No no no no....not fair....you can't have a back-and-forth like that without telling the story. We're waiting.
It was the summer of 84. I tried to communicate through the blowing sands of the Rhub al Khali to my translator, Ahmad, that we had no rations left. He was a young man, scarcely over 24. Olive skin, booming voice, and built like a twig.
Our eyes met, wordlessly communicating the gravity of the situation. He looked towards Wally, our camel, whom I named after the town we purchased him in - Al Wali. Suddenly, from the pocket of his rags, he procured a flint knife and muttered quietly to the air before lunging at the beast from behind, felling the testes.
Wally let out a roar of pain. "WHAT IN THE NAME OF SWEET ZOMBIE JESUS ARE YOU DOING!?!!" I exclaimed, dazed and confused. He picked up a bloody, sand-grain covered ball and offered me one. "You eat?" he offered innocently.
"I most certainly will not!" I retorted, aghast. But as the hours grew into days, it looked more and more delectable. Each grumble of my stomach seemed to be telling me "Eat it, you goddamn fool!". Maybe it was the hot desert air, but I dusted the sand from that testicle and consumed it. The rough, sun-dried skin being tough as leather in contrast to the soft and sensitive innards.
........Or this could all be ********......I was born in 91.......