It’s Not Cheating If You Pay For It


spa_massage_mastheadYesterday, I had my naked body rubbed by a strange man.

I’ve had several massages before, but the massage therapists were always female.  I didn’t specifically request females, they just always were.  I guess I fell into the assumption that the profession is largely dominated by women.  Women don’t mind being touched by other women, and men certainly don’t mind, so it just kind of works.

Yesterday, I had a massage scheduled at my salon, after my hair appointment.  I was waiting, perusing the shampoos, when a young man came up to me and asked me if I was ready.  I was a bit confused.  I had never seen this man at the salon before.  Was his only job to take me back to the massage area and introduce me to my massage therapist?  It wasn’t until we got back to the massage area that I realized he WAS the massage therapist.  Huh.  I did not see that coming.

I’m not shy.  I don’t get embarrassed easily.  The idea of a male massage therapist threw me off my game briefly, but I could deal with it.  It occurred to me, that a lot of people would not be able to take it in stride.  My husband, for one.  He’s gotten his fair share of professional massages and I know he would not be cool with another dude rubbing him down.  I wouldn’t call him homophobic, but I think physical contact, outside of a friendly hug, with another dude is pushing it for him.

I also thought of all the women who would be freaked out by this.  I have to admit that when I met Wesley (Mr. Massage Therapist) that a million thoughts ran through my head that I normally wouldn’t consider.  Did I shave my legs?  What will he think of my cellulite?  Should I leave my underwear on?  (I did.  I normally do not.  I wish I had been cool enough to go totally naked, but I just wasn’t.)  Damn.  Why didn’t I wear cuter underwear?

Of course, this wasn’t a date.  It was an appointment.  Wesley and I weren’t going to bed.  He wasn’t even buying me dinner, for crying out loud.  But still, as I stood alone in the massage room, removing my clothes, I felt a bit nervous.  I wanted to be brave.  I hung my bra from the clothing hook, in plain view.  I didn’t attempt to hide it behind the dress hanging there.  I’m a liberated woman.  Damn.  Why did I wear such a plain, generic bra?

Wesley, of course, was the consummate professional.  We chatted a bit at first and I found out he started out in sports medicine.  I stifled the urge to make any off-color comments about the situation, although that would generally be my preferred method of relieving my self-consciousness.  It only took about five minutes to forget he was a guy and just enjoy my massage.  Although, every time his hairy arm brushed my back, my mind screamed, “This man is touching you!  He’s not your husband!”  True, this is the only man in the last ten years, besides my husband, who has touched me so intimately.  But like I said, it was professional.  Again, I resisted the urge to jokingly ask him if I was getting a happy ending.  I’m actually pretty proud of my self-control here.

All in all, it was a good massage.  Not the best I’ve had, but it was decent.  I don’t have any immediate plans to go back.  I have to say, like most married women (I think), I’ve had thoughts over the years of what it would be like to be touched by a man other than my husband.  It was fine, clinical, a little scandalous, but nothing compared to cuddling up with my real man at night.

New and Improved Nose


I have known for several years that I needed to get some work done on my jacked-up nose, but it wasn’t until Jennifer Aniston and Cameron Diaz announced that they were having their deviated septums repaired that I could be bothered to do so.  The desire to end my continuous sinus pain and be able to give my husband a blow job without having to wear a Breathe Right nasal strip may also have played a part in my reasoning as well.

I feel the need to mention that I did not get any cosmetic work done.  Although, that’s not because I’m not vain enough; I just figure that if I’m laying down several grand to make the world a more beautiful place, my nose would probably be pretty far down on the list after my thighs, ass and boobs.  (Actually, I like my boobs.  But I digress.)  No, this surgery was purely for functional reasons, and thus, was covered by my health insurance.  I did try to get my ENT (Ear, Nose, and Throat) specialist, who is also a certified plastic surgeon, to slip in a little cosmetic tweaking “while she was in there” but apparently it doesn’t work that way.


A few days before surgery, I went in for all of my pre-operative paperwork and blood work.  Nothing really bothered me until they asked me my religious preference.  I told them the truth – that I’m a generic Christian – but part of me wanted to make up some elaborate post death religious rite that might be so inconvenient as to force them to try harder to resuscitate me should the unthinkable happen.  Anyway, a few needle sticks later, I was out of there.

Surgery Day

The morning of my operation, my husband brought me to the hospital at 7am so I could hang out, hungry and thirsty, and wait for them to cut me.  I got my sexy hospital gown, and Bryan and I watched “Saved by the Bell” reruns from my groovy adjustable bed.  Around 9:30am, I was wheeled down the hall to the holding room.  Let me mention that it was in this room that I should have gotten the “I don’t give a shit what you cut off” drugs but they never materialized.  I’m still a little bitter about this.  Big talk from anesthesia guy, but he never delivered.  Bastard.

Soon an orderly came in, made some chit chat and started wheeling me down to the operating room.  He asked me if this was my first surgery.  I affirmed that it was.  Then he said, and I am not making this up, “So, we’re popping your cherry today!”  Uh, excuse me?  At that point, I kind of wanted to look at the chart to see exactly what sort of procedure they had me signed up for.  Really, I’m pretty hard to offend, so I laughed it off, but I still made a mental note to check my body over for hickeys when I woke up.

The surgery itself was pretty uneventful, for me anyway.  Then again, I was dead to the world, so Dr. Lee could have had one foot on my chest and a crowbar up my nose for all I knew.  When I woke up in the recovery room, I felt like a million bucks.  Of course, I couldn’t breathe through my nose, as I was wearing a gauze mustache taped to my face and had 3 inch plastic splints up each nostril.  But still, I thought to myself, “This surgery stuff is a piece of cake.”  I would later realize that those were the drugs talking – drugs that would soon wear off.

At home, I settled into bed, propped up physically with a half dozen pillows, and propped up mentally with a healthy dose of Percocet.  I watched talk shows, I ate doughnuts.  (Nobody ever accused me of having a weak appetite, post-surgery or not.)  I spent the rest of the day dozing, mouth breathing, and having my wonderful husband waiting on me hand and foot.  Life was good.

The Aftermath

The next morning, when I woke up, I felt like I had been run over by a Mack truck and dragged for ten blocks.  Every muscle in my body screamed in agony with the least little movement.  My nose hurt, my head pounded, and I could almost hear the pain laughing at my 5 mg Percocet.  Life was not good.  I expected some nasal pain.  What I did not expect was to feel like the doctors had taken a baseball bat to my unconscious body.  I didn’t sign up for this.

The second day was better.  I was able to roll over in bed without screaming obscenities.  My nose still hurt, but it wasn’t as bad as I would have expected.  I was able to remove my gauze mustache since I was no longer leaking bloody mucus onto my 800 thread count sheets.

After a week of mouth breathing and sleeping in unnatural post-surgery positions, I was able to get my nasal splints removed!  This was a huge step because the nasal splints and accompanying overgrowth of bloody crust and boogage is what was keeping me from breathing.  (By the way, if you ever wondered if there is an official medical term for “booger”, my ENT doctor sadly informed me that there is not.)

I brought my husband along for the splint removal.  Partially for moral support and partially because I know he’s squeamish and I wanted to see if he could handle watching the procedure.  (If he passed out, I figured I might want to rethink having him in the delivery room should we ever decide to procreate.)  In Dr. Lee’s office, I settled into the patient chair while Bryan tried to disappear into the corner.  Dr. Lee came at me with 12 inch tweezers and a spelunking helmet and assured me this was not going to hurt.  I did not believe her.

As she jammed the tweezers up my nose, I felt some discomfort, but it really wasn’t that bad.  But when she pulled them out…I experienced the biggest wave of relief I’ve ever had in my life.  It did not hurt, and with the splints came a tidal wave of sinus secretions and gore.  It was AWESOME!  It was like giving birth through my nose.  Removing the second split was just as satisfying.  All of a sudden, all that pressure from having junk in a place I generally try to keep junk-free was gone.  Then Dr. Lee stuck a little vacuum up my nose and sucked out the rest of the gunk.  I can’t stress enough how fulfilling that whole experience was.  I would get the surgery again just to experience that sense of relief again.  Ok, not really, but it was almost that good.


So, now I can breathe through my nose, and that is good.  I highly recommend this surgery to all you mouth-breathers out there.  Besides the obvious medical benefits, being able to blow grape-sized clots of blood and mucus out of your nose post-surgery is pretty fucking cool.  At least, that was my favorite part.  Cheers!

Excuse Me, Stewardess? I Speak Jive.


jive_dictionaryJust like Barbara Billingsly’s helpful white character in the 1980 comedy film Airplane, I’ve often found myself in a position to translate the urban vernacular to my fellow Caucasians. (This mostly comes into play at my standardized test scoring job where I am one of the few employees under 75 years of age. Some of these kids use a lot of slang in their essays. I once had to explain to a group of senior citizens what a chickenhead was.)

I don’t have any actual street cred or anything. I did grow up in Michigan, but I’ve only been to Detroit twice. I didn’t grow up on Eight Mile. I just love rap music – the angrier the better. If I had a 40 oz. of Old English right now, I’d pour some out for Easy E.

For the record, I don’t really speak jive. Jive grew out of the jazz culture in Harlem in the 1940’s and doesn’t share much actual terminology with the slang you hear in rap music today.  But the idea is the same: develop your own language so only people of the same mindset will understand what you’re saying. It’s like a secret handshake. (But while we’re on the subject, can we bring back jive? It sounds really cool.)

Anyway, people, you shouldn’t be afraid of something just because you don’t understand it. For this reason, I’m providing a service to those who aren’t “down”. I’m translating a couple of popular hip hop songs into Uptighty Whitey Vernacular (UWV) so that the parents of the world can rest assured that their children are simply enjoying some bumping tunes and not plotting world domination. Not yet anyway.

Song: Pop, Lock and Drop It
Artist: Huey

Toot that thang up mami make it roll
[Lovely lady, shake your rear end around while dancing.]
Once you pop pop lock it for me girl get low
[When you find a comfortable position, freeze and bend your knees, getting closer to the floor.]
If your mama gave it to you baby girl let it show
[If you inherited an attractive derriere from your mother, we would like to see it.]
Once you pop lock drop it for me maybe we can roll (oh)
[Perhaps after you complete this dance, we can leave this venue and spend some time getting to know each other.]

Pop lock and drop it [8x]

[Verse 1:]
Baby Huey
Tonight it’s gon’ be some changes
[Things will change tonight.]
No acting sadity
[Do not act conceited.]
So stop acting and get it clapping
[Stop being so full of yourself and join along in the fun.]
‘Cause I’m knowing you feeling me
[I suspect you are interested in me.]
Yeah you cute
[I admit you are attractive,]
But don’t let that shit go to your head
[But I would prefer you don’t act conceited.]
‘Cause with this cutie won’t do
[If there are sexual activities you choose not to engage in with me,]
Pimping another one will
[That’s ok because I can find another woman who will.]
You prepared rocking a skirt
[You are dressed to impress tonight with a lovely skirt,]
And your heels so tall
[And sexy high heels.]
And we ain’t with none of that tricking but our bills so tall
[Although we will not fall prey to your womanly wiles, I must admit we do have quite a bit of money.]
I’ve been peeping you for a while and you’re throwing it back
[I have been watching you from afar and I suspect you have been interested in me also.]
If you looking for you balla we got dough in the back
[If you are interested in a man with a lot of money, power, and influence, I have more than you even see here.]
Look your color carmello brown
[Your skin is a rich, caramel brown color,]
And your skin so smooth
[It is smooth and beautiful.]
I’m having fantasies about what you and me can do
[I am indulging myself in sexual fantasies about you.]
And you an undercover freak
[I suspect you enjoy the kinkier forms of sexual relations.]
You probably thinking the same
[I imagine you suspect the same of me.]
I’m seeing light up on your face because you peeping my chain
[You are excited because you notice that I am displaying my wealth through my expensive jewelry.]
And I ain’t tryna put you out there as if you a freak
[Make no mistake, I’m not suggesting you are a loose or lascivious woman.]
So don’t even take it that way just say you did it for me
[Don’t worry about that. We’ll pretend you only do those kinky things with me because I am special.]
And yeah you probably roll with me ’cause it’s money in my pockets
[I imagine you will go home with me because you are interested in my wealth,]
So before then I gotta see you pop lock and drop it
[But before I take you home for some affection, I would like to see you dance a little more.]

[Chorus 1x]

[Verse 2:]
Baby Huey
I ain’t gotta be your man
[We don’t have to engage in a long term relationship,]
But I really wouldn’t mind
[Although I may be amenable to that.]
We ain’t got to talk again I’m just tryna have a time
[If you want to cease contact after this encounter, that’s fine with me.]
If you a balla pulla stack out and smack her on the ayyy
[Hey fellas, if you are wealthy and powerful like me, show her your money and tease her with it!]
Pop locking cock blockas get up out the way
[If you are trying to stop me from making time with this lady, I must ask you to leave.]
Let lil mami get low
[Sweetheart, do that dance again where you bend your knees and squat.]
Give a space let her sweat
[Fellas! Give her some room so she can do her dancing.]
The club turning to Hooters ’cause they shirts is so wet
[The women dancing here are getting so sweaty that their t-shirts are wet. It almost looks like the club “Hooters” where women where tight t-shirts and serve buffalo wings.]
From the window to the wall
[Throughout the entire venue,]
Lil mama showing her thong
[My lady friend is showing her g-string underwear]
The broad freaking herself it’s telling me that it’s on
[My lady friend is now rubbing herself suggestively and indicating to me that she is ready for a sexual encounter.]
You ready then we can roll I’m telling you we can go
[If you are ready to leave and commence sexual relations, I am also ready.]
I’m thinking if I can handle it the way you make it roll
[I think I can show you a good time based on the skills you are exhibiting.]
You grooving and speeding up
[You are dancing more and more suggestively.]
You right in between us
[You are dancing between my friend and I].
If you a stripteaser then baby don’t tease us
[You are being very suggestive; I hope you aren’t just teasing us with no intention of fulfilling our desires.]
At first I thought I was tripping
[Initially, I thought I was mistaken,]
But my vision getting clearer
[But now I can see more clearly.]
You moving that thang around as if you practice in the mirror
[You dance so well, I suspect you practice at home in front of the mirror.]
She doing a new dance
[You are now engaging in a new dance,]
What the next man said
[Another man watching your moves thought you were beginning a new dance.]
I’m like naw she just pop locking on a headstand
[I corrected him by informing him you were just adding some finishing moves to your previous effort.]

[Chorus 1x]

Song: In the Club
Artist: 50 Cent

Go, go, go, go, go, go Go, shorty
[Dance, attractive woman!]
It’s your birthday
[It’s a celebration!]
We gon’ party like it’s your birthday
[We are going to enjoy this evening as if it were your birthday.]
We gon’ sip Bacardi like it’s your birthday
[We are going to drink Bacardi Rum in celebration.]
And you know we don’t give a fuck
[We are not going to let any worries impede our enjoyment]
cause it’s not your birthday!
[It’s not really your birthday, just a fun celebration of life!]

[Chorus (2x)]

You can find me in the club, bottle full of bub
[I’ll be in the dance club, drinking champagne.]
Look mami i got the X ,if you into takin drugs
[Sweetheart, if you enjoy using illegal substances, I have procured some Ecstasy.]
Im into havin sex i aint into makin love
[I’m interested in the physical act of procreating, but not necessarily the emotional involvement generally associated with it.]
So come give me a hug if you into getting rubbed
[If you would like to engage in sexual relations with me, embrace me to let me know.]

When I pull out up front, you see the Benz on dubs
[When I drive my car up to the front of the club, you notice my fancy Mercedes car with it’s custom 20 inch rims.]
When I roll 20 deep, it’s 20 knives in the club
[I have 20 other fellows with me; They are armed to protect me in case any violence occurs.]
N*ggas heard I fuck with Dre, now they wanna show me love
[Potentially unpleasant associates are aware that I am friends with famous businessman and rapper Dr. Dre, and consequently, they are interested in being my friend rather than being contentious with me.]
When you sell like Eminem, and the hoes they wanna fuck
[When you have exceptional record sales, like my colleague Marshal Mathers, you may find that lascivious women want to engage in intercourse with you.]
But homie ain’t nothing change hoes down, G’s up
[I haven’t changed though. I still prioritize time with my friends over evenings with loose women.]
I see Xzibit in the Cut that n*gga roll that weed up
[There’s my friend Xzibit! Let’s share a marijuana cigarette, buddy.]
If you watch how I move you’ll mistake me for a playa or pimp
[You may observe my walk and suspect that I am putting on false airs by strolling in a manner that is overly affected.]
Been hit wit a few shells but I dont walk wit a limp(Im ight)
[As a matter of fact, I do not walk with a limp, despite being shot nine times. I’m actually quite fine.]
In the hood, In L.A, they saying “50 you hot”
[From the old neighborhood to Los Angeles, all the people are admiring my music and congratulating me on my success.]
They like me, I want them to love me like they love ‘Pac
[Although people seem to like me, I would prefer that they hold me in the highest exultation, much like they hold the late rapper Tupac Shakur.]
But holla in New York them n*ggas’ll tell ya im loco
[Unfortunately, on the East Coast, you’ll find that my peers are not as fond of me.]
And the plan is to put the rap game in a choke hold
[As a matter of fact, they would like to see me fail.]
I’m full of focused man, my money on my mind
[I remained focused on my career, and the money I earn from working diligently.]
I got a mill out the deal and I’m still on the grind
[I’ve made a million dollars, but I’m still putting forth considerable effort to improve my craft.]
Now shorty said she feeling my style, she feeling my flow
[This attractive lady had indicated to me that she is interested in my persona and my talent.]
Her girlfriend wanna get bi and they ready to go
[Her bisexual girlfriend is with her and they would both like to retire for the evening with me.]

[Chorus (2x)][Bridge]
My flow, my show brought me the dough
[My incredible rapping skills have allowed me to earn a substantial income.]
That bought me all my fancy things
[I’ve been able to purchase many fine items,]
My crib, my cars, my clothes, my jewels
[I bought a new house, several fine automobiles, new clothing, and jewelry as well.]
Look n*gga i done came up and i ain’t change.
[Fellas, rest assured that despite my success and money, I’m still the person I always was.]

And you should love it, way more then you hate it
[I would expect you to be proud of my success, not jealous or angry.]
N*gga you mad? I thought that you’d be happy I made it
[Why are you so upset? Aren’t you feeling congratulatory towards me?]
I’m that cat by the bar toasting to the good life
[I’m that guy having a good time, pleased with his good fortune.]
You that faggot ass n*gga trying to pull me back right?
[I suspect you are jealous and would prefer to keep me from continued success.]
When my jaws get to bumpin in the club it’s on
[Once I begin rapping, my fans are powerless under my control.]
I wink my eye at you bitch, if she smiles she gone
[All I have to do is wink at your girlfriend and she will gladly leave with me.]
If the roof on fire, let the motherfucker burn
[It may be getting hot and contentious in this venue, but that’s ok; I’m not worried about it.]
If you talking bout money homie, I ain’t concerned
[If you are suggesting that my money won’t last forever, I’m not concerned about that either.]
I’m a tell you what Banks told me cause go ‘head switch the style up
[I’ve been told I can change around my rapping style and still be successful]
If the n*ggas hate then let ’em hate
[If my colleagues are jealous of my talent and success, I can’t let that bother me.]
and watch the money pile up
[I will continue earning substantial money with my talent and hard work.]
Or we go upside they head wit a bottle of bub
[If all else fails, I will assault you with this bottle of champagne once it is empty.]
They know where we fuckin’ be
[I believe you now understand my position.]

[Chorus (2x)]

Caligula: Mastur(bation)piece Theatre


caligulaI don’t usually take my movie watching cues from Larry Flint, et al, but last month’s Penthouse alerted me to a special occasion that might have otherwise gone unnoticed.  This year is the 20th anniversary of “Caligula”.

I haven’t been much for historical epics since Mel Gibson ruined Hamlet for me, but this was different.  I had a vague recollection of hearing references to “Caligula” here and there.  It was always something indicating that the movie was taboo or offensive or inappropriate.  After recently watching it, I can assure you, it is all three and then some.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I put “Caligula” on my Netflix list, at the top of my queue.  (Sorry Mandy Moore and John Krasinski, you’ve been bumped.)

“Caligula” opens with the title character, Gaius Caligula (Malcolm McDowell), cavorting around the forest with the lovely Drusilla (Teresa Ann Savoy).  This may have been unremarkable save that underwear was clearly optional, giving us a prime view of Drusilla’s lady bits, and the fact that Caligula and Drusilla are brother and sister.  Oh, but that’s only the beginning, folks.

For the next two and a half hours, I watched what can only be described as “Hostel” meets “Clash of the Titans” meets every 1970s porno in existence.  I can’t say I’m a big fan of Bob Guccione’s freshman filmmaking effort, but it does take a certain artistic insight to combine that much gore, camp, and oral sex into one historical biopic.

Maybe the most remarkable thing about “Caligula” isn’t the anal fisting, fellatio, Sapphic cunninlingus, or even that lovely circle jerking scene where Ennia (Adriana Asti) gets covered in male ejaculate.  What strikes me is the cast associated with this movie.

A top player in “Caligula” is, of course, Malcolm McDowell.  This isn’t quite as much of a stretch as the others – have you seen “A Clockwork Orange”?  MM is sort of known for his strange choices.  Helen Mirren, on the other hand, is not.  That’s right. Oscar-winning actress and Queen Elizabeth portrayer Mirren plays Caligula’s wife, who also happens to be the most infamous prostitute in town.

To add to the illustrious cast, we have Sir John Geilgud, an Oscar winner known for his performances in myriad historical films.  Geilgud plays Nerva, friend and assistant to Caligula’s predecessor (and Grandfather), Emperor Tiberius Caesar.  Who plays the mighty emperor you ask?  That would be Peter O’Toole, eight time Oscar nominee and respected actor.

A movie that depicts well-respected actors and actresses, 20 years younger, weaving their craft among piles of writhing naked bodies engaged in various sinful orgies is…surprising.  I mean, the lesbian carpet munching scene shot in 6x zoom was shocking in itself; I didn’t expect it in a movie starring “The Queen”.

So, if you’re interested in bloody, pornographic Penthouse Pet promotion with a quasi-accurate historical twist, give “Caligula” a try.  Since watching “Caligula”, it’s interesting to see the additional movies that Netflix is recommending to me.  “Based on your rental of Caligula, we would like to recommend ‘Naked Torture Part 8′”.  I’m convinced that my name is now flagged in some FBI database somewhere.  Thanks a lot, Helen Mirren.

Keep On Truckin’


I just got back from a little adventure.

The power steering on my Dodge Ram 4X4 has been going bad lately.  Mind you, a Dodge Ram 4X4 is not steerable without powered assistance.  Pay attention as this will be important later.

My husband and I, knowing nothing about cars, dumped in some more power steering fluid and called it good.  Turns out, all was not…good.

Today I took the truck out for some errands, braving Tampa’s busy highways, which I can barely navigate after only a week in the city.  I was cruising along when all of a sudden – no steering.  That’s right.  NO STEERING.  Steering is pretty important when you are driving a two-ton behemoth at 65 miles per hour.

Surpisingly, rather than freaking the fuck out (as I did with the earwig encounter earlier today), I managed to wrench the wheel enough to the right to steer onto the shoulder.  (Luckily I was in the right lane when the steering quit.)  So I sat there thinking, now what?

I fumbled with the hazard lights and finally got them on, although I harbored no illusions that this would protect me from the hundreds of vehicles zooming past.  Then I did what any logical, strong, independent woman would do – I called my husband.

I didn’t know his phone number yet at work, since he just started on Monday.  Luckily I had the main company number in my phone and the receptionist was able to give me his extension.

No answer.

Then I tried his cell phone.

No answer.

It was at this point that I remember he was on-site in Clearwater with his boss and would be unreachable all day.


Clearly I cannot stay here in my truck, on the side of Veteran’s highway.  Besides courting death, the air on the truck is on longer working (WTF?) and I literally have sweat pouring off of me.

At this point, I decide to channel my inner badass to take a look under the hood.  I do a little, “You can do it, you can do it” chant under my breath and pop the hood.  I was still hoping that it was a power steering fluid leak and that if I filled it back up, I would be able to make it home.  (Luckily I still had half a bottle of steering fluid in the truck with me.)

It took me about half a dozen tries to get that fucking hood open.  I hope you are picturing, at this point, a big black Dodge Ram 4X4 pulled off the side of the road, with a 5 foot tall blonde thing who comes up to the grill (barely) standing on tippy toes trying to look under the hood.

I found the power steering fluid thingamajig and poured some liquid in.  I didn’t get very far because it was already full.  Damn.  Apparently I got bigger problems than lack of fluid.  Oh and now?  My cute pink Ann Taylor dress shirt has grease monkey stains on the boob.  Nice.

I don’t know anybody in Tampa.  In desperation, I called our apartment building’s leasing office.  (This is the same office that hasn’t yet sent maintenance to fix the 319 things that are broken in this ghetto apartment.)  The leasing lady gives me phone numbers to 4 towing companies.

I couldn’t reach anyone at the towing places except for one goober who says they don’t have a flatbed right now and do I understand why that means they can’t come and get me.  Yeah, I get it.  My big badass truck is too much for you.  Fine.

In further desperation, I call Dar.  That’s right.  I called my Internet buddy Dar.  Not only did I call her, having never met her, to help me out of this fucked up situation, but I interrupted her in a meeting at work.  I’m sure she’s going to want to be my best friend now.

To her credit, she tried to help me.  She said she would look for some towing places for me and call me back.  In the meantime, I tried my places again and got hold of somebody to come get me.

At this point, I had been chilling (and I mean that very figuratively) on the side of the highway for about 20 minutes.  And it’s going to be another 30 before the tow truck gets to me.  I decide to lean up against the guard rail behind the truck so traffic can see me and hopefully not kill me or my truck.

Oh, and as far as Southern Hospitality goes, two cars stopped to see if I needed help.  This was after I had already gotten hold of the towing service so I sent them on their way.  I was surprised I didn’t get more good samaritans, but was very pleased with these two individuals.  Except that one gave me his full name and somehow gave me the impression that he may be running for office.  Ken Fleming for City Councilman!

Finally, the tow truck came.  The driver was straight out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  The term “inbred” feels woefully inadequate.  At one point, Cleetus stopped mid-sentence to hock a Skoal loogie over the guard rail.  Getting in the tow truck and riding with his was just barely preferable to staying out and cheating death on the side of the highway.  Barely.

Cleetus tried to chat me up on the way to the garage.  I wish I could tell you what we talked about, but all I remember is that the cab of his tow truck smelled like corn nuts.  Also, the ringtone on this phone was the theme from the first Austin Powers movie.  I don’t know what that means.

I got to the garage and signed the paperwork.  I had resigned myself to mooching a ride home from Cleetus (shudder), but the garage people offered me a ride from an older, grandfatherly gentleman who worked there.  The folks at Pro Care or whatever the place is called where I took my truck seemed clean cut and nice, so I went off with grandpa.

Grandpa talked to me for that ten minute ride like he didn’t have a soul to listen to him.  He was doing me a favor so I was very attentive and kind, but you know that inside my eyes were rolling.  Poor guy.

Grandpa has 5 sons, two live in Ohio and two live here.  He grew up in Euclid.  He’s going back up for a wedding soon, his dead friend’s daughter.  His son was married in a castle in Southern Ohio.  I could give you detailed descriptions on their castle accomdations, but I’ll spare you.

Ten minutes and Grandpa’s life story later, I’m home.  What a fricking day.  Since I sweated about a quart and a half out there, I’m hoping I can skip the gym tonight.

Welcome to Tampa.

How to Do a Colon Cleanse: The Shit Chronicles


Ok, so here’s the deal. Based on an episode of Oprah and the fact that we are all, undoubtedly, full of shit, I’ve decided to cleanse my colon. Why not? I don’t like the idea of walking around with 40 pounds of fecal matter embedded in my bowels and then dying on the crapper like Elvis. That being said, I’m going to post my experience in detail, so the squeamish might as well leave now.

My chosen product is called OxyPowder. It promises to liquefy (!) all the old shit in my colon and send it on its way. This seemed like a good idea to me. Although the idea of pissing out of my ass is not appealing, liquefying the old crusty crap seemed safer than trying to poop is all out in its current form.

DAY ONE (5/18/05)
So I took my beginning dose of 4 capsules last night before bed. I’m supposed to have between 3 and 5 monster shits (my words, not theirs) today. If not, I up the dosage.

I woke up with no urge to poo and was pretty disappointed. I expected to be running for the potty first thing. Then again, my inner workings are a little slow due to the pain pills I take for migraines, so I’m not totally surprised that it’s not hitting me hard.

I had a protein shake for breakfast – trying to eat light this week for the experiment. Shortly thereafter, I had my first poo!

No “butt pee” just a good old regular poop. I will say though, with a sick bit of pride, that one good push and I expelled enough to nearly clog the toilet. So there I am hovering over the potty, flushing the toilet 3 times before it would go down. I almost wish I had a scale so I could weigh myself before and after each poo. I think I put down at least a pound with that one. Score!

Ok, so it’s a couple of hours later and I just had poo number two. (Number two, get it? Anyway.) This was a rather uninspired movement. It was much lower in viscosity and lacked the commode-clogging substance of its predecessor. I was left feeling like I had more to give. We shall see.

Well, it’s almost 4 pm and no more poo. I had practically planned my whole day around expelling massive quantities of God-knows-what so I’m a little disappointed. I was promised 3 to 5 big loads and so far only 1 awesome dump and 1 tiny poo. Harumph. Looks like I will be upping my dosage of OxyPowder tonight.

DAY TWO (5/19/05)
Alright, now THIS is what I’m talking about. I’m a poop machine! Increasing my dosage from 4 capsules to 6 capsules seems to have been the answer.

I started my day off with a great big monster shit that would make anybody proud. In the two hours since waking (yeah, that’s right, it’s 1:00 pm – welcome to the world of the unemployed), I’ve had 3 more liqui-poos. Not as impressive as their voluminous counterparts, but still satisfying nonetheless.

I haven’t had any run-to-the-potty-clutching-my-ass-in-terror moments, but I’m glad I’m home with nothing to do. When it’s time to go, it’s pretty much like turning on a spigot and letting the poo faucet run. There hasn’t been any pain or cramping or anything like that, just the frustration of realizing that I haven’t bought any new magazines since my flight to Las Vegas last month.

Looks like today it’s just going to be me and an old issue of Glamour (how ironic) camping out in the upstairs powder room until further notice.

Well, it’s 6:00 pm and nothing much more to report. Other than a few mini-poos this afternoon, it has been uneventful. Seems as if, in this colon, all the action happens shortly after getting out of bed. (Which is much better than if it was all happening shortly before getting out of bed. Indeed.)

Six capsules feels like my magic number, so I’ll be dosing again tonight and pooing again tomorrow. Stay tuned.

DAY THREE (5/20/05)
My ass is tired.

I had a few more mini-poos yesterday evening. No big deal, but kind of annoying. It was this constant feeling of having a major transaction on deck, only to sit on the potty and have a few wormy little shits come out. Hardly worth the price of admission.

I took my six capsules at bedtime and settled in for nighty-night.

Fast forward to 3:00 am. I was awakened by the need to tinkle (not that unusual for me), only to sit on the potty and find out my ass had other plans. I had to prop my eyelids open for 10 minutes while my intestinal tract emptied into the bowl. Nice. I wasn’t planning on that. When this shit starts interfering with my sleep, things are getting serious.

Three more hours later, it’s 6:00 am and I’m on the potty again. Three times in ten minutes I make the trek to the shit room to have Niagara Falls empty itself from my colon. I am not pleased. I did not sign up for 24-hour shit alert.

It’s currently 8:00 am and I haven’t shit in over an hour. Hurray! I can’t imagine there’s anything left in there anyway. I think all the good shit is gone and now the scrubbing bubbles are just hosing out my tubes.

I’ve decided to test my hypothesis that all the old shit is gone. If there is one food that goes through your digestive system more or less intact, it has to be corn. (I could go into a lengthy explanation about how the cellulose-based casing of each kernel is actually the part that passes through, giving the appearance that the corn is unchanged, but hey…we’re talking about shit here. This isn’t exactly Mr. Wizard material.) So, I’ve asked the old man to pick up a can of corn on his way home tonight. I’ll have that with dinner and we’ll see what happens. This test may prove inconclusive, as I’m not prepared to poke at my expelled poo with a pair of chopsticks and some tweezers or put it under a microscope. If corn is readily visible, great. If not, so be it.

Now it’s 11:00 am and I’m having full on faucet-poos at least every hour or so. It’s getting tiresome. I’m not in pain, but my stomach is rumbling and gurgling like there’s an ecstasy-fueled shit rave going on in there, complete with pacifiers and glow sticks.

Seven days of this? At the rate I’m going I’ll be seeing visions of The Virgin Mary on my toilet paper by Day Five.

Ok, so it’s 6:00 pm and I nixed the corn idea. I think it was good in theory, but in practice, meh. I’m not ready to examine my poo that closely. Besides, I could shit out the Holy Grail at this point and it wouldn’t matter. I have decided that my colon cleanse has come to an end. Three days devoted to poo is enough. It’s not as if I’m some Siberian Monk with no agenda. I have a life to lead! Well, kinda. I at least need to be able to leave the house without worrying what’s going to peek out of my anus when I least expect it.

Oh, and believe it or not, constant defecation can put a bit of a damper on your sex life. No, really! (I know there are sites on the Internet that would suggest otherwise. Please do not send me links. For the love of God.)

My bowels feel April fresh. I think overall, a few good shits will cure what ails you. If you have no job, go ahead and go on a shit safari. You never know what you might find.


If you are retarded enough to construe the above anecdotal account of my colon as medical advice, then you deserve whatever happens to you, you sorry shit.