TMI Thursday: Commando Operations

Ever since I've had my gall bladder removed, I've suffered from something that I refer to as "post rectal drip". See, sometimes, if I've had one of those shits where things have been good and loose, a couple hours later I'll develop that "not so fresh feeling" at the back door. I usually go, clean up, and then everything is okay for another couple of hours. The big problem is, when I can't get away, then the insides of my ass cheeks tend to chafe, which is an all new definition of the phrase "pain in the ass." Now, this also happens sometimes if I'm suffering from a good bout of ass sweat, but the ass sweat chafing pales in comparison to the post-rectal drip chafing.

So, about a year and a half ago, I decided that I was going to get healthy. I was going to shed some weight, increase my stamina (heh heh heh...), and overall have a more healthy body. The best way, I figured, was to take up jogging. Now, I love jogging/running. I really do. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but buried beneath the layers of blubber is a runner at heart. However, as it had been many moon since I had last endeavored to jog, I figured I should work into this. I'd start slow and hopefully be able to sustain some form of stamina that would let me jog with some regularity.

To that end, I started walking. During my lunch hour, I would walk a course by the lab building that was about two and a half miles. I could get it done in around 50 minutes, if I didn't drag my ass. As all good ideas of this ilk begin, I started this regimen in January.

Long about the end of April, I was getting pretty good at this. I had lost at least two belt sizes and I was slowly getting to the point where I felt comfortable with attempting to jog. However, I wasn't dressed properly, so I began bringing in shorts and a t-shirt that I could change into prior to exercising then change back out of in order to perform my usual daily work in the lab, hopefully sans the funk of a sweaty man hanging about me.

The other thing is that, toward the end of April, it was getting warm 'round these here parts. Now, the scene is set. One day, I was out doing my lunchtime walk when, around the one mile mark, I sense a little leakage in the outback. At this point, I was at the apogee of my daily route--that is, the furthest from the lab possible in my little walk. Sucking it up like a man, I tried to quicken my pace so that I could get back to the lab and change as soon as humanly possible. Unfortunately, this had a dual affect. One, it caused my ass cheeks to rub together moreso than they were before, thus heightening the chafing. Two, it caused me to sweat more, and I could feel the tortuous trickle between my cheeks. Essentially, it was a perfect storm of ass chafing.

Finally, after my grueling pace took me to the point where I just wanted to fall down on my face and weep, I returned to the lab. As proof that God does, in fact, love me, my labmates were at lunch at the time, and so I was able to slip into the office, grab my stuff, and not have to let them smell what must certainly have been a case of Swamp Ass to the Extreme. I gathered up my clothes and slipped down to the restroom to clean up and to change.

Once I got there and dropped trou, I discovered that my boxer-briefs had gone to the point of no return. What once had been turquoise was now rendered an unholy mahogany, featuring an aroma fresh from the very bowels of hell, such that my nose hairs singed, my eyes watered, and my throat seized closed. Despite the lack of fresh air, I managed to clean myself up. Now, I had a change of pants. I had a change of shirt. I did not have a change of underwear. And I certainly was not going to pull those back up around my nethers after having freshly cleaned them. What was I to do? The only course of action was to strip them off.

And so I did.

I was out there, Jerry, and I wasn't loving every minute of it!

Now, I realize that a number of you don't have scrotums. Let me just say that, for those of you without, the seams of blue jeans and the soft, velvety delicates of a man's anatomy are in no way compatible. The moment that I zipped, the joint where the legs of my pants and my crotch come together seized ahold of my wrinkly, crinkly bag of skin with the tenaciousness of a midwestern housewife on a Vera Bradley handbag. With my lower lip aquiver and unshed tears standing in my eyes, I now looked upon my soiled and defeated companion who had given his life so that my sack would not suffer the indignity of being cloven in twain by my pants. They say you never truly appreciate what you had until you lose it, and such it was with my underpants. Softly, I hummed taps in their memory.

But, what to do? I exited the stall, stiff-legged, and motored over to the wastebasket. Unfortunately, it was one of those wall units designed for the paper towels you use after you wash your hands. This was not a suitable final resting place for my knickers. So, I quickly washed my hands, rolled the fallen soldier up, and made my way back to the lab.

I thought briefly about stashing the underwear in my backpack, but I was afraid that the lingering air of Swamp Ass would give me away. I couldn't just drop them into a waste paper basket in either of the labs, as we tend to not throw much stuff away. So, I did the only thing I could possibly think to do: I slipped them into a plastic bag and hid them in one of the 55-gallon solid hazardous waste containers in the lab. I deftly moved a couple of bags of used filtering agents over the top of the bag containing my soiled smallclothes, put the lid on and sealed it.

I then tried to go about my normal daily routine. However, after about an hour, maybe two, of wandering around the lab and office with no underwear, I became painfully aware of the fact that my pants were trying their best to eat my balls, Chewbacca style. Finally, I could take no more and left early for the day. After a frantic ride home, I dashed upstairs, shed my pants, slipped on a fresh pair of boxer-briefs, and reveled in the wonderment of having my nuts cradled lovingly in the warm, accepting folds of gentle cotton. "I'll never underappreciate you again, underwear," I cooed down to them.

And I never have since. *pats self lovingly*


Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

My Life: Situational Comedy

Okay, so, remember that whole "I'm going to go get AT&T right now!" proclamation that I boldly announced the other day?

Yeah, well, AT&T isn't available in my area.

Neither is Verizon.
Or Embarq.
Or Netzero.

Or pretty much anything that isn't Time Warner Cable.

*sigh*

And, yeah, TWC, in their infinite wisdom, decided to wait until the last minute to negotiate with Viacom for the right to Nickelodeon and pretty much most of the other channels I use to avoid being a parent. What? Patrick and Spongebob are perfectly good fill ins for my wife and I. And Mr. Krabs teaches the kids about being financially responsible. Now, if only they could make breakfast. Anyway, I was rudely awakened by two frantic children on the December 31st, telling me that the cable was taking away Nickelodeon and that I needed to fight the bad men who were doing this. My daughter had written down the number to call and was shoving the paper in my face and my son was running around in circles screaming...which he pretty much normally does, anyway, but it made for a rude awakening. Bleary-eyed, I pulled myself from sleep's sweet embrace, staggered downstairs, and started swearing at the crawling line of words that I could barely read on the bottom of my screen. I turned around to find the phone and the piece of paper with a hastily-scrawled 800-number being thrust into my hands with the instructions to "call this...make us breakfast first...but call this number!"
How was everyone else's holiday?

All of this is a long diatribe detailing the fact that my home computer is still not hooked to the internet, but I'm calling today to try and rectify said situation. I'm thinking about trying this wireless thing out. I hear that's a popular thing with the kids these days. Anyone else hear of this?

And, yeah, Scope...it's not 64K...I was only off by a factor of 1.0^6. Being a scientist, I'll file that under "standard deviation" and ignore the fact that I was wrong. Hooray for science!

This space won't be blank for much longer. And neither will your comments sections. I mean...right after I get some more work done in the lab. Yeah...in...the lab...


UPDATE: I just got off the phone with the guy. Looks like Wednesday, I'll be back up and running full speed. Or whatever passes as full speed for my tubby ass.

A Terrifying Tale

I had me one of them there adventures last night.

There I was, sleeping soundly at three o'clock in the morning when, BANG BANG BANG...BANG rousted me from my sweet reveries. The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca also rousted herself (most likely from some equally sweet reveries), and I immediately reached for my beatin' stick.

Now, a couple of months ago, I was upstairs at my computer, the wife was working, and I was typing away on a book. I had just finished a chapter or a paragraph or an adjective or something, and I leaned back to re-read what I had just crafted. That's when I heard a noise what sounded like the back storm door closing. No one should be coming in there, so I immediately went into defensive mode. I grabbed the only weapon at my disposal...which turned out to be a 12-lb dumbbell and crept downstairs to see if my home had been violated. Everything was safely locked up, and no one was around, so I chalked it up to my imagination. But, I decided that I needed a better weapon. Thus, the beatin' stick was born. It's about three feet of solid lumber, 1x1, with the end cut at an angle. It's probably not the most wicked looked thing in the world, but I figure it'll bust someone's scalp open, should I need it to.

Anyway, the wife checks on the kids, and it wasn't either of them that made the noise. So, that meant I had to investigate the downstairs. I crept down the stairs, all Scooby-Doo like. You could almost hear the "doot, doot, doooooooooo, doot-doo-doo" music going as I moved forward. My ears were pricked, listening for any repeating noises or noises of someone deciding they needed to escape, lest they met my wrath and the business end of my cudgel. I first checked the living room, where all the plastic bins that housed the Christmas decorations were stacked, thinking that the perp might have knocked over one of those as the sound was a bit "plasticky" (if you catch my drift). Nothing. I peeped the back door, to make sure it was locked. Still locked tight. I check the front door. Nothing doing. I scope the windows. Nothing. Everything is whole and unscathed.

Then I hear something upstairs. Footsteps. Oh, they're near my family. Time to die, perp!

Only, Boudicca slinks downstairs to tell me Cookie is going to the bathroom, and that I shouldn't run up the stairs, screaming like a battle-enraged, blue-faced warrior with designs on braining her. We together do another security sweep around the perimeter, and find nothing. We wonder if, perhaps, a bat or something flew into our nice, new, awesome window in the kitchen. Shrugging, we decide that's a distinct possibility. Outside lights are on, to scare away the bad guys. We return to bed. The wife turns on the closet light, to make people think that someone is up. The hounds are released. Ninjas stand at the four corners of the house, ready to strike.

The beatin' stick was replaced in its handy location next to my side of the bed. The wife makes me turn off my humidifier, so we can listen. And we do for the next thirty minutes. Every creak and groan of the house causes one or both of us to stir. I stare, wide-eyed, at the doorway to the kids bathroom, thinking it looks somewhat like a figure standing there, knife in hand, waiting for me to sleep. But, I keep my eyelids hooded. When he comes for me, I'll knock his head clean off.

Finally, the alarm goes off. I sit up, dragging my worthless ass out of the bed. Fatigue crushes me, weighing down on me. The night was filled with fitful sleep, tossing and turning, and more listening. Always listening. Always greeted with silence.

I strip down, shuffling naked to the bathroom. Pulling back the shower curtain, I find a bottle of body wash has fallen from the top of the shower and now rests quietly in the basin of the tub. Beside it, guiltily, is the suction-cup fastener to which the bottle had been affixed. Here is my perp. Here is the reason I spent the night wondering when they were coming for me, and could I get to them before they got to my kids.

I grabbed the stick and beat the hell out of the bottle. That'll show that motherfucker to mess with the likes of me.