Cup Check Thursday…
I doubt the phantom pains will ever cease…
Back in high school, there was a day known as cup check Thursday, and It was nothing short of hell. All these years later and I’m still jumpy on Thursdays. I doubt the phantom pains will ever cease. Truth be told, I still miss the adrenaline of it all. Oh, to be sixteen and without forethought. There’s nothing quite like it.
You may be unfamiliar with the term cup check; please sit back and allow me to instill within you the proper response. That response is fear, and not a brief fleeting fear, but a deep tightness in your chest and an a heart beat so rapid it’s audible. To put it directly, a cup check is when you gingerly rap a knuckle against a mate’s scrotum, thus determining whether, or not, they are wearing a cup. It is supposed to be nothing more than a mild annoying pain. A fleeting sting of shame followed by tee-hee-ing. However, some daft fool introduced this practice to the male population of a small Christian school. The combination of testosterone and clueless teachers lead to an all out cup check war, but only on Thursdays. Why only Thursdays? I’ve been asking myself that question for years, and I still do not know.
Most of us could rack up a decent quota of testical clanks, but there were some who went far beyond. There were some who became legends.
The first of note was Rick “the stick” Man. In the early weeks of the cup check war he tore the cartilage in his knee to shreds. It was a tragic injury that resulted from a youth group game of dodgeball. Yes, you heard that right, dodgeball is what mutilated him for life. You may think it resulted from a simple competitive streak, but you would be wrong. His passion went far beyond mere competition; it was nothing short of rampant blood lust.
In the beginning, the crutches made him an easy target. Even I rat-a-tapped the low hanging fruit on more than one occasion. The gangs, however, they were ruthless. They would surround him in the halls like hyenas around a lame gazelle. One psychopath would distract Rick, then another would charge out of a nearby classroom and vigorously jimeny his crickets. Sometimes, the more veracious teens would zig zag up to him, side sweep his crutches, and double tap his nads while he was down.
Vicious and merciless.
It is well documented that when beast becomes abused it strikes back. Similarly when a man, err… teenaged boy, is abused, he morphs into a beast. Rick underwent such a metamorphosis, and tapped into the blood lust that crippled him in the first place. I can not say for sure he practiced at home, but it sure as hell seemed like it.
I’ll never forget the day things changed. The bell for homeroom rang and the halls cleared, save for one cripple. A cripple with a hall pass and a mission. Rick sauntered down the nearly empty senior hallway with the swagger of Eastwood. He stood before the elevator with a dum dum hanging from his lips. A crumpled term paper blew down the hall. He rolled the sucker from the left corner of his mouth to the right. It tasted of vengeance. Vengeance and butterscotch.
He, raised his left crutch and tapped the up button. He entered that elevator as Rick, but he he was ‘The Stick.’ The doors slid open. he paused for a moment, before clenching his jaw so hard the dum dum split. The crack echoed through the air.
On, like mother fucking Donkey Kong
Rick spit out what was left of the sucker and charged - eh… more like aggressively hobbled - towards a group of unsuspecting freshmen. He swung his left crutch out before him and sacked the first freshman with such force he sang alto till the day he graduated. The choir teacher couldn’t have been happier. Rick spun around and crutch tapped two more. His fourth victim attempted to parry with a world history textbook. It was a brave, yet, futile attempt. With a twist of the wrist Rick knocked away the textbook, flicked the left jiggle bean, and double tapped the right. He became so versed in the art of the crutch that by quarter's end he could take a fly of the tip of dick without disturbing a single pube.
I mean at least that’s what I heard. Like I never actually watched it happen, but that’s what everyone was saying it… so it’s totally true.
The prey had become the predator. The monster even used his crutches as an excuse to be late to class. He would use his extended passing period to wander the halls splitting the coconuts of helpless stragglers.
Rick the Stick was certainly bad, but he was nothing compared to Pete Litwurst, aka Peter Pan. Why Peter Pan? Oh! Oh ho ho ho, that’s because when he cup checked you it felt like you took a pan to the little man. Rick was all about speed and accuracy. Pete, on the other hand, only cared about inflicting pain upon your glands.
The typical cup check form is to hold your hand in a manner reminiscent of the praying mantis kung fu grip. The key is to keep your fingers firm and your wrist limp. This way, when you swing towards your prey the hand swings freely and the ridged back of your fingers deliver a staggering blow.
Pete modified this technique by curling his middle finger so that the second knuckle became the point of initial impact. No longer was the force dispersed over an array of phalanges, but rather focused, like an arrow, behind a single point. I am of the personal opinion that such a tact was the cup check equivalent of chemical warfare, and as such should have been banned by the genitalia convention of room 402 B.
Pete developed his method loin chopping during first period physics. Mr. Gabler was going on about force, velocity and other sciency jargon having to do with speed and small points. Peter raised he head from the desk for the first time in three class periods. His eyes grew wide. He smiled wickedly. He held his hand in cup check form before his face. Then he did it. He extended the second knuckle of his middle finger.
The bell rang. Pete released a maniacal laugh and charged into the hall. He swung at the first kid within arms reach. Bowl Cut chose the wrong time to use to the water fountain. He didn’t stand a chance. Pete didn’t even give him time to swallow before going nuclear on Bowl Cut’s fragile mellows. Bowl Cut fell to his knees water pouring out his mouth. He began dry heaving, and for a second I thought he was going to up chuck. In a moment he managed to squeak out, “I… I…” A tear fell down his face. “I think it fell off. I… I… I.. think my nut fell off.”
Pete Jumped with joy. “High score, bitches!”
We all broke into laughter as Bowl Cut continued his faint mumbling, “Mu muh muh nut fell. My nut fell off. Mu muh muh nut.” Then Pete looked back towards those of us spectating and grinned.
We ran like bitches.
Worse even than Peter Pan was the senior. Why ‘the senior?’ That’s because… because… Well, because I don’t remember his fucken name, but he was a senior, and giant one at that. I mean this due was tall. I’m talking love child of Goliath and Andre. He stood a solid head and shoulders above everyone else in 7th period P.E. Senior would saunter around the locker room wearing the creepiest smile. It was like he was perfectly imitating the me gusta face prior to its conception.
The worst was in the locker room. I’m fairly certain he would leave 6th period earl just so he could lie and wait for us. He would just look down at you with that awful me gusta grin. He’d never say anything just look down at you and wait for you to peel off your uniform polo. The instant your nips were exposed he’d reach out and plunge his cold ridged pointer finger into your sweet sweet tiddy meat.
Man, he got all up in dat tiddy flesh. Poke ya in the nipple. Then he’d just walk away. Wouldn’t acknowledge it at all. What in the fuck? Come on! I would have been more comfortable with a titty twister purple nurple tag team. Who in their right mind pokes another man in the nipple? You’re just going to unironically me gusta smile at me, poke my god given brown sugar pepperoni slices, and walk away without a word. The fuck wrong wit chu?
No. No. No.
That mofo went on to skin cats. I don’t have proof, but I don’t need it. After all dat bull shit, I know he went on to skin cats. Probably hamsters too. You know, I like to think he just misunderstood the rules of the game. Like you know, maybe he was just going for the wrong kind of cup, but I don’t think so. To be perfectly honest I’m not even sure he was trying to play.
I think we might of gotten me-too-ed.
I think we got me-too-ed. I should round the boys up and get a support group going.
You know. Wha cha gonna do?
Another person who took the war into the locker room was Sean “Multi-Kill” Parsons. We called him M.K. for short. Which eventually we started pronouncing as Mc. With time this became Mik. Then Mike. Then Michael. Then a teacher trying to be hip accidentally called him Mitchel. Then a parent called him Mitch, and he hated it, so we called him Mitch. This might have been mean, but we did hit each other in the balls for fun, so you know… We weren’t exactly sensitive.
He would get to P.E. early so he could be in his uniform before the rest of us. Then he would hide in the shower room until we started changing. Once about ten people were pantsless he would run out of the shower room and smack the closest person in the balls with his right hand. Then he’d spin with his left hand extended. He’d just keep spinning until scrotal contact was made. Then he’d reverse spin and pendulum his right hand into another love sac, and so on and so forth. All while screaming bloody murder. He was like a twister of gonad destruction. On average he’d only manage to tag four of us, but on occasion he’d scramble as many as dozen eggs in a row. Then in a primitive taunting maneuver he’d pull his pink fleshy man meat out and jiggle it all about.
Eventually we got tired of exercising with freshly wounded nether regions, and elected someone actually named Mitchel to bitch to our P.E. teacher. Mr. Hineck, the Physical Education instructor, who was little more than a glorified babysitter, gathered all of us around one of the basketball hoops. “Sean,” Hineck leaned in and flapped his hands for emphasis, “did you,” he dropped his jaw and nodded his head. He licked his lips and sighed, “did you touch Mitchel’s penis?”
“What?” Sean cried. “No!”
Mr. Hineck sighed and looked out over the giggling crowd of teenage boys. “Okay, raise your hand if Sean has touched your Penis.” We all raised our hands without hesitation even though he had only smacked about a third of us. Hineck sent him to the Dean’s office where he explained the intricacies of Cup Check Thursdays to our humorless female Dean, Mrs. Lions.
In turn Lions sent a mass email to the parents of high school boys. Which was followed by an all-male assembly explaining the dangers of scrotal warfare. Apparently, it’s the cheapest form of birth control, and despite being a Protestant school the administration was taking a strictly catholic stance on this for of contraceptive. That was the end of Cup Check Thursdays. Although, many of us went on to spoon each other by secretively slipping plastic spoons into eachother’s pants pockets a la reverse pick pocketing, but it just wasn’t the same. Sure if you got caught trying to spoon someone they could hit you with the spoon, but it was only plastic. The stakes just weren’t high enough.
There are, however, rumors that too this day the varsity soccer team busts each other’s nuts every Thursday during practice. I sure as hell hope it’s true. After all, you can crush a man’s balls, but you’ll never be able to crush a man with balls!
Cup Check Thursday
you can crush a man’s balls, but you can’t crush a man with balls…