from the new yorker
Recently, I got a sex change on a whim. I was out drinking with some friends, got really drunk, and went in for the surgery. The doctors suggested I wait until I was sober, but I said no, give me the sex change.
Well, to make a long story short (so to speak), I woke up with breasts, a vagina, and a splitting headache. Also, I had a tattoo. I don’t remember where I got it, but there it was.
I was a woman for several weeks. The people at work were nice about it, but, to tell you the truth, I didn’t really have time to enjoy being a woman—I was swamped with projects. Finally, I decided to go back to being a man. For one thing, I hadn’t thought about how you need to change your whole wardrobe.
When I went in for the second surgery, I asked the doctor if he could also remove the tattoo while he was at it. He said, “But since you’re going to be a man again, wouldn’t you like to keep the tattoo?” I said no, man or woman, I didn’t want the tattoo.
I woke up from the operation, and I was a man again. But get this: I still had the tattoo! I thought, Am I crazy? I confronted the surgeon, and he said he thought we had left the tattoo part undecided. Now that I was a man, I felt like punching him, but I didn’t. Instead, I just made an appointment to come back and get the tattoo removed.
I should have been suspicious when I went back to the hospital and they put me under full anesthesia, because when I woke up I was a woman again but the tattoo was still there! They said it had been a mistake, and to make up for it they would do my next surgery for free.
I didn’t know what to do. I became depressed. I started getting hounded by my insurance company. They had covered my sex-change operations in full, but they said they didn’t cover tattoo removal. But I didn’t have a tattoo removal, I told them. They said they had already paid my doctor for one by mistake, and now I had to reimburse them. I called my doctor, and he said he hadn’t received any payment for tattoo removal.
I was so mad, I felt like suing someone. But who? My drinking buddies didn’t have any money, and I had no luck tracking down the tattoo parlor.
I gave up. I started hitting the bars and sleeping around. I don’t even remember if I was a man or a woman at that point. I felt a little cheap, so maybe I was a woman.
One night, after some meaningless sex, he or she turned to me and said, “You know, I really like your tattoo.” Something clicked in my head, and in my gut or maybe my uterus. I hadn’t realized it, but I also liked the tattoo. I was a tattoo person!
I called my doctor and told him the news: I wanted to get another sex-change operation, but I was going to keep the tattoo. He said I was an idiot. But I don’t care. If wanting to keep your tattoo makes you an idiot, then I’m the king of the idiots. Or the queen of the idiots—I have to look.
I should just give up posting original stuff here and set up a Jack Handey tribute blog. I would feel no shame because he is that good. If you like surreal absurdist humour he is the man( or woman ) for you....check out Deepthoughtsbyjackhandey.com for more
2 hours ago