Coyote's Den

When I was a kid, I was very insecure about a lot of things. I was fat, dorky-looking, socially inept, and dressed funny. I had a very hard time laughing at myself, because usually, laughter directed at me seemed to be at my expense.

They say that we can learn many valuable life lessons from observing and interacting with nature. Here is the story of how a Portuguese Man-of-war taught me to laugh at myself.

First off, allow me to describe the Portuguese Man-of-war, for those of you who have not seen, or do not know of these fascinating sea creatures. A man-of-war is a kind of jellyfish (or a relative of the jellyfish), which has a large blue-tinted bubble as the top part of its body. The bubble is filled with air (or some kind of gas), and has a ridge across the top. The bubble keeps the jellyfish on top of the water, and in a certain light, is rather pretty.

Underneath the bubble part are about fifty-kajillion tentacles, some as thin as hair or spiderwebs, and these tentacles are covered with organs called nematocysts. A nematocyst is basically a little thingy that discharges a teensy poisonous barb into things it touches, stinging the shit out of them. This is how the man-of-war catches its food. When they sting a human being, it is very painful - imagine having someone wrap a string around you that is covered with bee-stings. Some people have even gone into shock from numerous stings, and if you have an allergic reaction, it can even be dangerous. Mostly though, they just hurt like ten kinds of motherfucker.

Anyway, when I was fourteen, I went to the beach with family. At the time, I was so insecure about my appearance that I didn't take off my shirt to swim. I'd always liked the water, especially the ocean, because in the water, it doesn't matter if you are fat or funny-looking - it matters that you can swim without drowning.

I've always found it incredible relaxing and therapeutic just to sit at the edge of the ocean and let the waves smack into me. So, I was sitting in the water, letting the waves smash up against my back, when a particularly large wave washed up under my shirt.

But it wasn't just water. I felt something big shoot up under with the water... something like a balloon attached to a fright wig. I knew instantly with the dread that only comes in nightmares, what had just gone up my shirt. It was a man-of-war. I immediately leaped to my feet with a yelp, and when I did, the back of my shorts opened up as the water went down, and my new blue-bubbled and sting-y friend went right down the back of my trunks.

If the dread of knowing that a stinging jellyfish has gone into your shirt is unpleasant, I can assure you that the sudden realization that it has fallen down inside your pants is indescribable.

And then, of course, the stinging began.

I ran out of the water, and began to shout. I was not, to paraphrase comedian Buddy Hackett, shouting "Spring is here!"

Up until this point, I'd rarely cursed, and only twice had slipped and used curse words in front of parents or adults from the family. I had never, even a single time, used the dreaded "F-word."

I made up for that oversight in seconds. I ran around at high speed, in tight circles, screaming "FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!!!"

I remember seeing the faces of the other kids who had been swimming nearby, almost as if in slow motion. There was this black kid who, at first, looked like he was about to laugh, but his jaw dropped when he saw me trailing bits of jellyfish - the thing was huge - and he said something like "Awww... man... is that a jellyfish?"

By this point, the angry, surprised, terrified sounds of rampaging F-bomb had attracted puzzled glances from my family. I ran through the whole group of them, at high speed, screaming "GODDAMN MOTHERFUCK JELLIFISH FUCK AAAAHHG FUCK AAAAIIII!!!!"

Or something to that effect. Frankly, I was so preoccupied that I had only maybe two brain cells capable of stopping to consider whether I should be embarrassed or should be censoring my monologue.

I ran the quarter or half-mile to the beach bathrooms, with their showers, and flung open the door. There was a big hairy guy in their pulling on his pants after changing out of his bathing suit (or maybe taking them off to put his trunks on - I don't know). I screamed at him "Out! Get out! Get the fuck out now!" The poor sod went scrambling out in panic from the crazed, four-foot-tall, three-foot wide pasty white boy who was clawing at his body and clothing.

I immediately ripped off my trunks and shirt, and commenced trying to scrape the stinging tentacles and bits of goo off. This, of course, caused them to sting my hands, arms, armpits, and re-sting everywhere else they'd already stung. Coming slightly to my senses, I then grabbed like every paper towel out of the dispenser, and proceeded to scrape as much of the stuff off as I could.

In case you are wondering what it feels like to have man-of-war stings all over your body, including your armpits, your ass-crack, and your nuts, allow me to tell you that you DON'T EVER WANT TO KNOW!

I managed to stumble into the shower part, which helped a little, took a deep breath, and let out the longest, loudest, primal scream that anyone has ever made that could still be recognized as one long, loving rendition of the word "FFUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!"

When I finally managed to stop cursing, I sat in the shower, trying to gingerly pick bits of tentacle off my crotch. Keep in mind, many of them are so fine as to be invisible. It's like trying to remove stinging micro-boogers that you can't see.

About then, I hear a knock at the door. It was my Aunt Sherry. I screamed "WHHHATT!?!?" at the top of my lungs!

I heard her, trying very hard not to laugh - she could tell I was upset, and I know that the effort to withhold laughing had to be causing her (or anyone with a sense of humor) to risk a cerebral aneurysm. But she loved me, so she tried.

She asked me, "Umm... sweetie? You all right in there kid?"

All of a sudden, I could see what that whole incident looked like: A funny-looking, shy, fat kid running around with stinging jellyfish in his pants in high speed circles, screaming obscenities at a volume and broadcasting over an area large enough to come under FCC jurisdiction. It was, simply, hilarious. How could I possibly ask someone not to laugh at that? Hell... I realized that even I thought it was funny as hell.

And then I started laughing. I shouted "Sure! I'm great! Now that I've got most of the jellyfish out of my pants!"

And then we were both laughing. She asked me if I thought I'd be all right, or if I needed any help. I told her not at the moment, but if I passed out, I'd be sure to ask for assistance.

That's the first time in this lifetime that I can recall just unreservedly laughing at myself, at my situation, and it felt damn good. It really made me feel better, and I tried to take it as a lesson not to take myself too seriously. Sometime, shit just happens, and if you take the stick out of your ass, you might realize that it's funny... and that laughter helps.

Thanks jellyfish. Sorry I killed you with my ass-crack.

Just so people will know... this is the sort of stuff that happens to me. It was either learn to laugh, or be miserable a lot.