Sunday, May 22, 2011


So, apparently the world was supposed to end or something yesterday. At least that's what I saw on the internet and throughout people's facebook statuses, etc. And that got me to thinking...who makes these predictions? And what makes their prediction worthy of growing to the point where millions of people were talking about it? Did they pick Animal Kingdom to win the Kentucky Derby last week, and as a follow up to their predicting masterfulness, decide that yesterday was the end of the world? The streak apparently ended at one there.

In any case, I felt that since the world didn't end yesterday, I would let you know when the world is actually going to end. I know, I know. How do I know? Well, that's very simple. You see, I once predicted the Kentucky Derby winner three years in a row, and I also predicted that the world was not going to end yesterday. So, since I'm on a bit of a streak, I figured I'd go with it. To add some credibility to it, I also happen to watch a lot of Nat Geo and History Channel, and seem to pick up on patterns pretty easily. And what's the world but a bunch of complex patterns being repeated, over and over again.

So, without further ado (and sorry, this is not a funny post), I will inform you that the world is going to end:

Slowly over the course of the next 19 months.

You see, it's foolish to believe that anything catasclysmic will occur that will wipe out the Earth at one set time short of a meteor of substantial size hitting the planet. Instead, the Earth will slowly adjust to the alteration of the gravitational pull of the Universe aligning over the next 19 months with a series of earthquakes, volcanoes, superstorms, and other natural disasters until the world as we know has been altered and the climate system and axis of the planet is changed.

Based on what we've been seeing over the past year or so, it would seem that Japan, Iceland, and the Caribbean will likely be the ones first affected by the shift, with all adjacent areas affected by the resulting tsunamis, ash clouds, and superstorms created by all the molten ash and heat sent into the atmosphere.

My recommendation would be to look to the past in order to realize where is a safe place for refuge. And where did there appear to be great civilizations in the past that are mysteriously vacant and the land seems inhospitable? Nazca in Peru, Egypt and the surrounding desert area, and of course, the predictors of the next alignment, the Mayan areas of Mexico.

My reasoning is if there has been any realignment in the past, it would have wiped out large areas or buried them under the sea. These areas have not had this occur, instead, the land just become inhospitable, turning to desert or extreme jungle. When the shift occurs, assuming it's a cycle and not a lineal adjustment, then we can assume (or hope) that these places will return to being fertile areas under the new climate, and will also be safe from flooding since they have remained above sea level.

So, there's my prediction. As I have mentioned earlier, I did predict that the world would not end yesterday and I also once predicted the Kentucky Derby winner three years in a row. I also predict that I am going to get out of bed now and brush my teeth to begin my day. So, I'm on a roll. Sorry, Earth, 17 months is it. Start moving, people.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Don't Mind Me

So, in a perfect segue from my last post, I thought I would share this tale of "a pain in my ass" since, despite its embarrassing aspects, ends in a humorous exchange.

A couple Fridays ago, I went to go see the Dan Band in concert. Great show, it was actually the second time I've seen them perform. If you don't know who they are, they're the "Total Eclipse of the Heart" guys from "Old School." In any case, I went with a large group of friends, and the show started at 8 PM. Yeah, I know...who does that? We followed up the concert with a trip to a bar in Adam's Morgan, and next thing you know, I've been drinking pretty hard for a stretch of 6 hours.

At my advanced age (well, guess it always was this way), all this alcohol means one thing, I'm gonna have the shits. And like fine clockwork, I'm three shits into the day by noon on Saturday. It's getting raw downtown (sorry to get graphic, this post's only gonna get worse) as I proceed to take two more in the next couple hours.

I bounce back nicely with some Gatorade, and going about my normal day, but the following day, I'm out playing in my football game and my ass is seriously itching me. The itching continues, and sure enough, looks like I have a hemmorroid.

Now, I've probably gotten three hemmorroids in my entire life, and most of the time it's just a mild itching or irritation that I deal with and eventually it goes away. So, I figured this would be the same situation, and just lived with it the rest of the day. And Monday. And Tuesday. By Tuesday afternoon, it's actually hurting to move around, which was new, so I decided to pull the old Austin Powers and determine if, in fact, Preparation H does feel good...on the hole.

Sadly, not the case.

Instead, we've got blood!!! Oh shit, what the F is going on with my ass!!???

I quickly stop using the Prep H and pray for a miracle. But I continue to bleed. By Sunday of the following week, I'm starting to freak out (don't google medical ailments, there's a lot of crazy shit out there) and I do what I rarely ever do, I schedule to see a doctor.

And after all that lead-in, here's the funny part of the story.

So, I head to the doctor on Tuesday morning, and tell her (yeah, that's right) of my symptoms. She decides she's gonna need to take a look so we go to a different examination room. Since she can't apparently be unsupervised with her hands on my ass, another woman in the office is called upon to join the show. Swell.

This other woman appears to be something like a receptionist, but at this point, I really don't give a damn. The doctor instructs her to show me to the room, which is towards the end of the hall. As I walk into the room, there's a second door on the wall to my right and a third door on the back wall that leads to bathroom. In the center of the room, there's a long table, and next to that is all the doctory stuff and tons of lube. Swell.

The doctor tells the "receptionist" to lock the other doors from me, and then tells me to undress and put on a paper blanket, that's folded on the exam table, then she heads out of the room to go do something. The "receptionist" walks over to the door on the right and locks it, then awkwardly fiddles around before exiting the room and closing the door we all entered behind her. Alone in the room, I look towards the open bathroom door and wonder why the doctor said "lock the doors," yet the "receptionist" only locked the door on the right. It's just a bathroom, so I just go about my business, drop my pants, and sat down on the table with the blanket over me.

It's really thin, so my junk kinda showed through, so I tried to lift my legs up a bit, but the blanket was kinda small, so my ass and balls were likely showing. After fiddling for a few minutes, the doctor knocked on the door, I angled to the side keeping most everything covered for the time being, and in she walked with the "receptionist."

After some banter, I lay on my side for the inspection, in a borderline fetal position, with this tiny loin cloth dangling over me as best it can. It is at this moment that I realize why the doctor said "door(s)".

I hear a door opening sound from the bathroom, which is currently wide open and directly in front of me. Within 2 seconds, there's a 70+ year old woman with gray hair, that I remember seeing in the waiting room standing there, looking at me. Unsure what to do, I did what came naturally, I waved and said:

"Hi there, you can go and close that door."

Thankfully, that awkward moment passed without too much incident. Meanwhile, the doctor begins berating the "receptionist", I'm still sprawled out on the table, and with a flush of the toilet, the old woman nicely reopens the door, before exiting the bathroom through the other door she entered.

Oh yeah, don't mind me.

(That's the end of the story. So as not worry anyone, I'm fine-ish. I ended up going to a surgeon on the doctor's request later that afternoon to have a bloodclot removed and biopsied from my ass. If you never have this type of procedure done in your life, consider yourself the luckiest person in the world. I have never taken so much Vicodin, and still I felt pain. A true pain in my ass)

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Your Standard Late Night Genetalia Humor

I know it's been forever, but I had a few funny moments in the past couple days that I wanted to write down so that I wouldn't forget them and so others could read/hear them.

And what else would these final lines have to do with, but genetals. It seems that any respectable night out drinking with friends, this time to celebrate someone's farewell from the DC area, always finds a way to turn to talk of boobs, butts, balls, and bulges. (I know, it was a stretch, but I had a nice trend going).

So there's a bunch of us, all sitting around when someone brings up whether anyone has ever felt fake boobs and how they feel compared to real boobs. Despite my wife sitting right next to me (yes, I'm married now. It has been a long time), I decide to field this one, having had the privelage of feeling two and a half sets of fake boobs in my life (not counting strippers). You're probably thinking to yourself, "a half" and you're just gonna have to keep guessing.

But I digress, after a quick description, and some cross looks from the ladies in attendance, I felt it best to throw out what I felt was a great metaphor, though it was lost on most of the people since we were about 4-6 drinks in by this point...thus my poor decision to field this question in the first place, but I'll get to that. So here's my metaphor:

If someone gives you a glass of orange juice and a glass of apple juice, you can quickly tell that while they're both juice, they're not quite the same. And you can also tell very quickly which one is which. So if someone asks you to compare them, you really can't. I can tell you that this orange juice is better than other orange juices I've tasted, or that I prefer orange juice to apple juice, but you really don't directly compare them.

And that, my friends, is the difference between real boobs and fake boobs. And it is also the original derivation of the term "compare apples to apples."

So, despite this brilliant metaphor being lost on most of the people in attendance, what was not lost on my wife was the fact that I described what fake boobs felt like. She did not find this humorous in the least, and countered that I would not appreciate hearing about her feeling one of her exes penises, to which I countered:

Um, if you hooked up with a guy who had a prosthetic or otherwise enhanced penis, I most certainly would want to hear about that. That's freaking crazy. You only hear about that in porn.

Again, she was not amused.

Moving forward in the night, we somehow get onto the topic of male grooming habits. And from there, it naturally segues into the topic of "manscaping."

For those of you that don't know what this is (and I only recently learned this term after I was confused by the Dos Equis commercial where he doesn't know what this is), manscaping refers to trimming of your pubes in some way shape or form. I haven't figured out if it means shaving it, sculpting it, trimming it, or what, but it has something to do with cutting it in someway. Anyways, I've surprisingly had several friends throw out in passing that they shave the business or otherwise clean up down there, and my immediate response is always, "Why?"

And once again last night, the same answer was given to me:

"Oh, it makes your dick look bigger."

And to that, I had this reply:

"Exactly how big were your pubes??!!!"

And this one pretty much ended my night. A metro ride and some sleep later, and it still amuses me.

Fast forward to this evening and I'm driving with my wife when she apparently scratches herself on her inner thigh. I catch this out of the corner of my eye, and we have this exchange:

Me: What you doing scratching your junk?
Her: I'm not scratching myself and I don't have any junk anyway.
Me: Sorry, what are you doing scratching your junk drawer?

And we laughed. Because you see, well, you put your junk in the...well, you get it. It's just your standard genetalia humor.