Sunday, 22 May 2016

Guest Blog - William J Bono III tells us about a very special day...

Okay, yes, way behind on guest blogs. Snake lumps, etc. Never mind! Today I'm happy to welcome an old friend with a very fancy name and a very unique story. Please say hello to William J Bono III!

First and foremost, thank you, Naomi Clark, for allowing me to write a guest blog entry for you! Unlike most of the published works featured on here, my eBook is actually a short story, at a mere 12 pages long. It's also not fiction. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that I'm honored to have this opportunity, I might question whether or not my guest blog even belongs here.

The Day I Broke My Dick covers approximately twelve hours of my life. Near the beginning of that twelve-hour period, I suffered a penile fracture. That's right, as the title suggests, I actually broke my dick. As horrifying as this may sound, I was lucky enough to have already had knowledge of said injury, and knew what had to be done. Don't get me wrong, I was in shock, or at least a state of absolute terror, but I still took it in stride. As such, you'll find that the story is actually quite comedic, rather than a horror story.

Buy it now!
Amazon US
Amazon UK

And read on for an excerpt...(Men, I advise you proceed with caution).

I got to lay in a very comfortable (if the sarcasm wasn’t obvious, now it is) hospital bed in a hallway in the ER. I waited about forty-five minutes in there, just talking with my supervisor, waiting to be seen. Well, save for a few minutes when a nurse took down some demographic information and then scurried off again.

Finally, I was summoned to an examination room. I walked in, and a male nurse proceeded to ask me a few questions and appeared to get more and more uncomfortable with my answers. Finally, he said, “Okay, well, let’s see it.” I proceeded to “whip it out,” though it was more like slinging a water balloon.

He immediately winced, feeling what all of us in the brotherhood of man feel upon seeing a mangled penis. After a short silence, he said, “I’ve worked in this ER for almost five years now. I’ve seen gunshot wounds, stab victims, intestines hanging out, brain matter...but this takes the cake. ‘Cause, y’know, I have one of those.” Being a smart-ass, my only thought was wait, so you don’t have intestines or a brain? I didn’t voice that, though.

He continued, “It looks like...well, it looks like a balloon animal gone wrong!” (The following day, I relayed that description to my father, who proceeded to respond with, “That sounds about right. ‘Cause you know what happens when a balloon animal goes wrong, right? ‘POP!’”)

I was then sent back to my extremely-comfortable hospital bed in the hallway to wait for the surgeon.

Cue the transition from SpongeBob that reads, “One Hour Later...”

A different nurse, this one a woman, told me she was taking me back to talk with the anesthesiologist and then the surgeon, and they’d be prepping me for surgery. She wheeled my super-comfortable bed back to whatever the staging area for surgery is called. On the way, we passed an office with the door closed, and affixed to that door was one of those bins that you can stick documents and whatnot into. It was filled with a bunch of those manila “toe tags,” but the bin was labeled, “Broken and Defective Equipment Tags.” I couldn’t resist, so I asked the nurse if I would be getting one of those.

She laughed. “I’m pretty sure we can make that happen.”

We turned the corner, and my oh-so-comfortable bed was positioned in a curtained bay, and I was left with the anesthesiologist. He went through a run-of-the-mill spiel about anesthesia being common, but as with any medical procedure, there’s always risk involved, blah, blah, blah. I then had to sign some waiver form saying that I understood that there are risks involved, I’m willing to take those risks, and if for whatever reason I die from the anesthesia, I can’t come back from the afterlife and sue the hospital.

The anesthesiologist left, and the urologist/surgeon came to speak to me.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Not bad, all things considered. Yourself?”

“Well, I’d much rather be back at home watching the Olympics, if that tells you anything.” Okay, so he was disgruntled about being called in because he was missing the figure-skating competitions. It’s not like I wanted to be here, either.

He continued. “Okay, so I’m going to explain to you how the procedure is going to go, alright?”

“Sounds good,” I responded.

“Okay, so, the first thing we’re going to do is make a circumferential incision - which is basically the same cut that’s made when performing a circumcision, only we won’t be keeping the foreskin. Then, we’ll do what’s known as ‘deglove’ the penis. That basically means we’re going to take and peel back all the skin from the head to the base.” He paused for effect, and looked at me glaringly, showing how annoyed he was from missing out on all those men and girls-built-like-boys in tights, prancing about on the ice. He wasn’t even the one getting his penis peeled like a banana.

“Then,” he said, “we’ll go in and hopefully find the break. Once we do, we’ll stitch it up and hope the repair takes. Then we’ll pull all the skin back up, and stitch it back up, and you’ll be done. After about six weeks, you’ll be healed. Do you have any questions?”

I paused for my own effect, pursing my lips and shifting them off to the side, then rolling my eyes up and to the left, as if to show that I was thinking hard about it. Then I answered, “Just one, doc.”

He looked at me with this glare that said, I swear, if you ask me to make it bigger, I will chop all of it off and leave you with nothing to fix!

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