Science Favors Perverts. Perfect.


English: Cleavage of a womanIt seems like every other day a new “scientific” study is coming out that contradicts everything we thought we knew about the world. Coffee is good for you – drink up! Soy milk will give you man boobs, uh oh! Now the latest: ogling big tits is good for your heart. Literally. Is this really where we’re going, Science? I’m not a doctor or anything, so I can’t be sure, but judging from the amount of pink shit I see marketed toward me in the grocery store and the number of 5K’s my friends are still running, it doesn’t look like anyone has cured cancer yet. With that in mind, will someone please tell me who is funding this bullshit? Is there federal grant money just lying around, waiting for someone to form a ridiculous hypothesis and recruit clueless college kids for poking, prodding and measuring? And if so, can we do something scandalous and awesome like the Stanford Prison Experiment from the 1970’s? (Although, that sort of research is probably pointless now, because if you want to determine the human animal’s propensity toward being an asshole, all you have to do is scroll through some YouTube comments on any given day. Case closed.)

So, let’s talk about this titty thing. (There’s something I don’t say every day.) Don’t get me wrong – I love boobs. Can’t get enough of them. (Lucky for me, I’ve got two of my very own!) I still don’t understand the point of this study. We all know men like looking at a nice rack…is this just some transparent attempt to justify this behavior? Is this being done in the hopes that the next time a dude gets busted staring at a lady’s breasts, he can save himself a smack and a black eye by reaching into his wallet and pulling out his “prescription”? “Uh, see ma’am, if you look here, it says I need to: take (2) mammary glands, visually, twice per day or as needed.” Good luck with that. If you think we have a big problem with forged narcotics prescriptions in this country, just wait until medicinal mammaries becomes a thing.

By the way, if you review the research carefully, you’ll see that in order for the bosom ogling to have the intended cardiac benefits, the breasts in question must be size D or above. Okay, seriously, can you imagine what this research lab looked like when Dr. Obvious was conducting her (that’s right – a female doctor spearheaded this research) experiments? What did the “control” look like? Did the men stare at another dude for the “control” or was it some poor, unfortunate, flat-chested woman who probably has even more of an inferiority complex now that it’s a medical fact that not only are her barely-there mosquito bites unappealing, but they are literally KILLING PEOPLE. (Or at least, not saving their lives by providing measurable, quantifiable, publishable cardiac benefits akin to 30 minute of aerobic exercise.) Seriously, flat-chested women, you might as well just kill yourselves right now. You are useless. (I’m not saying that – it’s Science.) I don’t know; maybe additional research can be done to determine whether or not you can still help the cause. There was no mention of whether or not gazing at smaller boobs would confer a placebo effect. (Maybe push-up bras could become medical devices?)

I suppose that if you can’t find “treatment” of adequate size out and about in your everyday life, you could always go to an approved “clinic”. These clinics are currently known as strip clubs. “Destiny” and “Cinnamon” can give you your daily quota of heart healthy titties, and although you don’t typically leave the pharmacy covered in glitter and smelling like Victoria’s Secret body spray, you gotta do what you gotta do to take care of your body, am I right? I’m sure Mons Venus and Scores will appreciate the uptick in business although accepting Flexible Spending Account benefit cards may prove to be a hassle for them.

There is good news in all of this. (I know you men out there are thinking, “What are you talking about? This has all been good news.”) But really, using breasts to improve heart health is another small step toward establishing a more natural, homeopathic approach to medicine. (Unless you’re going to one of those clinics I mentioned above. There is nothing natural going on in there.) Fewer drugs, more jugs! Also, heart disease is the leading killer of men. This way, if my husband ever does have a heart attack and needs to take action to improve his cardiovascular health, we can forget about scary angioplasties and risky bypass surgeries. I’ll just get breast augmentation! I’ll take these average B-sized, good-for-nothing funbags and inflate them to Double-D life preservers! There’s no risk in that, right? I’ll practically be providing a public service anyway. Win-win. Science. Awesome.

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!

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.