My husband had just announced his newest do-it-yourself project.

"I'm going to re-grow my foreskin. Here's a book about it."

As the book slid across the table, my mind swirled with "Young Frankenstein"-type images of Gene Wilder holding a home skin-grafting kit and Marty Feldman standing near a refrigerator full of gelatinous brown blobs growing in petri dishes.

"How w-w-what?" I continued to fumble.

"It'll take awhile; it's a very gradual process," he said.

"See," his hands began an illustrated dance in the air, "you pull the skin from the shaft up over the top of the penis, tape it, then apply constant tension, causing it to stretch and grow. It's called 'tugging.' Eventually, after a few years, the extra skin is long enough to cover the glans and act as a makeshift foreskin.

"I'm going back to do some research on the Internet," he said, and casually tra-la-la-d past my petrified cadaver of a body, practically skipping on his way to the room he uses as a home office.

What just happened here? I thought. Did I hear the word, "years"? I followed in hot pursuit.

"Where did you hear about this?" I questioned.

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