It's a Big Dick Contest and You Might Be Invited

It really irks me that if I don't blog for a month, Lost in Mental Masturbation rockets to the top of my Most Frequently Read Blogs list.  I feel bad for the people who rush to that blog for...um...extra-curricular reasons...and find something that I presume would be hard to pleasure one's self to.  If anyone has experienced otherwise, please let me know!

***

In a non-egotistical way (?), I feel a lot more pressure with this stupid blog now.  When I first started and the only people who read it were Darron and someone looking for (mental) masturbation (usually two different people), I felt pretty at ease blogging about anything.  Now that I know I have more of a readership, I feel like it (a) stops me from blogging more often and (b) stops me from blogging unless I have something (I feel) is "profoundly" interesting or funny to discuss (insert sarcastic retort here).  Damn you, Google Analytics!

And, when I think about this more deeply (in a somewhat masturbatory fashion), this seems eerily similar to other aspects of my life where I have the innate ability to take something fun and turn it into some sort of chore...and I become some über (God, I love that word) critic over things completely inane and harmless. HURRAY FOR BEING NEUROTIC!

***

"Reigning" Big Dick Contest Winner 

Anyway...that's not why I am here.  I am here because of this idea of anonymity (and my lack of it) that comes along with cyber-writing and how this empowers assholes to become cyber-assholes.  This phenomenon often strikes me when I read CNN articles and then look at the comments section underneath...which quickly turn into a big dick contest about who can be more vicious to their fellow reader:

Clever Reader #1: You are a conservative douchebag....

Clever Reader #2: No, no...YOU are (and my dick is way HUGE!).

Now I could understand this type of conversation on perezhilton.com or foxnews.com (snark), but this is CNN.  Doesn't that mean something? Anything?  Can't we have some sort of adult conversation somewhere that doesn't break down into mine is bigger than yours?

***

I've thought about this idea of having a cyber-persona before (my own, for example)...but it's this veil of safety people hide behind that has got me thinking.  And it seems like a two-step process, really:

Layer One: Being rude to someone NOT in person.  Hard to get your ass kicked...limited chance for confrontation when done asynchronously.

Layer Two:  Being rude to someone NOT in person and then using a pseudonym to do it!  This is an entirely deeper level of assholedom:

• Can't get your ass kicked. Check.  
• Don't give someone a chance to retort.  Check. 
• AND, as an added bonus, you can even pretend NOT to have made the comment at all.  Check.  This is perfect!  

We have gone from letter, to telegram, to phone, to email, to texting, to hidden identities...removing ourselves further and further from our responsibilities as human beings to look someone else in the eye and say: LOOK, you are being an idiot, AND my dick is super, super gigantic compared to yours.

***

It's a reality.  We use an online forum to comment and judge others' actions.  To vent.  To have an audience.  I'm not above this.  I do it, too. What I don't understand is hiding behind an emoticon and calling yourself princess_6969 to do it.  If anyone is a princess around here, it is me, princess_6969...so step!

Jack Handy once said It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man.  I don't know what it takes exactly to hide and be an electronic dickhead.  Not much beyond an internet connection, spellcheck, and a fifth-grade reading level, I presume.

As a society, let's all stand up and point and laugh together...not alone, in our rooms, lost while we mentally masturbate ourselves to sleep -- that still frame of Alyssa Milano from Embrace of the Vampire will be there tomorrow.   And she wouldn't like you anyway.  It's a big dick contest after all, and you weren't even allowed to enter.

An Open Letter to Megan Fox: A True Love Story Involving Shitting in Public

I apologize if one of the reoccurring themes of my posts is triathlons.  It's hard not to write about them and what they mean to me when I spend much of my free time (a) training for them (b) thinking about them or (c) wondering about what Megan Fox is doing.

I assume Meg (as I know she would want me to call her) is curious about what I think about them, too. So...

Dear Meg:

One of the interesting things about triathlons is that they are fucking hard.  Honestly, it probably isn't "normal" to bike after you swim and then run after you bike...but beyond being hard, you really do learn a lot about yourself and others when you are doing them.  

It's like starring in Transformers.  I haven't SEEN you perform in many of them because I honestly don't care about the shitty-ass movies you have been in.  But...I realize acting is  hard (for you)...so I am interested in how you go about it.  This is where I think we stand on common ground.

For example, when you prepare for a big movie, I assume you have to diet and rehearse and there are days you do better than others.  Similarly, I am doing the same things right now while training for an Ironman.  To put this in perspective for you, this is like the Brian Austin Green of triathlons. Hot, right?  And, in a way, finishing one would be like birthing a child: it takes about nine months to prepare, you're sweaty and shit-stained when you're done, and you often show other people pictures about it and they pretend to care!  I'm not sure if you understand metaphors, Meg, but this is getting creepily similar, if you asked me.  Or, maybe, just creepy.

I bet you probably wouldn't believe we have even MORE in common than this!  You know how when you try to act and it is like you are taking a shit all over the movie screen, but at least you look good doing it? AGAIN, this has happened to me, too.

One day, I was running on Coronado Island in San Diego, and if you know your movie history, I'm sure you realize Marilyn Monroe (one of the many you's before you were you) starred in Some Like it Hot on Coronado. Anyway, this run has a really long path...mile after mile...and you know what? There are no open bathrooms!  Well, while some people drink coffee and enjoy a laxative effect on their bodies...and while others eat prunes...you see...I go running.  

Meg, I'm not sure if your math is better than your movie history trivia or metaphor analysis....but if you add many miles of running with a lack of bathrooms...you know what you get?  You get ME with a poop emergency!  Talk about liking it hot!

Ah.  So the point.  Why am I writing you?  First and foremost, I wanted to say congrats about your pregnancy, and I wish you the best of luck! Secondly...I know literally what it is like to shit in public...and I guess, you do, too.  I was just wondering if you had any advice on how I could get paid to do it?

Sincerely,

Your  Kindred Spirit

My Girlfriend Left Town -- On the 4th Day, I Showered

I woke up today being able to breathe out of one of my nostrils.  I took this as a sign that the girlfriend's hex was abating and that I might be able to carry on (although rather hungry after only having four Cheez-Its for dinner last night) in somewhat of a normal fashion. Upon getting out of bed, I tried to think back upon what she used to coach me about before I left the house:

To-Do List Before Going out in Public

(don't worry about the order, just do)

• If still wearing clothes from the previous day, remove them, find alternatives, and re-apply
• Check body orifices for foreign objects...especially stinky and/or green ones.
• Use a wet substance, preferably water, to cleanse.

Well, seeing as I have been left to my own defenses, I decided I didn't need to follow ALL the instructions today, but I figured I would try bathing out...just for kicks.  My orifices can wait until Sunday.

***

A little interesting fact about our house is that we have 1.5 bathrooms.  Without discussion when we moved in, it was pretty clear that the full bath (somehow) automatically became Tauni's.  I know how to pick my battles...and this was one I didn't cared about.  What would I do with a full bath anyway?  So, I don't go in "her bathroom" much, mostly because I don't understand most of the complex inner workings that occur.  I feel pretty satiated with my half-bath...it has a toilet, a shower, and a door.  I'm good.

Well my curiosity got the best of me today.  So I ventured into enemy territory and thought I would explore.  The first thing I noticed was color and a baby soap that got its own carrying case:

Colorful shampoo = Devil's work.

I guarantee you at least one of those things has a fruit scent and another promises to anti-dry/frizz/curl/etc. I was tempted to take the cover off the baby soap, but didn't know if that would throw of the pH balance of what I am sure are tiny crystals that need to be protected from oxygen.  I hope the flash of the camera didn't disrupt the baby soap's slumber.

This was nothing compared to the other side of the shower where I found multiple items which I thought she might have purchased from a wood shop.  In the center, you see some middleman devices which I know you use to apply soap to before you actually use the soap.  In fact, I'm pretty sure the gf and I have had this conversation before:

Me: I don't even understand why you use ploofas.

GF: A what?  

Me: You know, a ploofa...that scrub thing.

GF: You're an idiot.

 A Cornucopia of Things

I was happy that I did recognize one object in the shower...I believe that is a bar of soap next to the "loofah"...but there is no way to be sure.

I thought about taking a picture of her medicine cabinet ...but something told me she might actually have me strangled with a ploofa if I did that, so, instead, I thought I would share mine.  Pure perfection:

Finally, for comparison, here is my shower with all the necessities a man could want: stuff to shave with, some shampoo that has made its way into a plastic cup, and soap.

The highlight of my collection is the lighthouse soap dish.  I find it to be a metaphor for solidarity...and it's phallic...so yeah.  Go penises!

Day 4 is just starting...but I already feel invigorated knowing that I have a few crackers to munch on throughout the day...and that by using that plastic cup in the shower, I have done my part to help the environment.  

My Girlfriend Left Town -- Day 3: I'm a Survivor

I'm three days into my never ending saga of living without adult supervision....and I don't know if I'm going to be able to make it all seven days.  There's no food.  My clothes are in rags....and I'm pretty sure I have already lost control of my dogs; they may have even become rabid.  Here we see Maggie eyeing Morrie before she goes in for the kill.  With new dog-film technology, I was actually able to tap into her pug brain to hear what she was thinking at this very moment.  Warning...this is quite shocking...and all due to Tauni leaving for the week during my Spring Break: Maggie's thoughts.

Notice how the (pee) jeans and shoes have now doubled. 

 Morrie licking his chops after biting Maggie's face off in defense.
Poor faceless Maggie.

***

Although I am on the edge...deep down, I know I'm a survivor.  I haven't eaten a home-cooked meal in days, mostly because I was left with nothing to eat.  See...absolutely nothing:

Clearly, I am like some Old Mother Hubburd-esque joke to the girlfriend.  What does one do with all these unformed/uncombined ingredients, anyway?  No idea.  I'm not sure what kind of magic she performs to create meals...but I don't practice the black arts like she does.

Some might think with the obvious lack of everyday staples, that perhaps I would go procure more at some place I have heard called the supermarket, or something.  Unfortunately for people who suggest such sacrilege, I am not a Communist...but a full-blooded American....and I believe in life, liberty, and the pursuit of pre-made cheese crackers....

These are all the Cheez-Its I have left 

(and you know I didn't put them in the tupperware to stay fresh). 

I figure if I only eat four-to-five crackers/day...I'll make it to Sunday without starving because I am a MOTHER F'IN SURVIVOR!  I don't need to worry about feeding Maggie since she doesn't even have a face anymore...and I feel like Morrie can live off of pepper, right?

I hope I make it to Day 4!  The dogs? Well, I'm not holding my breath...although if I can keep faceless Maggie alive, that would be pretty cool.

My Girlfriend Left Town -- Day 2: Dog Poop In All The Wrong Places

In case you missed installment #1, I have been left by myself for the week during my Spring Break.  No girlfriend.  No work.  The challenge...to see how many laws I DON'T break.

***

Day #2...I was surprised this morning by even waking up.  I somehow didn't spontaneously combust during the night without supervision....I hope my luck continues this evening.  If there is no Day 3 blog, you'll know why.

Although there wasn't much reason to get out of bed, I did.  I was wearing the same underclothes (t-shirt and underwear) from the day before (spoiler alert)...

...and I wore them again all day today.  There truly was no reason to do this since I have a drawer full of clean clothes...I just didn't get to changing.  I'm going to try my best to shower tomorrow and change my clothes (no promises)...especially since I am going to go into work even though it is Spring Break.  I don't have much else to do!

I'm thinking the girlfriend might have put a hex on me before she left because I have been sick the two days since she has been gone.  Hard to get into any trouble when my own voice echoes in my head and I can't truly gauge the volume of it.  I hope she takes the voodoo sticks out of my ears tomorrow.  Might as well put them lower.  Lower.  Too low.  There ya go.

As long as I got out of bed, I figured I might as well take my dogs to the park, and in case you didn't realize it, when you take dogs to the park...they poop.  A lot.  And often.

But did I bring poop bags with me?  Of course not.  That's usually Tauni's "job."

I get to the dog park and don't realize my gaffe until I am opening the gate.  I panic because I know it is about t minus fifteen seconds before both dogs play their favorite game "Who can poop the wettest and stinkiest poop the fastest upon entering the park?"  Hey, they came up with the name, not me.  In case you were wondering, Maggie won...but honestly, there was truly only one loser...because I had to find a way to pick it ALL up.

Luckily(?), there were some plastic bags hanging inside another plastic bag on the fence for people like me, whose girlfriend is out of town.  When all you have to bring to the park is (a) your dogs and (b) poop bags, and you forget one of those two things...you truly are a special person.

Anyway, I reach in the plastic bag that contains the other plastic bags so I can pick up the ten pounds of stinky poop that now awaits me...and I am greeted by moist wetness inside the plastic bag that is housing the other plastic bags.

My mind races...What the Hell is this?  What could be on these bags within the other plastic bag. As I slowly remove my hand from the bag...I make a small prayer: Please, God.  Please.  Please don't let this be some practical joke punishing idiots who have forgotten to bring poop bags to the park.  PLEASE...PLEASE...PLEASE don't let my hand be covered in dog poop because this isn't actually a plastic bag holding other bags to pick up poop...but a plastic bag containing bags that have already picked up poop!

It's amazing how quickly my mind can race when thinking I have stuck my hand in dog shit.

I remove my hand from the bag that was holding the other plastic bags...and found no shit on it.  Whew!  That's one battle won!

Now, I had to go down another path.  And this has haunted me ALL DAY.  Why were the bags within the plastic bag wet?  What could that have been?  

As I walked around the park wiping and re-wiping my hand on my jeans (that I had worn yesterday, thrown on the floor, and worn again because, why not?)...all I could do was think Pee.  I stuck my hand in dog pee.

Why would I think this?  I don't know.  The wetness could have been any number of things.  Dew.  Rain.  Anything.  But no.  In my mind...it was dog piss.  And not only dog piss...but bacteria laden dog piss that now was crawling all over me.  

But will I wear the same pants tomorrow that I wiped and re-wiped my hands on?  OF COURSE!

Point being, none of this would have happened if my girlfriend went with me and brought the poop bags. 

So really, this is all her fault....and I presume some kind of weird poo poo voodoo.

Until tomorrow...

My Girlfriend Left Town -- Day 1

There are moments in life, fleeting moments, when coincidence collides with (mis)fortune.  It's at these moments when we have to ask ourselves about the world and our place in it.  This is beyond religion or faith.  This is something bigger.   I believe my moment has come.

My girlfriend just left town for a week...this, in itself, could be an interesting test.  Will I shower?  Will I change my underwear?  Will I shower in my underwear?  I don't know.  Perhaps, I don't want to know.

But, as I alluded to, there is something bigger in play here. She didn't just leave town any ol' week.  The strings of fate would not let me off that easy. She left on my Spring Break...and, as I hope you can see...these two events just can't be chance.  They can't be.  This has to be a test.  A test from...beyond.  With absolutely no boundaries at home and no work...what kind of EVIL might I fall prey to?

Day 1:

 

Exhibit 1: A Lack of Spacial Awareness

I'm not saying I'm typing this blog in the underwear I showered in...and I'm not not saying it either. Point is, as we can see, the first thing to go was my ability to refold my laundry.  And by fold, I mean I didn't come home, throw my jeans back into the general direction of the laundry, and if they made it great and if not so be it.  OH NO!  This is right in the middle of living room, folks.  The Horror!!  And do you see my shoes?  And a sock!  And this is just Day 1!  What's next?  My shirt?

Exhibit 2: Lack of Understanding Function

Here we see a cup. And a carton.  One would think I put the contents of said carton into said cup and then drank...perhaps even drank voraciously. But one would be wrong.  With no girlfriend to silently judge me eat with...I found myself with a day-old cup on my coffee table...and I drank...yes...drank FROM the carton anyway. The audacity! Who would do such a thing?  A monster...a sick and twister fiend?  Maybe someone who just didn't quite have the coordination to pick up the cup...like a war victim or someone with a handicap?  Anyway...that's not the point.  Clearly...I am failing at my first few moments of solitude.

I am afraid to see what other kind of mischief I might get into tomorrow. Maybe...just maybe...I'll leave the toilet seat up...and then sit on the toilet anyway.

Only time will tell.

Triathlon: It Is Like Skydiving. With Elephants.

I'm sitting in the Auckland airport about to be whooshed back in time.  Brian Greene would be so proud  although my universe is nowhere near as elegant as his.  For example, I'm pretty stoked I didn't have to go to the bathroom on myself during my 1/2 IM on Sunday (Well...AFTER the swim).  In my life, that's considered an elegant universe.

Anyway, I figure there is no better day to reflect than a day I get to live twice...it seems wasteful not to do something meaningful on at least one of my March 6ths between Auckland and LA.

So as I gaze off into the duty free store...Maori tribal chants (I think) lightly humming in the background...some thoughts about the past few days...what I learned...and I'm sure I'll throw in a poop joke or two along the way.

***

Before I left to take on Ironman New Zealand, I had this dream that I went skydiving.  With elephants.  This dream has stuck with me for days.  It seemed meaningful.  And what better image to bring along with me on a plane that I would be living on for 13 hours across the Pacific than that of a giant pachyderm hurtling out of said plane with me tagging along as skydiving partner?  Quite calming, indeed.

A couple of questions:

(1) How did I get the elephant through security?  Excuse me, sir...can you put your computer and elephant in separate crates?  And don't forget to take off his shoes (TOMS, of course).  


(2) I also wonder how, exactly, they created a parachute big enough for him.  I figure it was all very Point Break-esque....100% PURE adrenaline.

Regardless, this dream was vivid, and like most dreams...within it, I ended up simply accepting the implausible as the everyday.  A lesson in itself.

***

While I assume I carried this "elephant" along with me for months...my elephant didn't get to live long in New Zealand.  He never even got the chance to jump.  It seems mother nature dropped a weather bomb on me, baby...and so the race, my elephant -- shit, the entire plane -- went BOOM!  As one Kiwi put it: Not fair for you to come all this way for some bloke to cancel your race with the stroke of a pen.

Fair?  I don't know.

Safe?  Probably.

Disappointing?  Yes.

Bloke?  British.

***

Instead, a day later than planned, and at half the distance, we got our shot at New Zealand and Great Lake Taupo.  And while I am still an Ironman (140.6) virgin...I considered myself a seasoned veteran at 70.3s because I had done a whopping ONE before.  So...I knew what I was going to do.

I was going to sprint it.

That's right...my plan was to survive the (yuck) swim... and then SPRINT a 56 mile bike ride and 13.1 mile run.  In my mind...this seemed like a honest-to-goodness, realistic, and viable thing for me to be able to do....at the time, I thought:  Yeah...I can sprint it.  I trained for so long and so hard for a full IM...I can definitely sprint 69.1 miles...NO problem.  

I had some problems.

Beyond being an idiot, some things went a bit wrong during my "sprinting."  Listed in order of annoyance...some of which everyone had to deal with, some of which only I got to:

(1) Did I mention I tried to sprint the entire thing?  Yeah.  That was dumb.  I give myself credit...I was able to sprint about the first 40 miles of the bike ride before I completely blew up and bonked.  The rest of the day, my legs were absolute toast and I was miserable.

(2) My bike computer, the thing that tells me how fast I am actually going and how fast my cadence is, broke....unless I was actually biking at over 200 mph (which is what it was claiming).   Of course, I could approximate my speed and cadence, but in a race like this...everyone is biking much faster than normal.  So, I not only decided to sprint it (dumb), I also got caught up going at everyone else's sprint pace...not a good idea.

(3) My aero bar broke about 1/2 way into the ride.  This is especially annoying because we had to get our bikes checked before the race, and the bike shop took my bike in because my aero bar was loose!!!!  They "tightened" it...and gave me the go ahead to ride.  Thanks, Avanti!  Hmmm...

(4) Most of the last 1/3 of the ride was uphill and directly into a strong headwind.  Everyone had to deal with this...but did I mention my aero bar broke?  I got to eat a lot of that wind....and my legs were shot.

(5) I somehow tweaked my shoulder and my ass cheek during the bike....and my shoulder was so jacked up, I had to run one-armed in the 1/2 marathon.  I couldn't even hold onto my water bottle because it hurt so much.  I am pretty sure this had to do with my aero bars breaking (AVANTI!!!!).  You don't notice how much you use your arms when you run until you can't use one of them!  Ha!

(6)  Because I was an idiot and tried to sprint the bike...my legs were gone on the 1/2 marathon.   I think that was the worst I have ever felt on a run...which means I actually felt worse than when I accidentally ate a PowerBar with peanuts in it and ended up puking all over myself during my first marathon.  Yeah.  Good times.  Good times.  Why do I do this again?

Anyway, these are all just learning experiences....and what I figured would be a race I would complete in 5:45 to 6 hours...ended up taking me 7 hours!!!  But on the bright side...I had some triumphs:

(1) This was the hardest race swim I had ever done!  The water was VERY choppy and there was only a few different start times (pro, men, then women).  I only got punched in the head ONCE...and all the water I drank was not pool or ocean water...but FRESH water.  DELICIOUS (and refreshing).

(2) I didn't have any stomach cramping or related issues AT ALL.  That is the first endurance race I have ever done where I was not pre-occupied with going to the bathroom the entire time (so maybe THAT is why I was slower!).

(3) ZERO chafing.  ZERO.  Honestly...unless you have been chafed from a race before..you have no idea what a victory that is.  It only took me about five years to get that right!

(4) It takes a lot of mental energy and focus to complete a race when (a) you have bonked because you were an idiot and (b) your shoulder and ass cheek feel like they want to fall off...and I NEED those body parts.  Well, at least one of them. But yeah...that was all interesting to battle through.

***

Alas, lessons learned and triumphs aside, my elephant is still with me.  I don't know if that means I am still on the plane or mid-free fall.  I just know I am going to do another race...I am going to skydive with elephants.  And I am never, ever trying to sprint a 1/2 IM ever, ever again.

Windows

It's an interesting feeling to look out my window at Lake Taupo.  I should have just swum 2.4 miles (or more with my zigzagging) in it.  I should be doing a 112 mile bike ride.  I should be trying to save my legs for a marathon.

But I'm looking out a window.

It's hard to explain the feeling.  I just spent a full year mentally preparing for one day.  This day.  March 3rd, 2012.  I was supposed to learn some lesson today, about myself, about my limits, about what drives me.  There have been countless hours of training.  Injuries.  Doubts.  Fears.  Epiphanies.  Hope.  All tied up into one day.  This day.

But I'm looking out a window.

When I think about the conversations to come...the donations I raised...the pats on the back...the "I understands" the "That sucks" conversations...I don't feel anything.  I don't yet know how to respond to those.  What do I say?

I looked out a window?

There is a lesson here.  I got what I came for.  I'm not learning it as I drink lake water.  Or as my legs burn with fatigue.  Or as I cramp on a run.

My lesson is about perspective. And patience.  And peace.  And grand schemes.

And about a window.

Today was not my day to do Ironman.  My day WILL come.  I know this.  I FEEL this.  I BELIEVE this.  And if nothing else, my desire is stronger.  Harder.  Deeper than ever before.

I'm not looking out at Lake Taupo, through a window, for nothing.  There are countless ways to learn what it means to be an Ironman.

The next step of my journey is beginning.

By looking out a window.

What Is By What Isn't

It's often hard to define what something is, but you sure as Hell know what it isn't.  For example, it's hard to put your finger exactly on what love is or what freedom is...but you know love isn't getting kicked in the balls, and freedom isn't, well, that isn't getting kicked in the balls, either.  You know, come to think of it, getting kicked in the balls, really only has two uses in life.  A great defense if some guy is about to rape you...and a perfect analogy for what things aren't.

Anyway, maybe I don't know EXACTLY what good pool etiquette is.  But over the past week, I certainly have experienced what it isn't.

The Belly Rubber


Typically, in pools, there is a lane line.  It's plastic.  It separates one lane from another.  And, in theory, its very existence screams in a Gandalfian kind of way "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"  Why don't people ever listen to Gandalf?

One guy, we'll call him The Belly Rubber, was doing the backstroke "in his lane," but not being a very talented swimmer, or because his hand was magnetically drawn to my stomach, kept, it seemed, trying to get a genie to come out of my ass by continuously rubbing my stomach with his stroke (perfect term)  as we passed each other.  Seeing as I don't have a genie inside of any of my bodily orifices,  I guess the joke was on him.

I guess.

But, you know, that old saying is true.  Rub my belly once while doing the backstroke by crossing under the lane line shame on you.  Rub my belly twice while doing the backstroke by crossing under the lane line...I'm calling Chris Hansen.  So, after this happened a few times, I moved over.

Air Hugger

Another man, we'll call him Air Hugger, was doing freestyle "in his lane," but couldn't put his arm directly back in the water while he did his freestyle stroke.  Oh no.  He liked to come all the way out to the side, over the aforementioned lane line and into my lane, like he was hugging the air.  For thirty minutes I kept dodging him and dodging him...and wouldn't you know it, right before I got out of the pool, I stopped paying attention, and our arms ran into each other, in some sort of Lambada of the elbows.  Well, once our forbidden dance was over, we both stopped and stared at each other across the lane line.  And he had the AUDACITY to tell me to watch where I was going!

Sage advice.  Jerkoff.

Stupid Bitch and Stupid Bitchier

But my favorite moment of the past few weeks has to be with my two new favorite people in the world, Stupid Bitch and Stupid Bitchier.

Sometimes, when the pool is full, you have to share your lane.  So, instead of going up and back, and up and back, and up and back, (again and again and again and again...it is really fun, let me tell you) in your own Lane A, you end up having to circle...which means you go up in Lane A, and back in Lane B.  None of this is very interesting, but it is pertinent to the story.

Normally, when you have to circle, everyone in said circle has to agree, the two people in the pool as well as the third person who is coming in.  This way, we all know that, yes, we will go up in Lane A and come back in Lane B.  So simple.

Well, one day, a gentleman (Stupid Bitch) decides he is going to circle without letting anyone know first.  So while minding my own business, swimming up and back in Lane A...all of the sudden...BAM.  Stupid Bitch rams right into me and we have a head-on collision.  Stunned, I doggie paddle and politely ask him "Um...what are you doing?"

His retort, "I thought we were circling."

"Um...you kind of have to say something FIRST.  So we don't...you know...run into each other."

But accidents happen.  I let it go...and continue swimming down Lane B, instead of Lane A, in circle fashion.

When I get to the end of Lane B, Stupid Bitchier is waiting for me...and she ever-so-politely goes off  on ME for a few minutes about being in HER Lane B without telling her that we were going to circle first.

I listen to what she has to say, waiting to let her know that I was just run into and I thought he told her we were going to circle.  But no...After Stupid Bitchier tears me a new asshole for daring to finish my lap in HER lane...all I manage to get out of my mouth is, "I agree with you...but in my defense..."

And she just swims off..and she doesn't stop swimming for the next thirty minutes until I leave the pool so that I never can retort.

Lovely.

So...as you can see, none of these things seem like love, freedom, or good pool etiquette to me...but they do seem awfully close to getting kicked in the balls.

Fat Pants

It was my first school-wide meeting, and I was looking for something profound to say, something memorable.  I wanted my colleagues to remember my point...what I was fighting for.  So I told everyone I worked with that I used to be fat.  And that got their attention.

***

My first real memory of being outcasted because of my weight was about in third or fourth grade.  Overall, I was lucky...although I was a fat-ass for my age, I was still good at sports and I was funny, so I was usually safe from the name calling or torments that many others my rotund-size weren't.   When I would meet new kids in new situations and one of them would call me a "fattie" or a "lard ass," I wouldn't even have to say a word...a skinny friend of mine would tell the new kid to shut up for me.  

Unfortunately, this didn't save me on a regional all-star soccer team I was on.  I didn't know anyone,  and I remember one kid in particular made fun of my "boobs" when we played shirts and skins. Comment after comment.  Tearing me down.  I got to listen to this kid talk about how much my chest jiggled when I ran.  

After a few weeks of this, I "accidentally" leg tackled him during practice.  He was lying on the ground, crying.  I was standing over him with a smirk on my "fat face."  Between his tears, he stared up at me and called me more names...but that was the last day he said anything to me about my weight.  The other kids kept commenting on what a crybaby he was...and he stopped coming to practice a few weeks later.

And we were what, 10?

***

I told my colleagues that I had broken my collarbone while biking about a year prior.   And as the weeks passed, I noticed that I had to go further and further to the right in my closet to find clothes that would fit my growing body.   I could see in their eyes that they wanted to know what connection I was making to our students.  They wanted to know what this story had to do with them.

***

I got fatter the older I got.  I still played sports.  My sense of humor didn't change.  But as I moved into my teens,  these things didn't save me anymore.  

Junior High had to be the absolute worst years of my life.  I recently moved to a new school and I knew zero people.  Those "crimes" combined with the fact that I was about thirty pounds overweight was a daily nightmare for me.  On the bus to school, skinny kids used to stick shit in my ears and make pig sounds at  me.  One Latino kid in particular (who, in my head, I nicknamed "Monkey Boy" because his lips were so chapped, it looked like he had monkey lips) bent my headphones -- the ones I listened to, to help me try ignore their comments -- in half one day...all because I weighed more than he did.  I remember at that moment, that somewhere deep inside of me, I felt something I had never felt before.  My self-pity changed into hatred....and I dreamed of ripping the shirt off of monkey boy and making him eat it.  A fuse had been born.  All I needed was a match.

***

I got a few laughs out of my colleagues when I mentioned that, since I couldn't exercise, I became resigned to wearing "my fat pants."  And I realized one day, while I squeezed into these pants, that life was all about perspective.  If the only pants I could fit into were my fat pants...then those weren't actually my fat pants at all.  They were simply my pants.

***

In high school, I had to take the bus home and walk about a mile from the bus stop to my house.  There was a kid from the water polo team who lived by me that had to do the same walk.

Every day we would walk home together.

And every day he would call me names for twenty minutes.

He didn't look at me as a person. He looked at me as a toy.  A game:  Twenty Minutes of Torment.  But I respected him because at least I knew where I stood.

Some people were nice to me in front of teachers or other friends...but when we were alone, they would throw stuff at me or hit me or push me into walls when no one was looking.  Even at 14 or 15, I had little respect for people who were too afraid to show their true colors in front of everyone else.  It made me distrust a lot of people who were fake...who were phonies...Holden Caulfield had it right.

***

I ended my school-wide speech connecting my fat pants to our students.  I told my colleagues that I didn't have fat pants.  I just had pants.  And we didn't have smart students, who deserved an education, and not-smart students, who deserved our pity.  In fact, we just had students, and it wasn't up to us to classify them as being acceptable or unacceptable at all.  The fact was they were students no matter what kind of label we tried to put on them.

***

The last day I was ever made fun of for being fat in high school was after about three months into doing that twenty-minute walk with that water polo guy.  I was on the verge of losing my baby fat.  I was on the verge of looking more "normal."  But I wasn't there yet.  One more thing had to happen.

I was turning the handle on my front door and for whatever reason, the water polo guy finally supplied me with a match.  He made some comment about me being "too fat to live."  He probably didn't know that my dad had recently died. My overweight dad, I should say.

I turned around, walked up to him, and got in his face.  I told him to shut up and leave me alone and somewhere I heard a ticking.

He told me to shut my "fat mouth"...and I heard an alarm go off...and I hit him.  Right in the eye.

He fell over.

Passed out.

And I was afraid that I killed him.

He woke up a few minutes later and went home crying.  But he never bothered me again.

***

I don't fit in my fat pants anymore...at least, not right now.  But my journey has taught me one thing -- never stop fighting for what you believe in no matter what anyone else says.

Twinkie the Kid

Sugar, take this and breathe into it, she said.

I had done this before, and I knew, since she was asking, the news wasn't going to be good.

Just a real hard puff, honey.  I found myself angry at her for no reason and noticed that the nurse was out of breath after the short walk from the waiting room to the examination room.  And so was I.

She was about 5'3, probably in her mid-fifties, and to call her a "large woman" would have been a compliment.  She was wearing blue spandex, and as I sulked and wheezed behind her during our seemingly marathon-distance journey, I got to watch her butt cheeks dimple and clump together, rhythmically.  Too tired to make pleasant conversation, I was stuck just watching her and wondering why she chose those pants on this particular day, and if I was meant to be there, at that moment, to watch her ass bulge, during my dead-man-walk.

When she handed me the PVC-esque pipe to breathe into to gauge how messed up my lungs were, I watched her upper arms sway under her pink and blue floral blouse.  A collection of fat and skin gathered where her triceps should have been, so much so, that when she put her arms at her side, her shoulders flared out like an out-of-shape and pastel-clad Incredible Hulk.

I think about all these things as a distraction while I breathe in, as much as I can, and let out a puff of air.  When completed, I dutifully gaze up at my nurse looking for some sort of congratulations through my coughs:  Look at me...I can take a deep breath...without passing out.  I should win an award!

Instead, I am greeted by a furrowed brow and a Honey, don't be such a wuss.  I know your skinny-white-ass can do better than that. 

*Cough*  Excuse me? *Cough*  What was that?

I said, try it again, sweetie...


Challenged, I take an even deeper breath, let out an even stronger puff of air, and notice the little gauge on the PVC-esque pipe move a bit farther this time.

That's better, sugar.  Now take off your shirt so I can take a closer look atcha.


Exhausted, my only response is a phlegm-filled cough as I remove my shirt so she can "listen to my lungs."

MMMMMM, you work out a lot, sugar, doncha?

Getting a little uncomfortable, I hiss out a response, as best I can.  Yeah, that's why I'm here.  *Cough Hack Cough*  I got sick this last week and didn't stop training.  *Cough Cough* I took a few days off, but I guess I should have taken a few more.


Whatchu training for, honey?  What's so important to get you THIS sick?  Her question hung in the air while she puffed on her stethoscope, put her right hand on my side and then, from what felt like millimeters from my ear, whispered: Relax, sugar.  This is going to be a little...*pause* *pause* *pause*...cold.

"Relaxed" might be the opposite of what I felt.  The cool sting of the stethoscope and the smell of syrup on her breath had me flustered, and I didn't know how to answer her question exactly.   I breathed deeply so she could listen to my lungs gurgle, before replying I'm training for an Ironman and waited for the normal responses:

• Is that in Hawaii? 
• Wow, I can't even run a mile.
• I've run a 5K before!
• What order do you do that in?

...some of the ones I hear the most.  But the nurse didn't say any of these things.  She just kept listening to my lungs and then slowly walked in front of me.  She had what I can only classify as "a look" in her eyes and then asked:

Are you good?

What do you mean?

Sugar, are you any good?

Virus or Cream Filled?

And I paused, again stumped, and stared off at an evil-looking, cartooned flu virus on the wall.  He had a cowboy hat and spurs, and looked to be from about 1983.  It kind of reminded me of Twinkie the Kid, but with a virus-cream filling.  I glossed over the tips for staying healthy before I replied:  Well, I'm not going to win...but I'm pretty good for even trying, I suppose.


I suppose.  Well, the doctor will be in to see you in a second.  Try to get some rest...and sugar?


Yeah?


Remember why you're here.


And she closed the door behind her.

The Crazy Shit People Say

While most people were hanging with family and/or BBQing on July 4th, I decided to take the opportunity to do some fundraising. I'm trying to raise nearly $9,500 for LLS cancer research, and the gf suggested we try to get donations for Mardi Gras beads.

Mardi Gras beads? I wondered. Are people going to flash us?

In retrospect...that would have been much less horrific. Overall, most people were very nice while we walked around and asked if they wanted to donate in exchange for cheap-ass beads (or cheap ass-beads, depending on the person, I guess).

On the other hand, some people had crazy shit to say in retort to our requests for donations. Here are some of my favorites, in no particular order:



My Top Ten Favorite Things People Said in Response to "Would you like to donate $1.00 for Cancer Research in Exchange for a Necklace?" (I have also added what I would have liked to have said in return.)

10. So, are you going to show me your junk?

Response: You see, you're just not certain how this works. I don't give you a necklace AND show you my junk. You either need to show me YOUR junk or you have to give me a necklace to see mine. Idiot.


9. You know. Anyone can put on a shirt and say they are raising money for cancer.

Response: You're right, dipshit. Anyone can put on pants, too.


8. You have any weed?

Response: Nope. Just necklaces. You can try smoking them if you want to, I guess.


7. Do these necklaces really cure cancer?

Response: Getting all literal on me and shit, aren't you? Basically, you give me a $1.00, and I donate it for you. Hopefully, with that money, a cure is found. But, no, brainiac...the necklaces aren't a magic elixir.


6. Do I have to show you my tits like in New Orleans?

Response: (a) No. (b) You're a guy. (c) No.


5. Do you work for the police?

Response: Yes. This is an undercover sting. And you are being arrested. For being stupid.


4. (While pulling money out of his pants) I don't have any money. I left it in my car.

Response: David Copperfield you are not!


3. Do you have an ATM machine?

Response: Yes. I carry two bags. One with necklaces. One with an ATM machine. Do you remember your PIN, moron?


2. You look familiar. Do you know my cousin, Tito. He lives in Chula Vista. Brown hair. Kind of a jerk.

Response: Do you know his SSN? That might help.


1. Yes! I would.

Response: Thank you!

Laughter Yoga, The Joke's on Me.

It's true. I will try (almost) anything once. So, when it was suggested that I try something called "Laughter Yoga," that's right, "Laughter Yoga," I just couldn't resist.

I think it's really one of those things you have to experience to truly understand the depth of its absurdity, but to put it simply, it was crazy! Personally, I went in being completely ready to poke fun at the experience and internally mock everyone there. I figured if nothing else, it would give me something to write about, too. Well, I did poke fun; I mocked, but underneath it all, there was something in it...so, in a way, the joke was on me.

In sum, a group of adults get together to make fools of themselves in public, with about an hour of fake (and sometimes real) laughing in a circle...and there is absolutely no yoga involved whatsoever. If you don't believe me, look here. This is real. I promise. I did this. Willingly.

What kinds of things did I do while I was there:

I had to talk in emotional gibberish to a person who I had never met before.
I played laughter bumper cars.
I had to make crazy animal sounds.
I had to take (imaginary) laughter pills that made me say "hee" or "haw."
I had to end every exercise by doing a chant of "Very good, very good, YAY!"
I had to tell people that they were amazing...and if someone told me I was amazing, I had to say "Thank you."
And throughout it all, I had to be constantly fake laughing...this was part of the deal. Always. Hee Hee. Haw Haw. The entire time.

Here's the kicker.

There were moments when this laughter wasn't fake. Even though I felt completely out of my element, even though I felt ridiculously vulnerable because I had to take the stick out of my ass and act like a five-year-old, in public, around people I didn't know..there were these moments where I...perish the thought...let go and actually was truly and honestly laughing. And probably the most I had laughed in a really long time, too.

Would I want to invite these people over to my house for dinner? HELLLLL no. But what I thought would be a complete waste of time really wasn't.

I probably won't go back. I think it's one of those situation where it isn't you, Laughter Yoga; it's me. But I'm glad I went, though...and, if only for one hour, felt what it was like to be a kid again. A crazy, psychotic kid on acid, but a kid nevertheless.

If you need a laugh, and can stand making a fool out of yourself in front of others (a natural gift of mine), I say, give it a try.

The Day I Lost My Virginity

(Please note: This blog has been slightly modified to protect the innocent [me] and to make sure that I don't get any more letters from lawyers about its veracity.)

When I was in high school, I had my first "serious" girlfriend...and I haven't spoken to her in about 15 years...But her existence has made a certain part of my life slightly...confusing.

In college, when topics turned to sex, and who had had sex and how many times this sex had been had...my response was always a little off. I was uncertain if I was still a virgin or not. This led to many conversations about what virginity meant...and how a man loses his virginity.

Does losing your virginity mean "oral" or "vaginal" sex?

Does losing your virginity mean "inserting" your phallus into another person?

Or

Does losing your virginity mean you have to "finish," as it were, what you started?

******

Today, I fulfilled my end of a bargain. I agreed, as some of you well know, to accept a dare from the person (or people) that donated the most money to my LLS fund. The dare that I ended up having to fulfill was having a colonic.

I ended going to a place I would like to deem The House of the Devil.

And from the moment I entered the doors...something didn't smell right.

******

You have to finish!

No...you just have to insert.

Dude, don't be an idiot. It isn't sex if you don't cum.

******

I was greeted with a "Hey, Bob, how are you?" by the owner and/or manager of The House of the Devil.

"I'm Mark" I astutely retorted.

"No, you're Bob." the manager replies.

And wouldn't you know it...because of my nerves, I actually had to think about if maybe she was right. Am I Bob? I briefly think. Nope...

"Sorry...I'm Mark. I'm here for my 11 AM appointment."

"Have you been here before?"

"No."

"We haven't met?"

And again...this makes me think about things I know can't possibly be true. Was I living a Fight Club-esque alter ego? Did I go by the name Bob in a subconscious stupor and get weekly colonics without even knowing it??? "No. We have never met."

"I must be looking at the wrong day on my calendar." And she leaves to go check her appointment book. The second she leaves, the office doors open behind me, and a 6'5" BEHEMOTH enters the room.

This, I think, is Bob.

Bob sits down across the room...and he won't stop looking at me....and this is getting uncomfortable. I try to ignore him.

"Wow."

That's all he says. He says "Wow."

WTF is going on in here? I now acknowledge that he is looking at me.

"This is the first time I have ever seen another guy in here."

Bob is clearly in his mid to late 40s, weighs about 300 lbs, and is balding. I now hate the manager. "Really?"

As I say this, the manager enters the room. "Ohhhhhhhhh, Mark, here's Bob."

Yeah, lady, I know. I have already been introduced to Andre the Giant, fuck you very much.

"Mark, thanks for making me feel normal" states Bob as he walks off to go have poop flushed from his ass. I think about his statement as I stare at a questionnaire asking how many times a day I have a bowel movement.

"No problem, Bob."

A feeling of hate starts crawling into my mind for the people who donated the most to my cause. I feeling of hate and revenge.

*****

Is a woman still a virgin if she doesn't cum?

No...that's stupid.

So, it's different for a guy?

Well...

******

I didn't know much about colonics before I went into The House of the Devil. I figured it would be best if I didn't know...and I was right.

The only thing I did know I learned from the gf. She said it was all very private. There is a curtain between you and the "Poop Releaser Person" (not the official title). Also, you "insert" the "small" "device" "into" yourself.

Of all the things I learned today...one of the most important is that I discovered the gf is a sick and twisted liar.

*****

So, he's still a virgin.

No...he's not.

*****

I am told to go into the bathroom, remove my clothes, and put on a green hospital-like gown. I don't know what to expect when I go into the "Poop Release Room" (again, not the official title)...but I assumed that the woman that would do the "procedure" would be old, fat, and have a strange affection for poo.

I was wrong.

I go into the "Poop Release Room" and I am greeted by a HOT and YOUNG model. This is the type of woman who, if you saw her on the street, would make you stop in your tracks. She is visually stunning. She is young, slender, and has a strange affection for poo. I really know how to call 'em!

She asks me to get up on to a table and turn to my side. She wants me to bend my legs into the fetal position so that she can insert the "device" into me.

I think back to what the gf said. "Don't I insert it myself?"

"Well, you can put your fingers on it...but I need to 'guide it in'"

"Ummm..."

"Some people find this part..." as she reaches for some KY "to be a little uncomfortable.

"You don't say."

"Once I insert it into your rectum...I need to get it past your sphincter muscle..."

Why am I having a conversation that involves the words "rectum" and "sphincter"

"...you really are going to have to just relax the best you can. Just breathe and relax."

"Ummm..."

"So go ahead and turn over on your side. Just breathe and relax."

And I do it. I don't know why I do it. But I did. I turned to my side. She takes her hands and separates my butt cheeks. Seriously...this drop-dead gorgeous woman is separating my butt cheeks...I should be stoked. This should be hot.

But the cold, cold KY Jelly that she fingers onto my butt hole somehow detracts from the moment for some reason.

"OK" (she sounds like she is gloating) "BREATHE"

And she put it in. It kept going and going. Luckily, already in the fetal position, my body had nowhere to go. I was helpless.

"You're a little tight. Try to relax."

Relax? Relax? It seemed like she was shoving "the device" into my butt for an hour. Did she not use enough KY? If I cough, will this thing come out of my mouth?

And just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, she says "OK...now, roll onto your back....SLOWLY."

I have been connected to "the machine."

She turns it on and it starts to drip water into my bowels. And it felt HORRIBLE. Like when you are in public, and you feel like you have to pass gas, but you train yourself to hold it in. Even worse, think about those times when it feels like you need a bathroom THAT SECOND...imagine feeling that way, constantly, for over half an hour...

"That feeling is just gas" she is beaming. "It's normal."

To make matters worse, this chick keeps rubbing my stomach to help move the water around. Constantly inches away from my penis....but...I don't find this sexual at all.

When the pressure gets too high, meaning that there is so much water inside my bowels that I feel like I am going to burst, I have her release the water through "the device" and into "the machine." At this point, you get to watch everything that is flushing out of you. The "Poop Girl" is mesmerized by "the machine." She keeps commenting on the color, density, and amount of "fecal matter" that is streaming by. Freaky. She is hot....but freaky.

She then, and I shit you not...this is true, she takes out a hand-held, vibrating massager and starts rubbing my stomach with that, too. She switches back and forth from massaging me with her hands and massaging me this vibrator. To top this off, the vibrator does periodically keep hitting you know what.

So, let me recap: I am almost completely naked. This chick is amazingly gorgeous. She has put her hands all over my butt and stomach. And now, she is using a vibrator that is occasionally stimulating my privates.

And I was nowhere NEAR turned on. All I wanted to do was poop.

*****

Guys...guys. Do you even know what sex is?

*****

What was supposed to be an hour session, ended early. I couldn't take the ebb and flow of the water into and out of my colon any longer. I let her know that I wanted to finish a little early...and a glow came over her.

"OK...no problem. That is completely natural the first time. We just have to take 'the device' back out. Take a deep breath."

And my life flashed before my eyes. She kept pulling...and pulling...and I let out a YELP as "the device" finally left my body.

I went to the bathroom and "fully released" the rest of "the fluid" into a toilet, like a normal person. I got my clothes on, went back into the "Poop Release Room" and she was gone.

The woman who had taken my virginity had left. For lunch.

Nothing like a little fecal matter to really get that appetite going.

*****

It may have taken my 32 years, but I now know for sure. It doesn't have to do with cumming. It doesn't have to do with "breaking a plane." It has to do with intent.

I lost my virginity in high school. I was simply raped today.

Poop in All the Wrong Places

Sometimes, when Maggie the Pug gets upset and/or vindictive, she poops in the house. Usually right in front of my bathroom because I am the one who disciplines her when she is being a naughty little puggy. It's ok...she's a dog and is merely expressing her feelings. It just sucks because sometimes I step in it (barefoot), and if it's been there a few hours, it can stink up an entire room. That little dog can pack quite a punch!

***


Two nights ago, while we were going to bed, I stopped off in my bathroom adjacent to our bedroom to wash my face. I was taken aback because our shower, which is about 3' x 3' with about a 5" lip, was completely filled with clear water.

I stuck my head out of the bathroom and said: Um, I think we have a bit of a problem, here.

T-, annoyed and tired, replies: What is it?

Me: I think there is water coming up out of our drain. Our shower is completely filled.

T-: It's probably just clogged. Don't worry about it.

Me: Hmmm...I don't know, this seems a little worse than a clog...and I just took a shower a few hours ago, and it drained fine.

T-: It's nothing. Just go to sleep.

Me: OOOOOOOkkkkk...

The next morning, the shower was empty...maybe she was right. Maybe she was...

***

Last night, we were BBQing. At one point, after about three glasses of water and multiple adult beverages and about a pound of carne asada, spanish rice, and beans, (you know, a dinner equating to like one gigantic laxative) I needed to excuse myself to use the facilities. I went back to our room, and it smelled like Maggie had gone to the bathroom.

That's weird, I didn't discipline her at all today...hmmm...

So I start looking around my room for her "gift," and couldn't find anything. I look in the bathroom, and notice that the shower is filled again. This time with brown water. Brown-shit-smelling water.





















I run out of the bathroom, towards the front of the house, but feel like the smell has beaten me there. I peep my head in the other bathroom to find this:





















T-, it appears, was wrong. And this is the nastiest, foulest smelling "I told you so" ever.

***

I'm relieved that Maggie is not the culprit of any of the smells eminating from the house, but a little upset that I have gallons of sewage sitting in my bathrooms. I am also a little upset because I really, really, really need to go, but we are instructed by the plumber to not use the water until he can get there (early the next morning).

That's fine, I think, I can wait until tomorrow.

***

We end up having to sleep in our living room because our bedroom smells like an asshole. At about 5:00 AM, Maggie wakes me up so SHE can go to the bathroom outside, and I have a terrible feeling. That special feeling. You know the feeling I'm talking about, in my stomach.

I try to tell myself to go back to sleep...but watching my dog go gives me this strange feeling of jealousy. That lucky bitch! She just trots outside and takes a dump, yet I'm stuck here holding it in...inside a house that smells like crap!

I come back in and start pacing around my living room. I really have to go and have the following options:

(1) Use my seemingly working toilets and flush even though I have been told not to.
(2) Use my seemingly working toilets and not flush. The entire house smells like poop anyway.
(3) Follow Maggie's lead and go outside.
(4) Just go in the bathtub.
(5) Hold it and try to go back to sleep.

Against every man instinct inside of me, I decide to just hold it in.

***

I had heard of night sweats before...but this technically was morning, and caused by not being able to go to the bathroom...so I guess I had morning-holding-my-poop-in-sweats. I just tossed and turned and tried to think of anything else that I could. The plumber was supposed to be coming first thing in the morning, and I felt like I could wait this out.

By 7:00, this wait was over. And I lost.

I decided to drive over to the Starbucks a couple miles from my house, buy some coffee, and use their facilities. Heck, I was a paying customer!

I go in, do my business, and, of course, there is no toilet paper. Awesome.

At this moment, I think we all have a little MacGyver inside of us, and I start scanning the room, What can I use...and are there any paperclips I can somehow involve?

I see a door, hobble over to it, it is thankfully unlocked, and find some supplies. Crisis averted!

***

What have I learned? A few things, I guess:

(1) When you see clear water filling up your shower, don't ignore it, even if told to do so;
(2) Don't eat tons of Mexican food and drink a lot of beer if there is even a chance your bathroom will not be working; and
(3) Sewage really doesn't smell good. At all.

The Sound of (Fart-Filled) Silence

She came into the yoga studio five minutes after the class started and looked discombobulated. She was frumpy and frizzy, and wore a gray, baggy sweatshirt that hung loosely to her body, the right side descending off her shoulder. Her black sweatpants were ratted and torn and only came down to right below her knees.

Also, as I would find out later, she liked to fart. In public.

I'm sorry, this is my first time here, she confessed to the yoga instructor, who was giving her a stern look for coming into the class late.

That's ok, just quietly find a spot. There is one. Right there.

This spot was right behind me.

***

During one of our first exercises, while we were on our backs, the yoga instructor told us to stretch our hands and legs out, elongating our spines. It was at this moment that I realized that the frumpy-frizzy lady not only sat behind me, but was only inches away from my mat. As I stretched my arms beyond my head, I felt her calves and noticed that her feet were bookending my ears. Regardless of the fact that there was plenty of room NOT to be in my personal space, you would think this would have made her uncomfortable.

Well. It didn't.

I quickly retracted my arms like I had just been shocked by a light socket. She didn't move. I turned and whispered Sorry; she just slightly tilted her head up and released a dry smile.

That's not normal, I thought, and I quietly (and quickly) got up and slid my yoga mat forward. While I did, I heard a loud, sticky sound, like someone was pulling some tape off a piece of construction paper. I figured my mat had managed to become cemented to the studio floor. I was wrong.

***

Later, we were still stretching our backs. The instructor told us to pull our right knees up to our chests, and I hear a small raspberry sound, right behind my head. I ignored it. No, it couldn't be.

We were then instructed to lower our right legs back down, and pull our left legs to our chests. I heard a small raspberry sound again. Wait. Is she???

Finally, we were told to pull both legs in, and then there was no mistaking it. The frumpy-frizzy lady, whose butt was inches away from my head, let out a gigantic, cleansing, double-butt-cheek-flapping fart. In a otherwise perfectly quiet yoga studio.

Of course, it was hard to tell where this sound came from, but being so loud, everyone in the studio looked in our direction. It took every ounce of maturity in my body not to say "Seriously, it was her!!" Instead, I just froze motionless. Both knees into my chest. Trying with all my might not to burst out laughing.

***

Next, we had to get onto our hands and knees, and lower and raise our spines (cat-cow). I just kept thinking about how this lady just farted on my head, and had to feign looks of exasperation on my face so the frumpy-frizzy lady wouldn't see me laughing at her in the mirror that was in front of both of us in the studio.

But I swear, during this movement, every few seconds, I would hear little gusts of air behind me, and I just started laughing. I couldn't hold it in. Clearly, neither could she!

***

Eventually, she ran out of gas.

The class ended, and she went up to the instructor and thanked her for running a great session. She slumped her way back out of the studio. Sweatshirt still over shoulder. Black sweatpants still old and overused. Maybe even more so now.

And I wanted to thank her...for the best laugh I had had in months.

Excuse Me Miss, You Are Violating My Underwear

You know those moments when time speeds around you, but all actions in your line of sight are moving in slow motion? I got to experience that while a fifty-year-old woman fingered my underwear.

No. I wasn't wearing them at the time.

I was sitting on a plane, on the way to Washington. I was buckled in, headphones on, my don't-even-think-about-asking-me-if-I-want-peanuts look on my face. We were going to take off in just a few minutes.

*nudge* *nudge-nudge*

I am awakened from my tunnel vision by the gf, who mouths something that I can't understand through my headphone-covered ears. It looks like she mouthed Isn't tits your bag?

While they are, I couldn't figure out for the life of me why she was bringing this up...so I removed my headphones.

Isn't that your bag?

Wow. That made a lot more sense...but I still didn't really understand, until I followed her gaze to the woman sitting two rows ahead of me, who was pulling my suitcase down from the overhead compartment.

I didn't say anything because I was certain, CERTAIN, that she would figure her mistake out at any moment...and, embarrassed, return my bag, and go back to her seat.

I didn't take into account that she was a fucking idiot, though. My bad.

She takes my bag all the way down to her seat, and starts to unzip it. This, I think, is a little odd.

Ma'am I query...and she ignores me through her unzipping.

Ma'am I say louder, as she reaches into my bag.

MA'AM I yell as the entire plane now watches us. I don't think that is your bag.

I am just looking for my bag and she slowly starts pulling my underwear out of my suitcase.

The flight attendant now comes over and asks me if anything was wrong. Besides the fact that some lady I had never met before was thumbing through the pee hole of my boxers in the middle of a crowded plane...no, nothing was wrong.

Ma'am, can you please put my bag back? That isn't yours, I request. She looks over, underwear dangling from her fingers, a confused look on her face, and it seems to finally click: That isn't her bag.

She takes a quick whiff of my underwear, puts them back in the bag, zips it back up, and puts it back into the overhead compartment.

NOW, this is when it starts to get weird.

The flight attendant says "Sir, you might want to check your bag. She might have put something in there." And all of the sudden I see myself getting arrested for felony drug charges as I plead, "No, seriously, that isn't my heroin. The crazy underwear lady put that in my boxers!" I guess that wouldn't go over too well.

So, I get up, bring my bag back down, and open it back up right behind her. I toss my clothes around for a few seconds, don't find anything, and exclaim, Hey, where did my $10,000 go? The entire section of the plane starts laughing...except the crazy underwear lady. She starts staring at me like I am looking in HER bag and says I don't know where they put my bag. Do you have my bag?

The flight attendant has to come over and ask her if she checked her bag, where she left it, etc...and she is clearly confused. I shit you not, moments later, they make an announcement that someone left his/her bag at the front of the plane.

I put my (and this is important) BLACK AND GRAY suitcase back into the overhead compartment while she goes to retrieve what is hopefully her suitcase. It was hers. It was also red, and looked nothing like mine! Everyone in the entire section of the plane is looking at me and mouthing "What the fuck is wrong with her?" And I mouth back "Stanford grad?"

The rest of the flight goes off without a hitch, until we land, when she once AGAIN starts to go for my bag. Luckily, the flight attendant comes over, and tells her that the suitcase is not hers.

She walked away, out of my life, never to see me, or my underwear, ever again.

My Speech at Darron's Wedding.

When I told my college students I was going to my best friend’s wedding this weekend, they asked how long we had been friends. I had to stop and pause and think about the gravity of that statement. My first instinct was to say 10 years…then maybe 15…but as I thought back, I realized that it has been since 7th grade. 1988. So 23 years. Their eyes widened and I felt like we were really sharing a deep and powerful moment; a pause fell over the class…until one of my students said “Dude that is longer than I’ve been alive. You’re REALLY old.” Don’t worry…I’m going to fail his ass.

Anyway, 23 years is a long time to get to know someone, really know someone…and as Pam has already noticed, and is sure to continue to find out over the course of their marriage, there truly are two sides to Darron Evans. Let me explain.

Our first memories of meeting each other are tellingly different. I remember us meeting because our 7th grade history teacher had us exchange word searches that we created. I mistakenly forgot to put one of the words to find into the actual puzzle, so apparently he and his mom spent all night looking for something that wasn’t there. His first memory of me is in our PE class…remember, this was 1988…so we had VERY short shorts. So really, Darron’s first memory of me is of ogling my legs. So, Pam, this first memory demonstrates two things about Darron: His level of dedication and ability to forgive with the crossword puzzle…and from the PE class: his appreciation of nice legs.

A necessary attribute of a significant other, is that he/she needs to be there for you…and I think Darron does that. For example, as some of you may know there is this game called The Sims. The Sims, in short, is a game where you recreate life. You can create a character of yourself that goes to work or parties, whatever you want, and it must sleep and eats like a real person, or this character can die. It becomes a virtual representation of you. Anyway, at one point after college, I was having some serious problems with a roommate of mine; his name was Marty. Marty was a mean, nasty person, who was a drug addict, stole a bunch of my stuff, and refused to move out for a long time. When I told Darron of this issue, he, of course, did what any normal person would do. He went to his Sims game, and created a virtual pool with some virtual stairs. He then created a virtual Marty to walk into the virtual pool with the virtual stairs...and then removed the virtual stairs that led out of the virtual pool. So virtual Marty walked back and forth and back and forth until he died...and a virtual tombstone was created. So, Pam, this demonstrates Darron’s willingness to protect the honor of those he loves, which is a very important quality in a husband. Unfortunately, this may also mean he is a psychopath.

I understand that you two are going to Hawaii for your honeymoon. That’s great…and I’m positive that you two are going to have an amazing time. Just be careful if you go into the ocean while you are there…Darron seems to bring a bit of bad luck for his companions. One time, Darron and I were out in the ocean with my friend Armando, who Darron didn’t know very well at all. Unfortunately, Armando got stung in the face by a jellyfish. While we all raced to get out of the water, Darron turns to me and asks with hope in his eyes like a kid on Christmas morning “Aren’t we supposed to pee on it?” I respond “Yeah, but that’s his face…so…that’s not going to happen.” As we caught up to Armando, who is writhing in pain on the beach, and I’m about to ask him how he’s doing…Darron of course tactfully blurts out “So, did you want us to pee on it?" Oddly, he said no.

Not to mention, there was the time that Darron and I were snorkeling in Maui, looking at some sea turtles and I got stung all up and down my arm and side. I told Darron what happened and instantly swam to shore, thinking the entire time: “I’m going to punch him in the mouth if he asks to pee on it.” When I got to shore, I painfully turned around, and noticed that Darron was STILL snorkeling and thought something I never thought I would ever, ever think: “Hey…why doesn’t Darron want to pee on me?” So, Pam, these two stories demonstrate important information about Darron. First, we can interpret his actions when I got stung as showing true bravery because he was able to swim undistracted by the fear of jellyfish; not to mention, I discovered that being ignored by Darron is truly a badge of honor. Clearly, he only offers to pee on people he doesn’t really care about. On the other hand, I really think these stories could also show that Darron can be kind of an ass. I really could have died man…where were you?

This of course all leads up to Darron and me meeting you, Pam. The two of us, sitting around bored one day, looking for something to do probably after a long, crazy night of eating two-large pizzas, playing chess, and watching Lord of the Rings for the tenth time. Yes…we were some VERY eligible bachelors…and we just couldn’t understand why we didn’t have girlfriends.

So, I decided to post an ad on Craigslist looking for two ladies who wanted to hang out with me, and a vengeful psychotic, who likes to pee on people’s faces and ogle the legs of young boys. (I didn’t write that in the ad, but it was definitely implied.) Pam and a friend of hers (the infamous "Willow") responded to our ad...and the second we left that double date, Darron asked and he asked and he asked if it was ok for him to call Pam or if I wanted to. I still remember that moment as we walked back to our car…I thought to myself: “Wow, it’s like he is in love with her or something.” And I remember thinking that in all our years together, and all we had been through, I had never seen him like that.

The reason I know Pam and Darron are such a great pair is because, all jokes aside, he is by far the most intelligent, kindest, giving person I have ever known. He doesn’t talk the talk…he walks the walk…he lives a life that demonstrates a true desire for social change and equality. I think about all the lives he has touched as a teacher, and I am in awe at his passion and desire to make this world not just a better place for himself, but a fairer place for all. And what I notice about him when he is with Pam, is that she somehow takes the two sides of Darron and accentuates the positives while loving the quirks even more than I do.

Yes, I have known the two sides of Darron for longer than many of my students have been alive. This is true. But time is relative and we should keep in mind the old Japanese proverb that states “When 95% of the journey is over, you are only half way there.” So I, for one, am excited to see Pam and Darron continue to grow together, even grow older together no matter where they are in their journey with just a small a piece of advice… Never, ever get stung by a jellyfish when sea turtles are around...because he might leave you to die.

Cheers to Darron and Pam!

Can A Guy Just Get a Normal Massage for Once?

We left dinner and the flashing lights to our left got our attention.

MASSAGE it blinked. MASSAGE it flashed with rainbow colors. Who were we to argue?

We went in, and surprisingly, they had instant openings? At 7? On a Saturday night? I guess we just got lucky...

They put us in a couple's room. Asked us to remove our clothes...and then the female Japanese manager asked as she slowly closed the door...

"You rike-a hard massag-e? Media' massag-e? O' sof' massag-e?"

That's an odd question I think as I respond "Hard, I guess?"

And then the fun began.

***

When we first got into the room, I got on my table and noticed that the headrest was too low for my neck and completely not adjustable. T's table was more well-suited for my body type.

"You want to switch?" as she rolls her eyes. She knows that I have massage issues, and she knew my dislike of the headrest was a little bit of my crazy coming out.

"Is that ok?"

So we switch tables, and I try to adjust my headrest that was working just fine for T.

I adjust it. It falls.

I adjust it. It falls.

I adjust it. CLANK! A huge screw falls out of the headrest and onto the floor. I look over at T in absolute fear as I have just broken the fucking massage table headrest! I am already having a slight mental breakdown because I really don't like massages and the fact that I have just broken the table is doing NOTHING to calm my fears.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH is her retort.

"Thanks!" I scowl as I find the screw, and hurriedly try to insert it back into the table as I fear the masseuses will be coming in any moment. CLANK!!!! again.

BAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAAH is all I hear as I fumble around, panicking, looking for the damn screw.

I pick the screw back up and shove it back into the headrest. The screw stays in this time, but the headrest falls limply along the table. The instructions are attached to the headrest still...and I feel a moment of relief.

Directions! I'll just follow the directions! I can do this!

But my moment of relief is taken away from me as I get to step three, the final step, and the headrest still lies limply on its side.

"Did you BAHAHAHHAHAHAH want to BAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA switch back?"

The broken and battered headrest in hand and my tail between my legs, I respond, again, "Is that ok?"

We scurry our half-naked bodies back across the room, and as soon as we get under the covers...KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. The masseuses come in and T straight lies to them:

"Um, there seems to be something wrong with this headrest. It's not working for some reason."

The two girls try to work on it for a moment...and then go get the Japanese manager. She works on it for a few minutes, too...and emphatically apologizes and asks if we would be ok with a new room.

We tell them its ok...and the "massage" begins.

***

I found a number of things odd about this massage. Here they are in no particular order:

(1) My masseuse was wearing a lot of beads on her shirt, so every time she would lean over to do something, her beads would bang into my eyes or drop into my mouth. Not very relaxing.

(2) It wasn't hard..unless you count the part where my masseuse was at the head of the massage table and kept ramming my head. RAMMING my head with her pelvis. For some reason, I think she found it relaxing? to massage my lower back from four feet away...rendering my cranium the only way she could reach her area of desire.

(3) Speaking of desire, did I mention she tried to rape me yet? Oh. I didn't? Because that bitch fucking tried to rape me.

(4) You know when you get yourself in those situations where hypothetically your mom was supposed to say "At least he was wearing clean underwear when X?" Well, I had not planned to be at a massage parlour, so I was wearing my snow-flaked-ladened Family Guy underwear that has a gigantic "I've Been Naughty" quote on them. Excellent.

(5) Did I not fully explain number 3 yet? Oh, I didn't? Let me explain. In any massage I've ever had, the masseuse tends to not touch my boxers in anyway, shape or form. This seems to be qualified as a "no touch" zone. For all the reasons I dislike massage, the "no touch zone" at least gives me some semblance of security. This lady, at various points during the massage, seemed to look at my boxers as some sort of wrapping paper. She pulled my boxes down past my crack, while, at other times, shoved my boxers INTO my crack so she could have at it. I have never had anyone, ever, shove my underwear INTO my ass before. So relaxing...

(6) Did I mention she kept grazing my junk yet? Cuz she did. I wondered, initially, if she kept thinking whatever the translation for "Whoops" is in Japanese in her mind...because I hadn't had my balls handled so much since the last time my doctor checked me for a hernia. After about the fourth "accidental" swipe, and working my way through the fear that she might accidentally slip a digit in my butt with the wayward movement of her hands...I figured this was one of "those" places.

(7) I don't need to go into the biology of what happened when she eventually had me flip over to my front...but as a normal male, if someone is caressing and jostling your upper inner thighs...never quite touching...but oh-so-close-to-touching Broadway...most men (I would assume) would have some sort of physical reaction. I had said reaction. The masseuse then ensued to massage AROUND this "protruding" area, never TOUCHING but, instead, using the shape of a spade with her hands (her forefingers and thumbs touching together). I felt safer, though, because I was no longer in danger of having a digit in my rear and because T was just a few inches away from me.

***

There was no happy ending, literally or metaphorically. As we got dressed, I confided in T what had happened, hoping that she would not be angry at my reaction to the massage.

While lying on her back, she put her hand under her sheet by her stomach and pointed at the ceiling.

"Was it like this? BAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH"

"Shut it"

And then she said "My God. I was worried that lady was going to slip a digit in the entire time!"

So it wasn't only me!

We were basically both sexually assaulted, but we broke their property, too.

I guess it all evens out in the end.