Buttsweat and Tears

Every time I go on vacation in a tropical place, the buttsweat is relentless the first few days. Usually some time during the first 24 hours I will feel a drop of water land on my ankle. I look up to find clear skies and realize that a drop of sweat just left one of my butthairs to land on my ankle. I think to myself, "hopefully I don't have a wet semi-circle around my ass like Cubby did in his tight junior year khakis." The worst part about it is not the sweat. It is realizing that in 2 days I will be in tears due to the crack chafing.

Down in the hole

I've always thought that prison would not be that bad were it not for the potential for consistent ass rape. "Were it not for that," I'd ponder, "I could finally get into shape and get caught up on my reading. Don Quioxte alone would take me a year. Throw in Ulysses and The Brothers Karamazov and I could do five in Chino easy." For me, and I'm guessing most law abiders, the destruction of one's butthole is a deal-breaker. Yet when you think about it, there is no greater fear in any prison than Solitary Confinement. Who have you ever seen tickled to be going in the hole? Why is this? Solitary, by definition, offers the 'safest from sodomy' living space in any prison. By my logic, one should be angling immediately, even before the inital de-lousing, to get chucked into Solitary. Crawl into a damp corner with a moldy stack of Mad Magazines, high five your ass, and count your blessings. Yet guys come out of a long weekend in Solitary looking worse than if they'd spent summer vacation in the drunk-tank with a biker gang called The Sea Elephants. We are social creatures to our very fiber. We'll always take the high likelihood of a painful shower experience if it means we can avoid a little loneliness.

The Lesser of Two Evils

We're Back

The cubby hole is back.

Doing Good Deeds

Dude

The Zen of Dumping: Rantings of a Stand-up Wiper (Third in a Three Part Series)

I’m guilty. I’m a stand-up wiper.

We’re tired of the ridicule and persecution associated with being a stand-up wiper. Please just let us be. We don’t question you, with all of your “in the triangle” or “side-wipes” or whatever else you weirdoes do to get clean.

We stand-up wipers are standing tall. And we’re proud to be stand-up wipers. You all don’t understand the difficulty and constant dilemmas stand-up wipers deal with on a daily basis. I crap once every three days because of the constant humiliation and degradation I feel when I’m in the stall and someone sits down next to me.

What to do? If I stand-up to wipe, they will clearly see the movement and they will instantly know that there is a stand-up wiper next to them – one of those people. We hear the snickering. I then feel you trying to peer at me through the crack of the stalls as I wash my hands – hurriedly though as not to be identified. And for those of you who don’t know about us stand-up wipers, we can feel your confusion as you wonder what the hell the guy in the next stall is doing for so long while standing up with his pants down.

Hey, we don’t understand your kind either, so leave us alone.

I’ve tried the triangle wipe – but the only thing I was left with was an educated guess of how much more I needed to wipe and a ‘freshman stripe’ on the underside of my balls. And the reach to hit gold – my god – the reach is enough to pull a muscle. And trying to hold my shirt with my chin to prevent skidding from an overzealous wipe is just too much for me.

The side wipe is just as tricky and still leaves the ultimate question: did I get it all? Deciding which way to lean, squeezing your hand in between the seat and your ass, and then the awkward angle from which you wipe which makes it feel you’re only cleaning half your ass. It’s like trying to write with your left hand. The uncertainty is maddening.

We don’t have this issue. We stand up proud, grab our roll, dig down deep, and take a gander at how much we dug out. We wipe more if needed, and then toss our reward straight into that watery hole. It’s as simple as that.

I’m a stand-up wiper. And I am proud.

Operation Help the Fucking Kids

In Monday's paper there was an article on a new charity that buys presents for kids that sent letters sent to Santa via the post office. It is a pretty cool idea, but obviously easily manipulated. My first thought was how many adults are going to read this and then send in a letter requesting stuff for themselves. I went down to the Post Office to help out. They let you choose 6 letters and pick any or all of the ones you want to fulfill.


The first little girl was asking for cash. The next one was from a 6 year old with perfect penmanship. He needed a camcorder, iPod, PS2, PS3, PSP, 10 shares of Google, a Mariott TimeShare, a Mitsubishi Galant, and a 10,000 muni-bond wired to his Cayman account. I am obviously kidding, but one kid had over $1,000 worth of stuff. I did see a Camcorder, a Computer, and every game console imaginable.

Anyway, I picked up two letters. That is all I could afford. They both seemed legit. All in all, it looked like a good charity. You just need to filter the b.s.

By the way, whoever put in the Fuzzy Crap comment in the last blog is classic.

Attn: NYC Dog Owners

Fuck off!

#1. You are not an animal lover. If you were, you would understand how uncool it is to keep a dog cooped up in your tiny apartment. In addition, you would also understand that he does not consider a 10 minute concrete stroll a real trip outside.

#2. When your dog pisses/shits on the sidewalk the rest of us are paying for it. A. It smells. Do you know how many times that 30 year old slab of sidewalk in front of my apartment has been pissed/crapped on? B. All shits are not created equal. A firm crap can be picked up and disposed of easily. A mushy shit is harder to pickup up. You may get most of it, but you know that many remains are left behind in the cranies of the sidewalk. A sloppy diarrhea is hopeless. C. Every morning the superintendents in my neighborhood hose down their portion of the sidewalk. Thanks for wasting their time. They could be busy watching Regis and avoiding me in the hallways.

#3. If your don't pickup up your dog's shit, you are the most selfish loser I know. This morning on the way home from breakfast, my left foot slid through a smushy log. I almost fell on the ground. Instant agitation. I pulled over to see how bad it was. My streethiker tread was brimmed with orangish waffle batter. There is a god! As one does, I start dragging my shoe across the ground trying to release the debris, but this is taking too long and I am in hurry. As ironic luck would have it, I, myself, have to take a shit. So I drag my foot while continually walking for 2 and a half blocks. People are looking at me like I am mentally retarded. Not only am I hobbling around like Igor, but I smell like I shit in my pants. A block from my house I see a stick on the ground. I pull over and drive the stick through the maze of my shoe tread. This never works. Some comes off, but the majority of it is still there. I remember there is an unattended hose outside of my apartment building so I race back to my place. I spray down my shoe and watch the remains fall off. Phew! Now I can go back to complaining about normal issues.

I am a Hotel Snob

Every girlfriend I have had told me that I was a hotel snob. I'm serious. I never wanted to admit it b/c I thought of myself as more of a common man, but they are correct. I must be more spoiled than I thought. It is kind of weird that I am so particular on hotels because I have lived in some real shitholes in my day... why can't I enjoy myself in sub-par hotel? I can't answer this question specifically, but here is what I find important in a hotel...

1. Real Estate: Assume that I enjoy airing out my balls when I get out of the shower. Give me some room to loosen up.

2. Duvets: If they have comforter covers then that means they wash them everyday. If they have some floral cover over the bed, throw that in the hall using plastic gloves. Better yet, throw it AT the corrider wall. If the semen doesn't get it to stick, the shit wipes will.

3. Air Conditioning: I don't care if you are in Anchorage, you need A/C. Tonight I want to be buried underneath my covers listening to that thing whiz.

4. Thick Drapes: There's nothin worse than getting woken up by a piercing ray of sunlight at 6 AM. I need both sides to connect and they have to be thick. Blackout baby.

5. Spectravision: One HBO Channel doesn't cut it. No child locks either. Call me crazy, but I would rather just hit the Select button rather than calling downstairs... "Can you lift the block on Double D Juggernauts?"

6. Diner on Premises: Open late as well. Breakfast served all day. Never know when you'll need a bacon cheddar omelette with french toast.

7. Meticulous and Timely Cleaning staff: I will be treating your room like a pair of rental skis. A herd of elephants has nothing on me. After the daily destruction I will be in a coma for 12 hours so don't try any "Housekeeping. Oh you are still asleep" at 10 AM bullshit. When I stumble downstairs for my belgian waffle you should understand that this is the time to pick up my room. Buff the throne with a fine chamy b/c I may stop in for a shit before my trip to the pool.

8. Late check out: This is very hard to find, but a huge bonus when allowed.

9. Big White Towels: The bigger the better. If I see a spot on it, I assume some guy, just like me, wiped his ass with it. Bleach it and clean it. I unconciously know that the towel I am using has been swiped thru some guy's ass, but I would prefer that thought to be repressed.

That's it. If you are in Hotel Management let me know if you need any tips. It is actually quite simple. The customer is a selfish baby When I am hungry- I wanna eat, when I am full- I wanna shit, when I am tired- I wanna sleep. If you see a barrier that delays these wants/needs, remove it.

Today’s Youth

Coming back from Oklahoma City is a lot like coming
home from a long weekend in Vegas: it’s long and
rough with a bit of disbelief about where you’ve been
and what you’ve seen. My attempt at sleep while
waiting in the Dallas airport for my connecting flight
was futile. Despite the uncomfortable chair that was
up against a wall, and the awkward angle of my neck to
rest my head against the wall, I closed my eyes and
tried.

It wasn’t long before two young, six-year old girls
were giggling and playing as they shared the seat next
to me. Their child innocence was refreshing and their
playful nature helped me forget the horror I
experienced in Oklahoma City. The soothing background
sounds of child laughter and playful squealing allowed
me to drift off to a surprisingly peaceful sleep.
Maybe that’s why I noticed when the sounds suddenly
stopped.

The silence was deafening.

I don’t know what compelled me, but I opened my eyes
and slowly turned my cramped neck to look at the seat
next to me. I blinked in disbelief, and immediately
wondered if I was having a bad dream or had
disturbingly been placed, by some sick glitch in the
time-space continuum, into a pedophile’s wet dream.
The two six-year old girls were making-out. Open
mouth, tongue and all. Passionately. Aghast, and
with the remnants of sleep still upon me, I was frozen
from this unsettling and unforeseen sight. Time
seemed to stop, yet the girls did not. The session
ended when the mom, with an obvious lack of concern
over losing her place in the ticket counter line,
rushed over to pull the girls apart. ‘We were just
kissing,’ the girl said as the mom removed her from
the other girl.

As they walked away, the mom imparted some advice to
her daughter that should resonate with us all: “I
know you were just kissing her, honey, but you
shouldn’t give your sister ‘movie-kisses.’”

How true. How true.