The Nip Slip That Sent Me to the ER
Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake ain't got nuthin' on me.
We’re nearing the anniversary of Nipplegate. The Super Bowl half-time show where Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson’s dance routine resulted in Ms. Jackson’s nipple getting exposed to millions — stirring outrage in some viewers and stirring something else in others.
As far as nip slips go, it was pretty epic. But it reminds me of a nip slip that I experienced firsthand that I would dare to say was even epic-er, as it sent me to the hospital.
So what happened? Glad you asked. Journey with me back to 2021…
We were all stuck inside, losing our minds.
Things were just starting to open back up, and my good pal Dan (a different Dan — I didn’t go so crazy that I befriended an imaginary version of myself) texted me to see if I wanted to go to a comedy show in the city. I replied with a cool “thumbs-up emoji,” but on the inside, I was a blubbering performer accepting his first AVN award for Best Little Person Sex Scene: “I can’t tell you how much this means to me!”
The show was happening at Caroline’s Comedy Club in New York City, headlined by Michael Che. On the day of the big event, I was giddily typing away from my sweet WFH setup (a Ping-Pong table in the middle of my dank basement) counting the minutes to sweet escape.
Enter Clark, my then-1-year dog, bounding down the stairs. He walked over to a pile of dirty laundry in front of the washer (I told you I had a sweet setup) and plopped on his back and started wiggling, eerily foreshadowing the moves of a yet unknown Australian Olympic break dancer named Raygun. (See forensic evidence below.)
Besides a staggering lack of rhythm, Clark’s worm routine revealed something I was not expecting — an engorged tick right smack in the middle of his belly. I shouted “Yuck!” (or something that rhymes with “Yuck!”) and called the vet.
This is the precise moment when things rapidly started to fall apart.
The vet said to bring him in. I looked at the clock and realized that taking Clark to see Dr. Gina would surely mean missing my getaway train to the Big City and seeing Mr. Che. This made me sad. But happily, my wife stepped up to the engorged plate, and with the aid of our younger son Gus, got Clark into our SUV and headed off to the vet.
A minute into their drive, the fuel light blinked on. Lisa stopped at a gas station, where the attendant informed her, “Ma’am, there’s a big chunk of rubber scraped off this rear tire. This is not safe to drive on.”
So Lisa gassed up, turned around, and headed back home. Undeterred, she and Gus transferred Clark and his tick from the Acura into the very old Saab in our driveway. The one we hadn’t driven in months. The one with broken air conditioning. Did I mention this was an exceptionally hot day in July? That will be an important detail soon.
They headed back out to the vet. Twenty minutes later, Lisa called with Dr. Gina’s diagnosis: “It’s not a tick, it’s a nipple.”
The sound of my hand hitting my forehead echoed throughout the land. But on the bright side, I still had plenty of time to walk to the train and let the good times roll.
Oh, you silly little man…
I was heading out the front door just as our busted-ass Saab pulled back into the driveway. No one inside of it looked happy. Gus especially.
Cut to him lying on the bathroom floor in our house, shaking uncontrollably and vomiting.
The next call was to an ambulance. The team that arrived assessed him and the diagnosis this time was not a prominent nipple, but instead a severe heat stroke.
They put him in the ambulance and Lisa climbed in back. Off they went.
I was left on the curb, contemplating how to follow them to the hospital: drive the hot-as-hell death box to the right or climb inside the SUV with the about-to-explode tire on the left.
Luckily, the police officer who accompanied the ambulance to our house (in case there were any crazy people inside — no chance of that!) saw another disaster about to unfold and leaped into action. He awesomely volunteered to help me change the tire. At first, I was all, “No thanks, I got this,” but he insisted on helping. Praise Jesus he did because I didn’t remotely got this. I might be able to find a nipple, but I could not even find the spare tire, much less replace it. (Hint to any Acura MDX leasees out there: it’s attached underneath the car, not in the trunk.)
The Aftermath
After a few hours at the ER, Gus was all good thanks to an IV drip. Dan (not me) reported that the Che show was very funny and we got rid of the Saab sauna on wheels. As for Clark’s nipple? The one that left a trail of health and financial destruction in its wake? I haven’t seen it in years as I have since forced him to wear a doggy burka.
If you enjoyed yet another tale of how my dog Clark is ruining my life, please hit this link to vote for him America’s Favorite Pet. Don’t let the neutering fool you, this dog has balls.
