TMI Thursday: On The Matter Of Fiery Buttholes

I don't usually do this, but I figure it's about time I jump on the wagon, since LiLu is without question one of my favorite bloggers. This will be my first TMI Thursday* post, and I hope it's enough to make you cringe, or at least feel mildly disgusted or uncomfortable.

As you sit there are read this, let me ask you a question; how does your butthole feel? Is it alright? Is it sore after that monstrous dump you took earlier this morning? I'm directing this at the men, of course, because girls don't poop. It's a fact, okay? Don't question it, I don't want to hear about it. GIRLS DON'T POOP.

But right, it's okay isn't it? You weren't up all night being sodomized were you? (and if you were, why wasn't I invited? Jerk). In all seriousness, I want you to take a moment and appreciate how it feels to have a nice and completely unhurt butthole. I don't think many of you really appreciate this feeling, because how often is it that your butthole is damaged? Not often, I hope. Unless of course you make it a habit of sticking things up there. Whatever man, I don't judge. What you do with your time is your business, you freak.

Now, as I'm sure you've guessed, I was unfortunate enough to at one point have experienced the horridness of a damaged and aching butthole. No, not because of buttsex, although honestly I'd have preferred post-sodomy soreness to this. Not that I uh, know anything about that. But really, it couldn't have been as bad as this.

I don't actually know why this happened, or what it was that spurred such a violent and painful dump. I can't recall what it was I consumed that could have possibly came back out in such a manner. Because shards of glass and rocks are not a part of my every-day diet, friends. That's right. Can you imagine that? Imagine having to poop out clumps of rock jutted with shards of fucking glass, okay? Are you imagining it? How the fuck does it feel?

And I don't just mean this happened once, no no. This happened continuously for a week. At one point I was so terrified of having to drop my kids off at the pool, I actually stopped eating all together. How the fuck could I? It was like dry humping a shark, that was on fire. And that was just during, the rest of the time it was constant and intolerable butthole burning. I couldn't walk, sit, or even masturbate it was so painful. The only thing I found that helped, was to lay face down on my bed, and hold cubes of ice against it.

Well what the fuck else was I supposed to do!? My doctor is my uncle, and you can be damn sure this is not the kind of thing I would go to him with, even if I could get up and make it there. Whatever man, it was the only thing that helped. So for a week I basically just laid in bed and iced my poor, poor butthole. I really never thought I would recover, it was traumatizing.

Thankfully, I did eventually recover, and I've overcome my fear of pooping; which is great because as any man can tell you, there's really nothing quite like taking a nice big dump. Most of my greatest ideas and epiphanies have occurred whilst I dropped some deuces. The bathroom really is a man's sanctuary.

I've also made it a point to seriously watch my diet, and be wary of what I consume, because I don't think I could live with having to go through that ever again. God, no! Never again!

So take heed, faithful readers. Watch what you eat, and make sure to appreciate just how great it is to have a butthole that does not sting or ache or burn. Because you never know when that could change.

It could happen to you!
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*Good call Jacob, you're completely right actually, haha.

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Strangers With Whiskey

I have a strange fondness for drinks with peculiar or strong tastes. Starbucks’ normal coffee, for instance. The taste of it is somewhere along the lines of dirt and copper, which I’m sure is why most people don’t drink it. At least as far as I’ve seen, anyway. Especially not when they have a bevy of other saccharine substitutes. For the sake of potency, when I do have my coffee, I like to load it up with anything between 8 to 20 packets of raw sugar, which they so graciously provide (diabetes, here I come).

Earlier today, a woman standing beside me marveled at the sight: a balding youth, strategically unwrapping and pouring three packs of raw sugar at a time. She even went so far as to pause while sprinkling nutmeg over her thirty-seven dollar frothy monstrosity, and say to me “That’s very unhealthy, you know.” Shrugging, I replied, “Neither is cocaine, but I haven’t got any of that, so this will just have to do.” She walked off with a grimace. Perhaps it was the bald spot?

I should probably explain the bald spot.

In keeping with our time honored tradition of playing dress up across the nation (the world, even), for Halloween this year I decided to dress up as my favorite writer and journalist, Hunter S. Thompson. It was surprisingly easy to put together. I wandered about downtown for an hour or so and managed to get everything I needed: gold aviators, cigarette holders, a red patterned half-sleeve shirt, and a green poker visor. I had a pair of khakis and a jacket I thought would go well with the rest of it at home already. The finishing touch for the costume though, was the bald spot. When I woke up Saturday afternoon, I spent about an hour and a half shaving a bald spot into my hair. If I may say so myself, it was an impressive sight to behold, considering I shaved it myself. You’d be surprised at how hard it was, me not being able to see the back of my head and all. (I don't have any decent pictures from the night yet, I'll post them when I get them, so this is all I have for the time. That's Lauren stroking the sand-papery mess that was my hair a few days later)

This was actually my first time doing anything at all for Halloween in something like six years. I figured it would be this, or stay at home and offer any children who knocked at my door whiskey instead of candy. I know it doesn’t taste like candy, kids. But give it a minute and you’ll feel it. Here, take these eggs while you’re at it. And if any man should utter the world trick, you shove them down his throat. Tell him the Sugar God sent you, and that you were on a mission to wreak havoc and pillage sweets in the guise of an itty-bitty ballerina. He’s sure to surrender his supply then! Shit, why not?

Against what I thought to be my own steadfast judgment, I ended up going to that god-awful parade in the city, and Jesus, what a mess it was. I’m not one for mass quantities of people in any situation, let alone a slow moving mass dressed as hookers and movie stars in the fucking rain of all things. Naturally, I didn’t stay long. I meandered about with a friend, just long enough to get a handful of compliments on my gloriously put together costume. Most just seemed to recognize me as “Johnny Depp from that movie” but it lifted my spirits nonetheless. I even met someone with a similar costume. He didn’t actually recognize who I was supposed to be, until I took off my visor and revealed my now mostly bald head. He squealed with glee and we promptly high-fived. Then he waved his fly swatter at us menacingly, admirably staying in character, and we were back on our way through the crowd.

After the parade, I met a few other friends and headed to a party somewhere around the outskirts of Brooklyn. It may not have been, but it certainly felt like it considering how long it took to get there. Wasn’t too bad a shindig, all good people doing your usual things. I recall at some point a man came up to me and yelled “TELL ME ABOUT THE FUCKING GOLF SHOES!” which I got a good laugh out of (if you don’t get this, do yourself a favor and check out the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas). Much to my displeasure, apparently I had just missed a girl who had went to the same party dressed also as our beloved Hunter S. Jesus, I’d surely have loved to meet her. Ah, what could have been? I’ll secretly ponder this for years, probably.

Which reminds me! A friend of mine has just started a new blog and has been pestering me incessantly to sponsor him, or something to that effect. Apparently I’m popular, so what I suggest, you’re liable to follow? I’ve decided to lend him my expertise in this venture. The blog is: Maybe I’m Doing It Wrong? and it’s dedicated entirely to man’s ever long chase after the elusive muff monster, or uh… just our efforts, specifically. Considering my own failure for years in this department, it’s only natural I’d join him for this. I certainly have a plethora of stories to tell on the matter.

Failure to fornicate is my forte, folks.
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One last thing, I'm doing a guest post for OWO this week, so head on over on Sunday and check it out. I doubt you'll remember, but hopefully some of you do. Maybe I'll post on Sunday to remind you. Considering my lack of consistency as of late, it's uh... Yeah.

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