presentable, circumcised? Fresh faced, clean shaven, scarf-less, hatless, no
place to hide, stick on a bow tie and Henry's all
ready for Sunday school! I don't know, I never questioned her about it. (I didn't want to get my face slapped, ear pulled, and mouth washed with Draino.) My
sisters might know, but we're prudish WASPs and see each other mostly at holidays nowadays, and I've found the subject of private parts and their ritual mutilations to be a squeamish subject when the Christmas roast beef is on the table, red and juicy.
During a recent "Sex in the City" episode, the
petite, dark haired one -- what's-her-name, Ms. Anal Retentive, who ends up
marrying the impotent guy from "Dune" and "Twin Peaks"
who jacks off to "Nightmarishly Large Jugs" magazine -- alleged that an uncircumcised
penis looks like a Shar-Pei, one of those hideously flappy, wrinkled dogs
(though, admittedly, they're cute as puppies). And all the girls
agreed - even Miranda the wacky redhead, who's usually game for anything. They literally shuddered in repugnance. That's awfully inconsiderate
to a certain segment of the audience.
So here's the question: is the
circumcision done to please the ladies?
Sure it's spooky, but if we can get the truth on the table, then maybe
we can address the issue as rational adults. If nothing else, I don't think it would be an unreasonable quid pro quo for women to be a little less snarky about the male...taste? preference? hardwired compulsion?..for the doggy configuration of physical affection. Performed in a dignified, sensitive, lovingly collaborative and mutually respectful manner.
Ideally, in front of a mirror.
And a pleated, tartan skirt and thigh-highs would demonstrate a generosity of spirit that could only enhance and enrich the relationship.
"It's all tied up in the politics of feminism," a Professor
Miller maintained in the Times article. "It's a dangerous topic
to get into."
Huh, well, I don't want to step on anybody's toes - I'm a go-along,
get-along sort of guy. I like women, I don't need any more
quarrels with feminists. I'm a feminist! On the other hand, hello? The head of my willy got
trimmed like a flank steak and thrown to the dingoes! I think we need some answers.
Here's a quote from "Long Life Honey in the Heart" by Martin Prechtel, about a wise, aboriginal matriarch:
"Flutes were male things, but the voice of the flute is female...the weeping of every Female...as her children grew and were harvested by life, eaten or replanted. The voice of the primordial mournfulness of the Female lived in the flute...[but] women didn't need the penislike flute to sing the tears of their own nature." Wow! That's achingly poignant and I want to mention my profound empathy for all woman-kind, especially those whose children have been eaten. That's a tough row to hoe and I'd support a resolution to discourage it -- taking into account differing cultural norms, of course. Maybe other foodstuffs -- a soybean product perhaps -- could be provided to wean baby-eaters off baby meat. I really don't know, but my heart's in the right place. Furthermore, and this is the point I most wanted to make, I like the idea of my penis being a flute and wish to emphasize that its music need not be mournful. Toodle teedle doodle dee!
Medical
Issues: Who Hid the Cheese?
Circumcision "has also been prescribed ... as a remedy
for alcoholism, epilepsy, asthma, gout, hysteria, malnutrition, night
terrors, club foot, eczema and promiscuity."
Well, if that's what the AMA says, then maybe it
is the right thing after all -- though, forgive me if I'm wrong, aren't
those mainly female complaints? It would be nice if, instead of club
foot, it cured athlete's foot. Now, that's a manly problem - in
fact, my little toe is barely hanging on by a sinew as we speak. And how about male pattern
baldness, elephantiasis, or the inconsolable nut-sack condition known as
"one hung low"? Those are trades any reasonable man might consider.
According to the "Encyclopedia Britannica," "Under the inner
layer of foreskin there are situated a number of glands that secrete a
cheeselike substance called smegma."
Yuck! That's more than I need to know. If true, I can't help wondering what the Creator had in mind.
Is it a design flaw, a factory defect, or have tastes changed that much
over the millennia? ("Hey Caveman, get over here and give Mama a taste
of big boy's limburger stick, ruff ruff!") Cheese can certainly make a
pleasant snack or hors d'oeuvre, especially with nachos or a nice bottle of
sauvignon blanc. "Cheeselike" sounds less appetizing, especially when
associated with body parts. And there's no question that "smegma"
currently has a negative connotation -- which is possibly undeserved. (It definitely takes the playful zing out of the penis/flute metaphor.)
The Fabulous Ants of Garcia Marquez
"The practice is absolutely barbaric," a Mr. Zenas
Baer said. I don't know how qualified Mr. Baer is, but he was important
enough to be quoted by the Times. (Zenas is an unusual and lovely name. As in
rhymes with...?)
Oh hell, circumcision is probably just a "Welcome to the real world,
boyo -- allow us to give you the lay of the land sort of thing," like
to the newbie on the cellblock. Pre-emptive discipline; lessons to live by;
good for the goose, good for the gander; hurts us more than you. Compassionate conservatism.
Mother was fond of saying that I was born old -- meaning I wasn't
exactly a happy-go-lucky tot bubbling over in joy and wonder. But perhaps my morose and anxious visage indicated only the perspicacity of a quick learner and sober realpolitik pragmatist.
When inexplicable retribution may fall -- like a cleaver -- at any ol'
time, the savvy toddler keeps his lips buttoned, eyes peeled, asshole
clenched, and his nose clean. He tidies his room, lifts and lowers the toilet
seat, holds hard onto the banister, and grimly toes the line. (Isn't it fascinating that "toe" can
be used as a verb?) He does not
run around like a bare-assed simpleton, whooping nonsense syllables,
holding kitty-cat upside down for the camera. As for shrieking,
"Mummy, I want my foreskin back!" -- look at my tired, basset
hound face. Do you think such look-at-me exuberance has ever been my style?
Get real, hombre.
I've got news for you, chickabee: It ain't coming back.
Forget about the skin-stretching exercises, plastic surgery and the meat-helmet prosthetics. You look like the sensitive Iron-John type -- like to put on the loincloth, bang the drums (boom-boom!), dance around the
campfire. I bet you can't get enough of magical realism (regurgitated
literary pabulum of our sorry times). How about this? Pretend the ants
got it - you know, like they got the baby with the tail at the end of
"One Hundred Years of Solitude." (Kids! Regarding the baby with tail: incest -- if not performed between attractive, consenting, half-sober adults using birth control -- is never "neat" or "cool.")
Wasn't that a beautiful scene? A million ants heading out the nursery with baby on their
shoulders, singing "For he's a jolly good fellllllowwww!" Well, they came back for your foreskin and choogled it back to
Macondo. What with all the rain, it caught the cholera real bad, and then died with your
name on its lips. (Cue the melancholy sonata.)
There, don't you feel better now?
All right then, let's roll out our rugs. It's naptime, cowboys.
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