You know how people like to mention how well traveled they are as a substitute metric for how sophisticated and cosmopolitan they are?  The people who like to casually drop into conversation that they’ve been to X number of countries, and just got back from Y, and, oh, isn’t a shame you haven’t been yet?  You know these assholes?

Well, I’m one of them.  In many ways, I’m an even lower form of life: when I’m on vacation, I’ll track myself on a map, always looking to dip into an adjacent country, just for a few hours, so I can add it to the litany of places I’ve visited.  I’d like to think that the horrible little adventure I’m about to share is a cautionary tale not to do this. 

While in the midst of a trip to Southeast Asia, I found myself in the western part of Thailand, only a few miles from the border of Myanmar (which, to quote Seinfeld’s J. Peterman, “will always be Burma to me.”).  This happenstance, as I saw it, was a fine way to artificially bump up the quotient of places in the world that I’d seen.  There was just one problem: the border between Thailand and Myanmar was closed.  This closure, I learned, was not Myanmar’s idea, and ten American dollars proved an act of sufficient friendship for one of the border guards (who assumed the form of a fourteen-year-old with a machine gun) to personally escort us into the interior. 

Outside of the touristy places, Thailand can be kind of a shithole.  But Thailand is suburban Connecticut to the New Mexico-esque wasteland that is Myanmar.  My traveling companion and I had illegally entered the country in the vicinity of Rangoon, the best-known place in the whole of Myanmar.  I’d never actually seen this city, but imagined it contained the savory pleasantness of Crab Rangoon dumplings with the cinematic vistas of the movie ”Beyond Rangoon.” 

Oops.  Myanmar is a sweaty hellhole.  It’s poor, disease-ridden, overrun with wildlife and, at the risk of offending my strong Burmese fanbase, its inhabitants are fairly unattractive.  “Let’s get out of here in a minute,” I said to Jennifer, my traveling companion, “we’ll just check out this little village down the road first.”

After catching a ride in the back of an open truck operated by a man clearly under the influence of amphetamines, we arrived at a collection of huts that constituted the nearest patch of civilization in these parts.  While tourism was clearly dead this far out in the boonies, commerce is a worldwide endeavor: in the midst of this ragged little clearing in the jungle, a vendor selling dingy bottles of Coca-Cola.  What is it about a Coke that makes you forget that you’re in the middle of the jungle?  Sure this is safe to drink, you think to yourself.  I’m sure the Coke truck comes by 3, 4 times a week.  Perhaps the soup-like heat and humidity impaired the customer’s judgment, present company included.  Armed with a couple of bottles apiece, Jennifer and I threaded out way through the village to the nearby river.  As we sat on the bank, we made a surprising discovery: there was another American in the village.  I’m reasonably sure he wouldn’t want me to mention his name, but he was there on holiday, traveling alone to see what Asia was “really like.”  When I asked him what his conclusions were, he looked me in the eye and decisively stated “this whole place is a shithole.  I don’t just mean this place,” he said, gesturing to the village, “but the whole country, whole region.  Next week, I’m going back to America and I’m never, ever leaving again.”  He drained his own soda, swished it in his mouth for a second, and swallowed in a single large gulp.  And now,” he announced, “I’m going to take a piss on this country.” 

At this, he waded into the river to his waist and placed his hands on his lower back, a clear example of a poorly concealed aqua-whiz.  I was tempted to join him; my bladder ached as well, but I had noticed something he apparently hadn’t: since we’d been sitting there, not one of the locals had set so much as a toe in the river.  I assumed one of three things accounted for this: (1) They pissed in the river too, (2) Alligators lived in the river, or (3) the currents were strong enough to sweep me deeper into Myanmar.  All were deterrent enough to keep me from going in. 

There was danger in the water, but not of the man-eating variety.  As our new acquaintance vented his contemptuous urine, nature was hard at work, doling out his comeuppance. 

Perhaps the next part of the story is best told by my inner biologist.  Beneath the calm surface of the river, a complex ecosystem sat ready to respond to any stimuli.  As our new friend vented his bladder, a torrent of nitrogen-rich urine was expelled into the river.  Nitrogen is returned to the environment through tiny microbes, which are pretty much the bottom of the food chain.  Over millions of years, predators have evolved to take advantage of this fact.  One such predator are small freshwater fish that prey upon these nitrogen-eating bacteria.  Using the age-old strategy of being near their food source’s food source, these fish sped to the sudden deposit of nitrogen like hounds to a pork chop.  Thus, while precious few bacteria were poised to take advantage of the cloud of urine surrounding our friend, several of these inch-long fish showed up, overstimulated and chomping at the bit.  Like a bull to a red cape, these fish swarmed, driven to the focal point of the discharge.  Like the winning sperm, the swiftest fish reached the source of the cloud, ground zero as it were.  Both fish and human learned of their mistakes when the fish, with a final food-prompted surge, swam directly into the urethra of our companion.

Imagine having a wriggling, struggling cork abruptly wedged into your pee hole.  The natural tendency is to imagine a kinked hose that bulges obscenely before exploding.  Now imagine that hose is your dick. 

The scream that rang out was enough to draw the attention of everyone within a quarter-mile.  Villagers appeared from every angle to the sight of our now-yelping companion doing a pronounced hopping dance towards the shore.  Having no clue what had happened to him, I was reluctant to go in after him, and was (pardon the pun) relieved when he emerged from the water seemingly whole, with no evidence of crocodile attack.  “What’s wrong?” I asked, thinking perhaps he’d suffered a cramp and was being a drama queen.

“Jesusjesusjesus,” was all he could say as he flopped onto his back.  I noticed a faint wriggle in the front of my pants.  “Oh no,” said Jennifer, already ahead of me. 

Our distressed countryman was still focusing his energies on summoning a deity.  None of the villagers had made a move to help the gringo, and I, sensing a situation brewing, had begun to edge away when my newest friend made eye contact and seized upon us.  “Please, help,” he said with not-so-quiet desperation. 

I eased forward reluctantly.  “Let’s take a look,” Jennifer said, grimacing slightly.  Since she was female, I was more than content to let her do the majority of the touching in that region.  Gently, she removed his trunks to reveal the damage.  “Ahhh,” murmured the villagers in unison, with the same sympathetic sound of a crowd after a shortstop takes a grounder to the nuts. 

The poor fuck’s fish-burgled urethra was stretched wide, appearing to swallow the inch-long fish that was wedged about halfway in.  The creature’s tail projected from the tip of his wang, occasionally flipping in arcs that drew murmurs of pain from the beast’s unwilling host.  Frankly, all of this was oddly reminiscent of the scene in Alien, where the monster comes out of the guy’s chest.  The X-rated version of the scene.

The victim glanced down, almost unwillingly, and moaned loudly upon seeing his newest tenant.  “I’ll go get help,” I said, inching away with Jennifer following closely.

“What are you, crazy?” the man shouted.  “We’re in Piss-Hole, Myanmar!  Where’s the nearest ER?”  He seized my forearm with the vigorous strength of a desperate man.  “You’ve got to help me,” he said.

“I’m not a doctor,” I said, “I have no idea how to fix… something like this.  You need professional help.”

“But I don’t trust-“ he lowered his voice “-these people.  You do it.  Take it out.  Please.”  He released his grip, and Jennifer and I used the opportunity for a quick palaver with one of the locals.  We told him to get help, then turned our attentions back to the half-naked man on the filthy riverbank. 

“One of us is going to have to try to pull that thing out,” I said. 

Jennifer fixed me with a steely gaze.  “You have medical training,” she said flatly.

“And you have a degree in marine biology,” I countered.  “Clearly, this is your domain.”

“You have more expertise working with the penis,” Jennifer said.

I played my trump card.  “It’s… less gay if you do it.”

“I’m not touching that thing again.  I already touched it once taking his pants down,” said Jennifer, playing hers as well.  “It’s your turn.”

Out of verbal ammunition, I returned to the stricken man.  “We’ll see what we can do,” I said.

Ten minutes later, we were as ready as were ever going to be.  I had assembled the finest surgical tools in the region (a Swiss army knife that I had sterilized with the Burmese equivalent of moonshine).  The watching crowd had more than doubled in this short time, everyone capering for a look at the idiot foreigner with the fish in his dick and the apparently gay foreigner who was going to try to pull it out. 

Noah the surgeon examined his options.  The little fish was wedged in there pretty good.  Negotiating with the fish, i.e., trying to lure it out with food appeared unlikely.  Nor was the surgical route; an unlicensed dude cutting into another man’s Johnson (while both were illegally) in a third-world country was clearly a last-ditch measure.  Clearly, the route to success lay in plucking the fish from the urinary tract. 

“Hold very still,” I said, bending over to examine the surgical field.  At this point, my head was as close to another man’s package as it will likely ever be again.  I felt pity for women who deal with this wizened little organ on a near-daily basis.  Like a SWAT team member attempting to disarm a bomb, I slide the tweezers from the casing of the Swiss army knife and very gently bracket the fish.  There was no reaction from the fish.  Perhaps it was dead.  I keep this bit of potentially good news to myself, not wanting to get the victim’s hopes up.  I pinched the fish with the tweezers, and yanked, hoping to dislodge the fish like a stubborn cork from a bottle of Dom Perignon.

 

Do you know what happens when a very-much-alive fish lodged in a bodily orifice is startled?  Immediately, the fish extends their pectoral fins, digging into whatever purchase they can find to effect an escape.  Worse, my tweezers he neatly sliced through the translucent body of the fish, leaving nothing to grab for a second attempt at extraction.  In short, my efforts to unclog this dude’s urethra had turned the fish into the biological equivalent of a lodged arrowhead.   

Surgery FAIL.

The patient took the worst of it.  As the fish dug in, he bellowed and bucked his pelvis, smacking his dong against the top of my head.  I was so taken aback at the full-frontal tagging that only after a moment did I become aware of the stream of profanity issuing from the victim.  A soft splattering sound behind me suggested someone (probably Jennifer) had thrown up.  So much for my sterile operating suite.  Some of the villagers looked queasy; others were doubled over laughing.  I eased away from the penis and scooted forward to have a talk with the patient, who was still not doing so well. 

‘I’m afraid things… didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.  The fish does appear to be dead,” I added, hoping to put a positive spin on things.

At this point we should have thrown in the towel, called the authorities, and walked away.  But now Jennifer had an idea: he could pee out the fish.  Neither of us were, of course, aware that applying pressure from that particular angle would make things even more unpleasant for the victim.  Nevertheless, it’s a plan, and somehow we convince him to try.  As he lay there, trying to urinate before the greater populace of rural Myanmar, it occurred to me that this might not be our best idea.

“Here it comes,” the victim grunted, then screamed as a torrent of urine (and a little blood) gushed out around the fish, soaking himself in his own piss.  Remember the kinked hose imagery and you might have some idea of the pain this man felt.  The better half of the fish was still wedged firmly in place. 

Again, we knelt by the man.  “Ummm… that didn’t go as planned either,” I admitted.

“No shit it didn’t go as planned, Sherlock!” he screamed at me, “it feels like someone loaded my cock with gunpowder and lit a match!  What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?” 

“Sorry,” I said, “it’s the first time I’ve tried to clear seafood from the penis.”

A few minutes later, some of the locals came by with a rusted truck to take him to the nearest hospital.  As we loaded him into the back, the man again grasped my forearm.  He gave me his name and telephone number (the latter of which I promptly forgot), and asked me to make sure he surfaced again.  “If I don’t,” he said, “tell the world my story.” 

Consider it done, my friend.  By the way, I still have your Swiss army knife if you want it back.