Duck for Boomerangs

Talk about a mixed bag, poor Lem seemed to catch life’s leftovers and I don‘t know how unluckier a kid in our town could have been born.


He was short, Jewish, had red 'Harpo' hair with ringlet curls that looked like copper plumber’s fittings, eyeglasses like two Petri dishes on stems hung over the bridge of a disproportionate nose.

Lemuel was destined to find himself in high school, shunned by athletes but proficient and welcome in the Radio Club, Science Club, Chess Club. He could always be singled-out from the marching band by the perpetually crooked, feathered band hat on the clarinet player’s head, earning him the nickname, “Pisa-Shit.”


Worse, Lem endured the suffering of being born with the surname, Lippschitz, (yes, pronounced LIP-shits), which made a much rougher and uphill road than had he been tall and handsome, or born blessed with the arm to throw a football 50 yards. His ethnicity was never an issue in our school, one whose Jewish kids excelled in every area, and got due respect for their achievements, from students and teachers, alike.


If ridicule were a magnet, Lemuel Lippschitz would have been the nuclear powered intergalactic electromagnet for mocking but he just seemed to trudge onward, oblivious to all that flew his way, and even the bullies gave up, realizing this kid had heard and endured it all.


I pitied and never picked on him...well, except for one time at a home football game’s half-time when the band was on the icy field and I rocketed a snowball toward him, It hit the clarinet's music holder thingy, causing him to slip and drop his horn, but you gotta know it was a one-in-a-million shot, and, hey, I was 15. We busted guts laughing and I got hi-fives for months when feigning a baseball throw walking across campus.


Nobody was surprised Lippschitz was a no-show for our 20th high school reunion. On the other hand, safe to say the whole room was in stunned silence when the committee played Lem’s “You Tube” apology for not attending.

It was taken from his house in Mallorca, Spain, citing that his absence was for a dinner commitment he had with his next door neighbor.

And that's when Heidi Klum stepped into the frame, waved, and said, “Hi, everyone! I had to steal him for the evening!,” as she slipped her arm around his and they exchanged checks on the peeks... omfg I can't even write this, right... PECKS...CHEEKS!

I hated that geeky, goofy-looking 'patheticism on two legs'  and wondered what lotto he hit to escape from total geekdom.

Have you noticed age sure hasn't been that kind to Heidi Klum? I mean she's hot, but not what she was.

I wonder if Lem-'tard spilled a drink on her.

The Nonagenarian's Gardener

My experience of physicians and nurses was gained from working elbow-to-elbow with them, in sometimes terrible environs and circumstances.

It was over thirty years ago, but one doesn’t lose the perspective of separating the good from the great, the flesh mechanics from the caregivers, yet, I met only one that ever--even remotely--resembled Michaela Tong.

Tong, my mom’s physician, greets her, treats her, regards her with tenderness almost palpable, as if they were mother and daughter.

I regarded the doctor’s level of interest as curiosity for a patient in her 90s, an oddity or lab specimen somehow exceptional from other octo- and nonagenarians, and couldn't have been more wrong.

This doctor practices with pathos (somebody defined as ‘the emotion of compassion’), evident when she holds my mom’s hand, not looking at her, but into her eyes, sandwiching a frail hand between her own, and connecting on a level I can only begin to approach as an intruder.

Tong may be as much Zen gardener as physician, seeing the woman before her as delicate, fragile and beautiful as the gardener’s wistful regard for a perfect blossom that’s been cut and begun to wither, on a stalk no longer sturdy enough to stand without bending, and leaning against the hand-blown crystal vase that is life’s very edge, so clearly beautiful whilst bereft of any lasting vitality.

Trivial Triumph Reveals An Ages-Old Truth

The sports bar hosted a 20-question trivia contest and promised the top table/team a $50 gift certificate.

The emcee repeatedly warned the 'house' that cellphones and Blackberrys were taboo, and would disqualify the whole table's answer sheets. Calculators were also a n0-no.


I led our charge, getting difficult answers correct, like the determining "hives" as the answer to its medical term and definition, sulfuric acid in reply to the name for H2SO4, Yuri Gagarin's 1964 feat as the first man in orbit, and without the using a calculator, figured there are 86,400 seconds in an Earth day.

The table of 8 around the pillar from us, had 2 girls sitting with their backs to the windows. My vantage was the only one with full view of their party.

During the game, I'd glance over, casually, and see the two young ladies looking into their laps where their arms led my visual interest. They'd be looking down throughout the contest. At one point, both had Blackberrys above the table, thumbing away.

They were a coquettish, 19 or so, straight blonde hair, snow-blinding teeth, and C-cups brimming like bulbous lookouts welded to undersized lithe frames.

At game's end, these teenagers were the only people in the answers-shouting crowd to correctly guess that the opening line of a particular book was from Orwell's 1984.

When the emcee asked the room which state was the only one to border eight others, they blurted out Tennessee. Then the two informed the emcee was wrong. Two states each border 8 other states;  Missouri also borders 8 states.

 The questions they missed were ones that could not be easily found in a quick Google or Wikipedia search. The hard ones they missed were my sure-fire path to victory.  Could I best them? My table-mates were confident my brain was crankin'!

But, the young women  prevailed, with a 1-answer advantage. Rules and warnings aside, they won. Tits, teeth and youthful beauty triumphed, tonight. 

In a gestalt moment, I realized that decades ago, attributes such as theirs seemed to rule, to gain advantage.

So it's true today, and probably a universal truth that will remain as breeding-aged beauty commands influence and permissable short-cutting and line-cutting, like 18 items in the 10-item express line at the supermarket or 10 minutes late for class being no big deal.

I smiled as I recalled a woman friend's assessment of her feminine empowerment coming from her lap: "With one of these, I can get as many of those as I want."

And so live goes on, trivial or not. I still know a shrimp's heart is in its head, that the "The Vine Line" is a publication of the Chicago Cubs, and that Minnehaha was Hiawatha's wife in Longfellow's fictional epic,"The Song of Hiawatha."

If only I could scrape that type of knowledge out of my brain like the last squeezings of the toothpaste tube and sell it to Jeopardy contestants, I just might have something.

Tonight, I had my integrity.

3000 Hail Marys

During the separation leading to my divorce, I had worked too hard to slum-it on move-out, busting my ass only to walk away from my $1.8 million retreat in the fashionable Lynn Ranch area of Ventura County, California.


So I guess my apartment was a little lavish, $2700 a month with upstairs and down, but what really sold me on the place was the idyllic view of the greenbelt at patio's edge, and the ocean-lined horizon.


A week into the lease, I came home to a note tied to the collar of my wife’s giant French poodle, "Chéri," a bitch (the dog) who had bitten me, urinated in our home at-will, chewed my shoes, crapped on the loveseat in my study, and only chewed cords of appliances and office equipment primarily used by me, a four-legged nightmare now mine by abandonment.


I always had a 'special' nickname for this canine demolition expert, and now officially renamed her in honor of my soon-to-be ex-wife.


The next morning, with 3 elderly neighbor ladies sitting on the adjacent patio, I executed a careful balancing act of espresso cup, newspaper, and bagel while negotiating the French doors and, in a blink, the dog fled, running for the ocean like a Cuban refugee.


I was pissed, yelling again and again, “GET BACK HERE, DOUCHE BAG, COME ‘ERE!!” and instantly realized my faux pas, worsened only by learning, later, that my wide-eyed, blue-haired neighbor-ladies were Franciscan nuns who taught school up the street.

Case Study: George Strenell, GRLEI Man

George walked into the lobby wearing what appeared to be an enormous, white poncho, fighting back tears as he handed his wife the sack full of his clothes, before hugging and kissing Paula goodbye, with a simple, "See you, soon. I love you."


He was semi-comatose over the next 90 days, bathed and shaved daily, with soft music playing and filtered news as auditory stimuli, and he seemed to enjoy the frequent turning, massages, and skin lotions which prevented bedsores.


Nutrition, vitamins, and hydration all came via intravenous tubes, next to the unit monitoring his vital signs.


Dr. Bluvais, Director of Girth Reduction Life Extension Institute, a social worker, and a trained mental health counselor were present on the big day when George was roused to full consciousness, and he couldn't believe what he saw in the full-length mirror, once the orderlies helped him to his feet.


When he strode into the lobby to greet Paula, she nearly fainted, seeing him in an expensive size-42 regular suit, tie, and a striped shirt, size 15-1/2x32.


He had lost 271 pounds, previously worn size 54 pants and 4XL t-shirts, his addiction to cigarettes and overeating were no more, and he joked that he was craving a Coca-Cola, correcting himself to say, "Coke Zero or Diet Coke," proud to be a GRLEI man.

Walk Softly, Ernie My Love

Out of nowhere, Ernie came home Saturday afternoon and gave Margie a 3-pound box of See's Candies, her favorite chocolate-creams.


She was surprised, but after 28 year of being married to the huggable lug, she cherished these expressions from a man who had trouble expressing love and intimacy with words.


After Sunday's supper, Margie felt like having a chocolate with her coffee, and lifted the lid and over-wrap only to discover that 8 or 10 pieces had been half-eaten, and carefully returned to their little pleated paper cups.


Margie lifted a ravaged piece from the box, and turned slowly to show Ernie, who blushed with guilt as he chuckled and looked down into his lap without even a whisper from Margie.


Monday morning, Margie was in the kitchen wishing the skoosh of chocolates against Ernie's bare toes in his beloved TopSider boat moccasins was audible. She heard the bellow of his "Son of a BITCH" emanate all the way from the master bedroom, as the in-flow of coffee to Ernie's cup was interrupted, splashing onto the counter by a giggle Margie exaggerated for volume.

BP, Answer Me These, Please

I've written and sold print-, and written and produced broadcast advertising, and keep seeing your (BP’s) “Lookie what we’re doing,” and “I’m committed to the end” commercials on television.


How much, BP, did it cost you to produce each commercial?


Was the media buy…$20 million… $50 million… more?


How much equipment, how many more workers’ wages, how many more supplies (bags, HazMat suits, for example) could you have purchased with the money you’ve spent trying to cleanse your slick/blackened reputation instead of the ocean and beaches?


Wouldn’t you have enjoyed your efforts being heralded from the well-drafted and placed press releases—at not cost to you—precipitating news stories of your determined efforts?


Are you taking The White House’s lead in ineptness, here?

Fringe Bennies

Formulation Room 116 was, for 42 years, 'Happy' Harry Ludkin's workplace at the lab where he prided himself on near-perfect attenance, but who was now late to his own surprise retirement party in the lunchroom.

His supervisor and coworkers were abuzz about the incredible record of two absences, no tardies, and seldom even a vacation during Harry's tenure at the plant.

Early-on, 'Happy' Harry had earned the moniker 'Happy' for singing and whistling in hallways, always one to kid and joke, and constantly greeting everyone with something complimentary or positive.

The phone rang and rang in the clean-room, until his buddy, Steve, hit the outer air-lock, prompting 'Happy' Harry to inhale deeply before sliding his surgical mask over his nose and mouth.

"C'mon, Harry, you can't be late for the this!!," Steve said as he helped Harry into the airlock where the men offed their gowns, gloves, caps, masks and shoe covers, and nearly skipped down the hall with enthusiasm.

Once the speeches ended, praise had been lavished, cake consumed, and gifts opened, Harry couldn't even imagine the amount of Valium he'd secretly inhaled over the years, and sobbed uncontrollably at the prospect of his personality going warp-speed toward a collision with his own uncomfortably unaltered state.

There for the Taking

Neil told his boss, lied, that he needed to take a long lunch, “Two hours, tops, Larry, I swear!” and he punched out, took the 31 bus, then transferred to the 122.


He broke into his pop’s house, opened the gun safe, and took a box of shells and a shell box he emptied onto the floor with his pop‘s emergency cash before stuffing the bankroll into his jeans.


He took a Glock 17 and an extra clip, and took his pop’s beat-up Pontiac but with a big motor you could eat off-of, leaving the garage door ajar to look like a vacationer’s break-in.


He took Interstate 76, and got off on Passyunk Avenue, took Passyunk to South Ritner to 22nd, took 22nd up to Jackson St. where she was out front chewin’ gum like her jaws were pistons or somethin', an’ he hated when she did dat.


LaDonna threw her bag in the back seat, jumped into the front, took her sweet time with a sloppy kiss, and with squealing tires, Neil took her, too.


Takin’ your brother’s wife gets you dead in South Philly, prolly anywheres, and Neil took a last look at the ‘city of brotherly love’ in his ole man’s rear-view, and thought, ‘Screw dat,’ as he shot an answering grin at LaDonna's.

The Sem: Joe-Dad

The 5’6” statue of ‘The Holy Family’ (Joseph, Mary, baby Jesus in Mom’s arms) stood right next to the elevator leading to the 2 upper floors housing seminarians and priest-faculty at St. Thomas Theological Seminary in Denver, and an Italian beauty it was (the statue, not the Otis).


Joseph’s right arm was around Mary’s shoulders, and the left was extended outward with fingers splayed as if in a casual wave to hail a cab.


Fr. Nick Persich was short, bald, good-natured, good humored, and--above all--revered for his scholarship which had earned him an invitation to the Vatican as a consultant to the bishops and cardinals in their Vatican II deliberations, talks that would succeed in turning priests to face their flocks during Mass, and celebrating Mass in the respective languages of the people they served instead of Latin, making V-2 the delivery vehicle for these and other sweeping and historic changes.


Every so often, my ill-timed arrival at the elevator would precede Fr. Nick’s by half a minute or less, bringing a smirk and accusatory glance at my face’s angel-pose as his head swiveled from side-to-side, looking for the culprit, and muttering something about the lit Marlboro between Joseph’s fingers, prompting me to offer fetching an ashtray for “Joe-dad.”


Sometimes Fr. Bill Bogel and I (he was my ’Class Dean’) would end class and walk to the elevator, together, and he wouldn’t notice the statue missing, only that--when the doors opened--Jesus, Mary and Joe had been merrily riding the elevators up and down.


Bogel would laugh, wait til the door enclosed us with the statue, and say, “Gensle, you son-of-a-bitch,” and we’d giggle like schoolboys to my cross-fingered pleas of denial, often wondering if the statue’s adornments (lit cigarettes, cigars, a book wedged between Joseph’s thumb and index finger, a pork-pie hat on Joseph’s head, a pacifier on Jesus‘ tummy) might annoy 'old school' Fr. Nick, yet, I can’t seem to figure how or why I was always suspect (bad angel face?) because that thing weighed 200 pounds if it weighed an ounce!

Hiding in Hell

Traffic was light yesterday.
There wasn't a stray dog or cat in sight.
Where would the coyotes have gone?
What about the cottontails?
It was 115°F in the shade, 147°F on my concrete patio.
The birds are quiet...or gone, this morning.

Gettin' Lucky

"Whattaya mean, 'Got lucky,' bruh!,' I charmed her, sent flowers, sweet-talked her after sittin' through a 3-kleenex chick-flick.... Hell, I even snuck out with the panties she was wearin' and Mmmmm they smelled sah-weeeet on the way over here!"



"No, dude, got lucky like Toby got a call from the Free Clinic and shit, tellin' him she had the clap, and he hadda go in and get his ass jammed with two shots of penicillin the size of popsicles so she's prolly okay, now."


"WHEN!?"

"Yesterday."

"That fuckin' slut," and he thought a minute before vigorously washing his face in a handful of beer.

When There's Nothing Left to Say

When there's nothing left to say, I sometimes open my secret portal to the world of music composition on software so expensive, it's used by 'the pros.'


When there's nothing left to say, I can sit in the back yard in wonder of Creation, before me.


When there's nothing left to say, there are inviting stacks of books around the house to read what others had to say.


When there's nothing left to say, I have 2,000 songs to take my imagination in the direction of my choosing.


When there's nothing left to say, you know it's over and one of you is walking out of the other's damaged heart.

When there's nothing left to say, and I say something, regret finds me.

White Slacks

Rena and Keith Kimball's summer luau bash cost 'em 20-grand last year, so I figured the least I could do was to arrive fashionably attired in white slacks tailored perfectly to the break of my navy blue deck shoes, replete with my prized, vintage Tommy Bahama silk Hawaiian for which I impulsively paid $600 at auction.

 One of those party conversation snippets that successfully finds your ear without trying found mine, as I overheard Rena--with her back to me--saying, "...slacks make him look like Moby-Ass...or an Imax screen with the house lights up."

My feelings would have been hurt, except I know vengeance isn't mine but the Lord's, and I'm earnest about wanting to be honest and truthful and forthright, a harbinger of my faith.


Consoling my ego outside, I leaned up against the pool house and instantly realized the mistake, turning to brush off my buttocks with my hand, when I suddenly locked eyes with Keith through the small window.


He was 'getting head,' receiving an oral compliment from Rena's twin, Nina, and as he came blasting out the door next to me, glaring at me with the look, he inadvertantly bumped the door jamb spilling his umbrella'ed red drink on my slacks, missing my shirt by scant millimeters.


I sauntered inside suffering glares at my stained slacks, and over to Rena, "Do you think Keith thought it was you giving him head just now in the pool house, cuz like, Nina's not even in a matching mu'u-mu'u," which ensured 2 things: Keith's divorce will probably cost him close to 4 mill, and I won't get an invitation to next year's bash [blaming the messenger for the message, and oh I so hate that] but, hey, I paid 49 bucks for those pants...plus tax.

Not Long Winded

Moises got a tiny, green and white whistle in his box of Cracker Jack when he was 3.


He would blow that thing at his sister, the dog and all over the house and yard, and squeal with joy between toots, you know?


But the best whistling was by his papa, Juan, who could whistle and sound like the birds.


So Moises practiced whistling like his papa, like the birds, through his childhood and could do so, beautifully, and even the girls at school thought it was pretty.


When he was 17, Moises blew the whistle on the Mexican mafia, and they found his ass in the riverbed with a ’Colombian necktie,‘ you know, where they slice your throat and yank your tongue down through the opening?


It wasn’t pretty.

Wings of Hope

Loren rolled out to the patio every morning at first light, to sit at the table enjoying freshly ground and brewed coffee, his Pall Mall non-filtered cigarets, and the feeling of becoming immersed as if meditating upon stilled splendor of mornings' awakenings.


Birdsongs from his trees and those in neighboring yards heralded each sunrise, and the ash tree in the corner of Loren's yard seemed especially attractive to hummingbirds.


He purchased and assembled a hummingbird feeder kit, and researched the most attractive food to bring the birds to his feeder, a fruitful concoction in which Loren took pride as he emptied the blender into the fount.


With the aid of a broomstick, the feeder was successfully suspended on the lowest branch of the mature ash.


Loren waited and watched, and must have dozed off when his eyes blinked open to the buzzing sound of a hovering hummingbird less than a foot from his nose, and he remained perfectly still to appreciate the resplendent colors of the male before him, eye-to-eye as if in gratitude for a bird family's sustenance.


The surreal experience ended with the bird's pivoting departure, and Loren quickly swung his wheelchair around toward the ramp leading into the house, and he, once-and-for-all, freed all hope of ever walking and smiled contentedly at the notion of wanting to fly.

Pancake Perils

Assembling the ingredients to make a yummy, hot breakfast of pancakes and bacon, I started by cracking two eggs into a bowl, and suspended some shell fragments into the egg-whites, while the bacon quickly sailed into the trash as the zip lock released a cloud of what Porky Pig's road-kill remnants might smell like after two days on the asphalt.


My hand emerged from the cupboard around the neck of the Aunt Jemima syrup bottle and she grabbed me, my hand suffering Aunt J's wrath, stuck to the plastic in ooey-gooey adhesion, incurring Aunt J's penalty for not wiping the spout clean after her last pour onto my breakfast fare.

This didn't seem to be going so well, 0-for-3 thus far.

When I withdrew the measuring cup from the box of Krusteaz (like Bisquick), the powdery premix was punctuated by little black something-'ruthers...like periods with feet I couldn't see, schussing among the moguls of mix.

Jemima got her wipe, the mix hit the trash, the eggs were eaten by the disposer. and a cleaned measuring cup and egg bowl returned to their at-the-ready positions.

Breakfast fast-food from drive-through places rocks until a coworker's pointed finger announces you've arrived with a grease trail's testament to your failed home-cooked breakfast, stained right there onto the front of your $55 work shirt, but permitting you to do the Inverse-Deja-Vu-Commute (without pay, and marked "Tardy" by Mr. Viggenfleus upon reentry).

Dialed-In

[ phone ]

"Hi, Mr Gensle, this is Kathy Wilson calling on behalf of the Phoenix Firefighters Auxiliary..."


"Ms. Wilson, we have a station 6 blocks down the street and we'll call you if it's smoky or flaming in here!"
[click]


[ phone ]
"Good evening, this is the Little Sisters of the Poor, and I--"
"Please have one of the BIG sisters call, and the bigger the better if you know what I mean, thanks!"
[ click ]


[phone]
"Mr Gensle, I'm Lori Preston with Valley of the Sun Visiting Nurse Association--"


"Wow, could you send me a hottie in fishnets and garters please because--," and she interrupts, "We're calling about Mary Frances, your Mom?"


[gulp]

Rocked, Felled & Directionless

Saturday, my sister's and my days of inquiry, visits, calls, and researching care homes for the elderly ended, found us in his living room saying, "I'm gonna put my mom in your care, into your hands."


He paused, asked, "Well, I would like to meet her, first, talk to rehab staff, see how she's doing, and you are going to tell her who I am and why I'm there?" and I agree to all.


Sis and I discussed the imminent need to break the news she's not coming home, that Mom will meet a man into whose home and care she'll be placed, and we released Saturday from its calendar hold to dissipate as steam into dry air, venting pressures passed.


Monday morning about 11AM, I call Jonathan and the care-home owner pledges to get back to me within a half hour with his arrival time estimate to meet us and our Mom at the rehab facility.


At 11:40AM, the compass points of my thoughts and emotions are suddenly ripped from their gimbal, their stressor-numbed dormancy of temporal relief is gone, hearing "You may not believe this because I almost didn't and it's never ever happened before but a woman who left here went to hospice, failing, was gonna die, and I got a call outta the blue asking me the address so she can return, here, and I hafta take her back because I have her money, a contract I have to honor, and I'm really sorry."

Relief from the search declared over Saturday, groundwork laid with Mom, anticipation of the multi-layered burdens seemingly weighted with the force of of ten thousand Gs and hope for lifting shatters with my controlled and stiff-lipped reply, "And you had this contract, knew this yesterday, and didn't mention it, and my weekend's gone with no search time left before her discharge," and I terminate the conversation to sit--then, and now--iced in disbelief, while fires of frustration rage and internal screams of all manner echo in unfamiliar, darkened canyons off the walls of 'What now.'

L. P.

It's zero-three-thirty and Whitley's finally comfortale under the half-moon lighting their terrain after temps in the 90s sweated 'em out in their 'grunt gear.'
He leans into Koch's ear and whispers, "They're eating watermelon, watchin' baseball and barbecuing back home, right about now, 'Cola.'"


Without interrupting his infrared scoping pattern of of the foothills and horizon, Koch smiles, replying in his parched whisper, "Maybe if we're good we can barbecue a goat, tonight," and the two stifle a laugh


There's no breeze, and the whispers drown into the desert's silence, a disquieting stillness that makes Whitley think he's hearing as well as feeling his own heartbeat.


He's in Koch's ear again, "Looks like no firefight or fireworks for us tonight."


Koch absorbs the comment, feeling his listening post assignment... the desert's dead calm, his uniform, equipment--even Whitley--are meant to attach this 4th of July to each one before it, including Gettysburg's, and it fills the 19-year old corporal with a sense of pride that he has sewn 2010's fourth of July into the fabric of his country's histo...his inner calm shatters, intruded upon as he goes rigid reacting to the scope's internal red glow from three blacked-out rebels' jeeps 1000 yards and 20-degrees ESE of their fightin' hole.

A Biting Lesson for My Surgeon

God gave me trophy ears one could reasonably liken to handles on a ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ or cheap bowling trophy. It was as if He took a Valentines’-heart, cut it down the middle, and attached each side to my head, which was fodder for endless childhood taunts of “Monkey Face,” so hurtful, that I banned bananas from my lunch pail to 8 years' puzzlement of my mom.
A serious ear infection in my 20s caused my whole damned ear to swell and hang off my left side, and very painfully so.


The surgeon ordered a dreamy and wonderful pre-op med, local anesthesia, and I was conscious for whatever procedure they were doing.


During the operation, he made an offer I couldn’t refuse, “Ya know, while I have you on the table, I can make an unnoticeable incision on the back of each of your ears, excise a small, vertical piece of cartilage and it will effective pin-back your ears, softening your appearance if you wish,” and who could say ‘No’ to that!


Sandbagged onto my side, I tired of the surgeon’s crotch being pushed against my face as he worked, so I took the cloth of his scrubs between my teeth, tugged the cloth to mean business, and without losing my death-clench on his crotch-cloth, said “If you don’t get your dick out of my face, I’m gonna bite it off,” to where he dropped his instruments, backed-off, and doubled-over to laugh with the rest of the surgical team.