The Scrotum of a Righteous Man

by Kate Watkins

I have no idea how I ended up in possession of the soundtrack to the TV show Friends. I was never a particular fan of the series, nor was I passionate about any of the artists featured on the disc. The best I can figure is that it either came from a well-meaning relative wanting to appeal to my hip, teenage sensibilities, or I had found it in the bargain bin at the local record store, and couldn’t resist a seemingly good deal. Truth be told, if the latter were the case, it was a pretty good deal. I actually enjoyed the album. Lou Reed, KD Lang, R.E.M., Grant Lee Buffalo, et al. offered the perfect lovelorn background noise for many of the self-imposed bedroom sequestrations of my teenage years.

Between every couple of songs, there were audio clips of dialogue from the show. One particular track imprinted itself on my brain in the way that so many strange, clever, or unexpected phrases have done before and since. From what I can recall (because the Googles have failed me on this one), the girls — Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe — were attempting to cast some sort of spell, no doubt to either obtain love or revenge. Phoebe reads off a list of ingredients to a magic potion, which includes something like tail of newt and eye of frog and “the scrotum of a righteous man.”

Now, really. Need I explain why such a fantastically bizarre, wicked, and deliciously dramatic turn of phrase lingered in my teenage mind for years to come?

Fast forward about five years to my senior year of high school. It was a strange year. I had always been a good kid; I got decent grades, played sports and obeyed my parents. Suddenly, everything changed. The chemicals and hormones that had been bubbling in my brain exploded in a wave of panic that left me completely paralyzed. Anxiety about the future consumed my life. I couldn’t apply to colleges, I couldn’t do my homework, I couldn’t go on dates; I was completely unable to function.

Just when I thought I was doomed to become a permanent recluse, a friend introduced me to Mary Jane, reefer, marijuana. Suddenly, I was worry free. Gone was the shy Girl Scout; in came the wild, reckless, popular party girl. I cemented my new image with a cool, popular boyfriend.

Billy was an accomplished young binge-drinker from a nearby private school. He drove a fancy Cadillac and had parties in his backyard. For whatever reason, his friends never seemed to like me.

Actually, if I had to guess why, I would say that it was because I was poor, kind of dirty, constantly stoned, and tried too hard.

One night, Billy and I were gathered around a fire in his backyard with about ten of his friends. The boys took turns chugging beers and throwing the empty cans into the fire. The girls started a game in which they tried to describe the shapes that the molten aluminum took.

“That one looks like a frog!” Ahhh, hilarious! Everyone laughed appreciatively.

“That one looks like a pony!” Hahahahaha! Julie, you drunken poet!

“That one looks like the scrotum of a righteous man!” …

Silence. Complete, gut-wrenching, mortifying silence.

Instantly, I realized what I had said. Dear god, why did I think that anyone else would possibly ever get that reference?

Within 10 minutes, Billy escorted me to his Cadillac and quickly drove me home. I can only guess that the events of that evening contributed to his decision to dump me one week later, cruelly and humiliatingly in the middle of my prom.

A few days after that, the phone calls started. “Hello, may I speak to the scrotum of a righteous man?” quickly turned into, “Scrotum of a righteous man? Who says that, you crazy freak? I’m going to kick your ass!” Day after day, night after night, his friends would call me. I wish I could say that I didn’t let it bother me, but the truth is that it destroyed me. I stopped showing up to class entirely, spending every day sleeping or getting high. I didn’t graduate with my class, because I had to retake a home-ec class that I had failed due to poor attendance. The calls only stopped when I changed my number.

These days, in my spare time, I work with a group that provides literacy training and mentorship to school-aged children. I have become particularly close to one little girl, Mallory.

The other day, Mallory seemed withdrawn.

“Is something wrong, Mal?” I asked.

“Well, the thing is …” [deep breath] “the thing is that there’s this boy in my class who’s threatening to tell everyone in school about something terrible I said.” Her eyes remained fixed on the ground.

“Oh, honey, I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I soothed. “What did you say?”

“I said that I hate everything,” she whispered.

“Whaaa…?! Honey, I say things like that every day! I do hate everything! That’s no big deal!”

“But he said that if I hate everything that it means that I hate myself so he’s going to tell everyone that I hate myself.”

As silly as the whole situation seems to me now, I understand Mallory’s anguish. Until recently, I told no one about the “scrotum of a righteous man” fiasco. I internalized those girl’s taunts and silently agreed with them that there must be something wrong with me. It is only now, as a happy, functional adult that I can laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

Truth be told, it is pretty fucking hilarious.

Kate Watkins no longer smokes, but is still wildly inappropriate.

Photo by Kim D. French, via Shutterstock.