“Men are shameless. If you’re not thinking with your weiner, then you’re acting directly on its behalf.”

— Minnie Driver, as Skylar, in “Good Will Hunting”

I recently found myself acting directly on behalf of my own weiner. But not how you might think.

Let me back up.

On Feb. 15, as I do most days, I went out to get the mail. I don’t know why.. it usually goes straight into the garbage. I was on my porch when I unwittingly stepped onto some black ice, and then this happened:

My wife Carrie (did I mention she’s unbelievably amazing?) heard my screams and drove me to my doctor’s office, where I thought I could get an x-ray faster than at an emergency room. But when the Keystone Kops (you can only make this reference in a blog like this — Google it, kids) of his office staff couldn’t figure out how to untangle the cords of an EKG machine, I lost consciousness and was whisked away to the emergency room I was hoping to avoid.

Here’s something about that: When you roll up to the ER in a chauffeur-driven meat wagon with valet parking, you get a seat right up near the band, instead of waiting half a day just to see the maitre-d’, who keeps telling you the people already inside have gotten their checks but are lingering over coffee.

In the ER, X-rays reveal three broken ribs. A nicked artery that filled my chest cavity with blood. A drain to suck out the blood. Then thoracic surgery to remove a large clot. Another tube to drain fluid. And one more tube, which we’ll talk about in a bit.

Yet no matter what is done in a hospital, it’s never quite enough. There’s always a “We saw something that we didn’t like, so we want to run a few more tests, take a few more images.” I was told I was going to need a post-op CT scan to confirm or rule out the presence of some kind of something in my bladder.

I was cool with it until I learned how they get the contrast dye into you to make the bladder images more revealing — I would require a Foley catheter to be inserted into my weiner. (Quick aside: My brain, totally overloaded and addled at this point, wondered if Foley was the guy who invented it, or the first schmuck — literally — to have one inserted.)

Two nurses from the totally aptly named ‘trauma team’ came in to give me the news (I thought), but they were actually there to do the insertion. Right there. At that moment. Wait. Now? No. Wait. You’re going to do what? No. That’s not necessary. I’ve been peeing unassisted multiple times since the surgery. I won’t allow it. Is there an appeal process? A form I can fill out? “Take a minute,” one of the nurses said.

My brother, a prior victim who was visiting at the time, tried to assure me it was “no big deal.” No big deal? NO BIG DEAL?? NO, IT’S A REALLY BIG FUCKING DEAL! “Listen, I’ve had it a few times, and it really isn’t that bad. The whole thing takes like a minute, and then you never have to think about peeing again.”

I tried to explain that I don’t actually spend a lot of time thinking about peeing — only when necessary — and again, it’s never been a problem.

The same nurse joined in. “Oh, stop being such a baby. I’m a mother; I’ve passed bigger things than this, if you follow me.” I follow, but.. sorry, there is absolutely no equivalency. The passage through which babies emerge is part of a two-way system. Things can go in and come out. What was going to happen to me was akin to a drunk driver missing all those “Go back.. WRONG WAY” signs as they drive onto the parkway from an exit ramp.

Weiners were designed for one-way traffic. Out. There’s no ‘in’ in wein … well, you get the point.

The other nurse chimed in as she tried to pull gloves on. “I don’t think these are gonna fit over my man hands,” she said. I looked at her hands … enormous. I looked at my penis. Not so much. It had retreated all the way into my liver to protect itself, and “ManHands” was trying to pull it back. The weiner slickly retreated every time the gloved hands slipped over it.

Finally, the first nurse said, “Let’s start.”

The nurse touched my weiner. “It hurts. STOP! Why isn’t there an anesthesiologist here? I have no tolerance for pain. YOU. HAVE. TO. STOP. I don’t need this. There’s nothing wrong with my bladder! Nothing is supposed to be inserted into a weiner. I’ll sue you and this entire fucking hospital. I want a second opinion, a lawyer, and someone to explain how Medicare works! YOU. HAVE. TO. STOP!”

The nurse spoke. “That was just the numbing agent.”

So, I did what I always do in situations of incredible stress. I cried like a 4-year-old girl. “Why-y-y (sniff) are you-oo-oo (sniff) doing this to me-ee-ee? I want (sniff) to go ho-oh-oh-o-me! Waaaaa!”

At that moment, I felt the Foley penetrate. And, in that moment, I learned that sphincters are useless for the task of protecting the weiner. Foley was in, its sandpaper exterior scraping its way to its final destination.

Suddenly, the insertion stopped. And the jamming portion of the program began. Apparently, Mr. Foley was too wide to pass. “We’ll have to see if we can get a pediatric catheter,” ManHands said.

That was it!!Any last shred of dignity I was clinging to had just been torn from me.

Well, long story short, they got it in, and the bladder scan –as I had told them — showed no kind of nothing.

My brother-in-law (let’s call him Steven) heard about Foley and sent me this text:

“You have a tube in your penis? I thought you hurt your rib. Penis is a different part of the body.”

And he has called me faithfully, every day since, to ask how my penis is.

Steven, it’s fine … now. But it somehow just isn’t the same.