You had some kind of an accident, the specifics were never made clear, but the end result was your penis was lopped off by that elderly gardener you employ. He's--what?--98-years-old? He mistook it for a turnip or something, is what I heard.
They rushed you to the hospital. You were unconscious, Your wife was told that another penis could be re-attached, but someone would have to donate THEIR penis in order for this to happen.
And what bozo is gonna do THAT?
She asked your best friend Mike Curry, but that was when he started coming down with Alzheimer's. He may have been mentally disadvantaged, but he wasn’t stupid.
"I would," he said, "but I'm already losing my memory, I can't afford to lose my tallywacker along with it."
"Don't worry," Mike's wife told her. "You're not missing much."
Well, the way I heard it, the surgery was a success. When you woke up, the doctor and your wife filled you in on the details. Your penis was severed, in an emergency operation a donated penis was used and attached.
“It’s okay,” your wife said when she gave her okay for the procedure to take place. “He’s well-familiar with other men’s penises.”
"So who donated the penis?" you wanted to know when you became conscious.
Everybody hemmed and hawed.
“I did!” said a voice beside you, and, for the first time, you noticed the elderly gardener laying in the bed next to you. “I wasn't doing anything with it anyway.”
You should have given him a raise.
Raising My Father
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