I got assaulted this morning. It happened as I was walking to work. It was early, and few people were around at that time. But the sun was shining, and it was a beautiful day. I have to walk about 200 yards from my car to the front door of my office building. I had gone no more than a hundred feet when I rounded a corner and got hit right in the face.

I couldn’t see my assailant at first. My eyes were practically closed from the impact, and I had instinctively turned my head away. Normally my reflexes are pretty good, but in this case they were of little use. The attack was so sudden.

I stumbled a few feet forward, trying to regain my vision. That’s when I saw who attacked me. She was about 50 feet ahead, an older woman, heavy build, black pants, white shirt. She could have been anyone’s grandma, and yet she possessed a weapon of such force and depth that there was no escape for me. I slowed my walk, hoping for a favorable wind change, but it was not to be. I was caught in her perfume vortex, and my fate was sealed.

I found myself wanting to gag. Like a victim in a fire, I stretched my neck, searching in vain for a wisp of unpolluted air, gasping for my life while she walked along casually dispensing her evil vile upon the winds. I saw rabbits scatter. Plants wilted. Leaves on tress suddenly began to fall off. The grass browned. My own life was fading.

Then she turned to cross the street. It took a few minutes but eventually my eyes began to clear. I regained my full sight just in time to step over a fallen rabbit, it’s chest heaving its last breaths. I picked up some petals from a group of flowers that had already turned brown, and scattered them on its poor carcass.

At this point I waited as I watched her saunter into the entrance. I could actually see the faint outline of the perfume death cloud that followed her. I could swear I saw a face form in it, a sneering smile of an image that stared back at me as if to say “Next time will be your last! I will get you!” The windows on the entry doors fogged as she approached them.

I waited until a good breeze came along, then slowly made my way in. The lobby has two paths, left or right. I looked left, and there was a trail of dead plants and stained wall tiles. There were slight scorch marks on the wooden trim, and a freshly dead mouse in the corner, it’s little head upturned in shock. I headed right, and quickly made my way upstairs to my cube where I settled in, and vowed not to leave my desk all day for fear of my life. This is no way to work.

It wasn’t long after I bought my new car years ago when I decided to stop off at a local store to pick up a few things.  At the time, my car was pristine.  I hadn’t even farted in it yet, and it had been several months already.  Believe me, this was tough…there were a few uncomfortably long commutes I had endured during this time. 

When I parked, I instinctively did so at the edge of the lot, well away from the Valley of Lost Carts.  See, this lot had a big dip in the middle, and given that the average schlep who shopped in this neck of the woods couldn’t have a meaningful discussion with a head of cabbage, suffice to say that most people tended to leave their shopping carts wherever they felt like when they were done shopping.  Parking your car in the dip area was like watching a huge magnet suck in every loose cart within a half-mile radius.

So imagine my, um, ‘thoughts’ when I came out and found a cart wedged against my passenger door, with a corresponding “ding” in the side panel.  I wanted to kill.  Or at least maim.  But when I looked, the culprit was of course long gone.

Fast forward to last night, and once again I found myself in this same lot.  With six years and almost 150,000 miles on my car, I wasn’t *that* concerned about door dings anymore, but still, it’s the principle of the thing.  It was dark out, seeing as how it’s winter.  I parked my car in the third slot from the end.  Next to me was an open space, and in the first slot was another car.  My mind was drifting a bit, thinking about the 25 degree weather, and how far away Spring seemed to be.  As I started to walk toward the store, I half-noticed a woman walking the other way.  She was all bundled up against the cold, but that’s about all that registered with me.

Then, in the middle of the road, I stopped.  “Was that a cart she was pushing?”, I thought as I slowly turned.  And sure enough, as I stood there and watched, I saw her remove her one bag from the cart, and then she did it.  Without a second thought, with not a care in the world, she shoved the cart away from her own car…and right down the slope towards mine.

Time stopped for me at this point.  Everything went silent.  No more sounds of cars whizzing by on the road, no wind blowing.  I wasn’t even cold anymore.  Because after six long and unrewarding years, I finally had one.  I had a Cart Pusher Awayer right in front of me, lined up in my sights.  I heard a chorus of heavenly angels singing a song of sweet revenge in my head.

There are things that rarely happen in life.  You never see the guy who cut you off a minute earlier, now pulled over by a cop for speeding.  You never see the bird that just splatted a softball-sized patty of green and white goo all over your newly-washed car.  And you never ever see the person who shoved their cart into your car.

Until now.  What I had laid out before me was divine intervention.  I could already see me years down the road, the judge at my manslaughter trial sanding up and saying “I declare this man INNOCENT!  For Pete’s sake people…he defended himself against a Cart Pusher Awayer!  Set this man FREE!!!”.  And my status as a national hero cemented forever into the annals of world history.  I’d be doing justice for millions of otherwise innocent victims.

As I quickly walked over, solid conviction in my gate, I reached out to stop the cart’s progress.  The woman’s back was turned to me as she was unlocking her door.  I mulled over which option would be the best to savor this moment…ram the cart into HER car?  Just scream and yell like a rabid mad-man?  Smack her upside her stupid head with her…cane?

In an instant, I knew what the Hindenburg must have felt like.  Not the people inside her when she went from a proud beast, floating strong and purposeful above the masses.  But the actual Hindenburg herself, right when everything just…deflated.  For there, inside the cart, was a walking cane.  And not just *any* walking cane.  This one had FOUR support feet on the bottom, the kind that really old people use.

I turned towards the woman, and at that moment she must have realized my presence for she turned as well.  And in her face I saw…terror.  Thirty seconds ago, I would have enjoyed that look like an all-beef hotdog smothered with Jack cheese and spicy mustard, on a warm summer day, with a cold beer, and the sounds of my favorite baseball team beating our arch rivals 21 to 2.  But when I saw her face, all hope of revenge withered away…because this woman had to have been 85 years old.  Maybe 90.  My brain immediately thought of my own grandmother, long gone now, and in my thoughts I melted as I said “Nana?”

There was nothing I could do.  There would be no sweet revenge today.  I smiled as I reached into the cart, and handed the woman her cane, saying “I think you forgot this, ma’am.”  I had one last thought of shoving the cane where the sun don’t shine, but it lasted just a nanosecond.  Her face lit up as she realized I wasn’t going to do bad things, and she smiled and said thanks.  I then through my grinding teeth I smiled and said, “And I’ll return this cart for you.”  She smiled again and said ”Oh thank you so much, you’re so kind!”

As I pushed the cart over to the storage area, I looked up and said “When I get to Heaven, all I want is to give me five minutes alone with a Cart Pusher, deal?”  As I continued, I suddenly paused, looked up again and said, “I *am* getting to Heaven, right?  I mean, I should be all set based on this one incident alone, right?  TALK TO ME!!”

I didn’t get an answer.  I returned the cart, bundled up against the cold and the noise, and thought about Spring.

I love going to the local Wal Mart.  It’s like entering a cultural black hole, one that has sucked in all the slightly odd (and just plain rude) people in the area.  Shopping there never ceases to amaze me. 

As I parked my car, I noticed a typical Wal Mart woman…middle aged, overweight, wearing stretch pants, and smoking a foot-long cigarette.  It was probably dangling from her mouth while she was checking out, and no doubt she fired that sucker up just as soon as she stepped through the exit.  She had one bag in her cart.  One, small, lightweight bag.  Why you need an entire cart to carry a bag that a Chihuahua could carry is beyond me.

But the best part was what she did with the cart.  She was parked in the row that was right across from the entrance.  Keeping with the Chihuahua reference (because I like trying to spell that word), her car was all of 30 Chihuahua’s away from the store.  She was parked right next to a handicapped slot, which was empty.  About 20 little dogs away, and right next to the store exit, was the return area for shopping carts.

Anyone who had graduated kindergarten (which may have been a stretch for this charmer) would see that you could easily drop off the cart, grab your one, single, stinking, lightweight bag (which probably just had a week’s worth of Little Debbie cakes and cigs in it), and walk to your car. 

Not this woman though.  Nope, she pushed the cart right to her car door, lifted her ONE BAG out of it (with ease), put the bag in the car, and then looked around to see who was watching as she wheeled the cart to the handicapped space next to her.  And left it there.

Now you had to imagine the layout.  Granted, the handicapped spot was about 10-12 little dogs away from her car, but she had to do a couple of tight turns to get from the driver’s side back over to the passenger side.  The cart return area, by contrast, was about 20 dog aways, but it was almost a straight line.

But being Wal Mart, I could imagine a guy pulling up in a big SUV with a handicapped sticker hanging from his mirror.  And I could see him easily hop out of his rig, land on the ground, hop on over, move the cart (swearing as he did it), and then jump back into his SUV with no apparent pain or disability as he pulled in.

Anyway, I head into the store, and first thing I notice is I can’t find any of those hand-held shopping baskets.  When I ask where they are, I’m told that they had to stop offering them because the locals kept stealing them.  Now I ask you, why the hell would you steal a Wal Mart hand basket?  Do people actually use them like some half-assed storage bin thing, like what you’d get at Ikea?

As I look around, there’s the usual mish-mash of humanity.  The most common theme is an overuse of stretch pants (most of which are in fact ‘stretched’), and chubby kids hanging around the chips aisle, or over in electronics displaying their most prevalent skill…playing the latest Playstation game on the demo consoles.

I was in search of table cloths, and a badminton set.  I kept an eye open for the tablecloths aisle as I headed back towards the sports section.  I found the aisle, and at the far end was a middle-aged blonde woman.  Even in a Wal Mart, she looked out of place.  Too much make-up, odd clothes that seemed more suited for a teenager, and even at the far end of the aisle I could tell she had dunked her head in a running fountain of Channel #1 (that was the first batch that they immediately threw away until they refined things enough to get to #5).

I kept going, but had trouble finding my badminton set, so I got help from an employee.  He showed me where the sets were, right next to the guns and ammo.  Makes sense I guess, if you’re a redneck and you often have combative family events where games of badminton turn into gunfights.  I also wanted a basketball, so I had to go hunt for one of those.

Obviously it took a few minutes to get back to the tablecloth aisle, which is why I was surprised to see the blonde woman was still there, pretty much in the same leaned-over pose I saw her in before.  I began to look for a tablecloth, and so I was right next to her.  She immediately began to move, finally.  Did I wake her up?  Was she having a staring contest with a particularly nasty paisley-patterned table cloth?

Sadly, that’s when I realized she had some type of disability, as she was moving very slowly.  My eyes began to water, but not from pity…apparently I was right about her cheap perfume bathing habit.  Regardless, I felt bad as she struggled to shift her cart around to get into the main aisle.  I saw that her cart was empty, and figured she probably used it only to balance herself.  Still, this was Wal Mart, so my guard was up.

I said, “Excuse me, do you need any help?”

I regretted my offer as soon as she looked up at me.  All I could see was seething hatred in her eyes.  Then she started to speak, but all that came out was how pissed off she was that she couldn’t even park in the $#!@$ handicapped zone because some asshole had left a cart right in the way.

I backed away, slowly, like you’d step away from a rabid bear.  Never, ever offer anyone any help in a Wal Mart.  Ever.  Even if you have training in social services.  There are just way too many sharp objects laying around.

I quickly grabbed two tablecloths, not even caring what color they were, and made my way to the registers.  I like to use the Lawn and Garden exit, even though the lines can be long sometimes.  In this case they had both registers open, and there was only one cart at each.  I saw a woman with two kids pushing a cart ahead of me.  She was headed to the register on the right, but then she veered away.  I could have gone past her and taken that register, but hey, both carts ahead of us looked like they had the same amount of stuff, so I went left instead.

If there was a way that I could link my BAD luck in choosing the right checkout line, with some corresponding GOOD luck in picking lottery numbers, I’d be a freakin millionaire.  Apparently, the woman in front of ME had a daughter who managed to convince Mommy to buy her over 45 of these little, metallic container things.  Not sure what they were, and I really didn’t care. 

What I cared about was how the checkout girl felt the need to scan every, single last one of them.  Even though they all appeared to be the same thing to me.  I mean, maybe it’s me, and Lord knows I’m a whacky kinda guy, but I think I’d COUNT UP all the little dumb-ass metallic things FIRST, and then punch that number into the fancy register machine thingie and enter them ALL AT ONCE!!!

But hey, maybe for inventory purposes she had to do it this way.  So I resigned myself to my fate, while I sat there and looked over at the register on the right.  The woman with the 2 kids was long gone, already checked out.  So was the guy who came in behind her.  And the third cart was wrapping up business. 

Meanwhile I have some impatient guy behind ME nattering on a cell phone. And he keeps popping around my side, apparently to see WTF is holding up the show, all the while talking.  Of course, this is Wal Mart, so the guy is speaking a foreign language.  I have no idea what he’s saying, but my hunch is it was something along the lines of “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right there.  I’m just stuck in line at Wal Mart while some idiot in front of me checks out a shitload of these stupid, little, metal things.”

I finally get my turn, and here’s what I’m checking out – one basketball, two badminton racquets (in their own little carry bags), and two small packages of table cloths.  Now, I’m no psycho environmentalist out there burning down multi-million dollar homes because they infringe on nature and aren’t eco-friendly enough, but I domy part.  Which includes limiting my usage of plastic bags.

So when I get to the register, and I’m easily carrying all this stuff in my arms (no cart), I make sure to mention that I don’t need a bag.  She puts my basketball in its own bag anyway.  When she hands it to me, I take it out of the bag, and again say I don’t need a bag.  Like the good, little automaton she is, she grabs the table cloths, and puts them in the same bag I just emptied.

I gave up at that point.  Besides, it’s probably corporate policy that everything be bagged. I can picture someone tripping outside on a baseball that they said didn’t need to be bagged, and suing the company for millions…$20k for medical, and the rest for ‘pain and suffering’ (bad dreams about baseballs each night preventing them from holding down a job, and the only cure apparently is frequent trips to the Caribbean, and the local Indian gambling casino.  Oh, and a lifetime supply of stretch pants).

I had a paper route when I was a kid.  I was always good with animals, so I had a pretty good relationship with all the dogs on my route.  Except for the White Death Poodle.  This dog hated my guts.  When I would put the paper in the mailbox at the road, there he’d be at the window, snapping and snarling to the point where his mouth foamed.  If it wasn’t for the fact that he was only as big as a football, and, well, a white foo-foo poodle, I’d actually have been afraid.  But I had seen too many Monty Python skits, and like the famed attack rabbit, I did worry that this little shit would launch itself at my jugular if it ever got the chance.

Luckily I rarely had to go near the house.  The old lady that lived there always left her payment in the box where I would put the paper. But every day as I put that paper in there, Cujo the Poodle would do his best to try and get out to attack me.

One day, he got his chance.  The lady forgot to put her money out, so I had to go to the house.  Of course the Death Poodle was at the window, growling away like crazy.  But as soon as I set foot on the property he somehow managed to kick it up a few notches.  His yipping got guttural, and became a near constant growl, like a beast that knows his quarry is doomed.  The old lady was there at the door, and that’s when I saw the dog slither down from the window as he headed towards the door, glaring at me the whole way.

Sure enough, when the lady opened the door, out came the poodle.  He wasted no time, immediately latching his jaws onto my pant leg while he yanked from side to side, snarling and growling the whole time.  My football analogy came to mind as I contemplated just how far I could kick this little turd, while I simultaneously wondered why this dog despised me so much.

The answer became clear shortly after I handed the lady her paper.  She professionally rolled the paper up into a little baseball bat, hauled her arm back, and began to beat the living snot out of this poodle with it.

As the dog whimpered and scampered back into the house, with the old lady chasing after him, screaming, newspaper raised above her head, I finally understood the dogs anger towards me.

I live in fear of Fred the Mail Guy.  It’s true.  It doesn’t matter that I am a high-ranking member of the IT group at a major business.  It doesn’t matter that I am a certified Microsoft professional.  It doesn’t matter that I was once a cliff diver (literally meaning I dove, er…jumped off a cliff into the water that was, um, all of 15 feet below me…technically, I *still* cliff dove!)

Fred’s a great guy, a really nice man.  You just have to look beyond the fact that he talks to himself.  And spits.  It’s not his fault.  He’s kind of like my dog…meaning he’s slightly ‘bent’.  He’s like a soup spoon, but with holes.  Like a TV remote where the buttons don’t match the labels, and it actually controls other things.  You think you’re pressing ‘On’, when in fact you just activated the rinse cycle on the dishwasher.

That’s the way it is with Fred.  You never know what you’re gonna get.  Except for the spit.  THAT”S guaranteed.  He just gets so excited when he starts rambling on about his favorite sports teams.  It’s the physics of it all.  He has a drool issue, and when you combine that with a lisp, it’s splatter city.  The only safe way to have a long chat with him is if you are wearing a raincoat.  And one of those blood-spatter shields doctors wear is a good idea too.

But the sports chats are what cause me my fear.  If Fred gets you cornered, you might as well start making plans to pee in your pants, because chances are you’re going to be there a while.  You can’t escape from him, and if you try you run the risk of pissing him off.  And yet if you stay and he thinks you’re interested, he could start thinking that you’re now buddies.

What I learned shortly after starting here is that there’s an internal mafia-like protection system that operates under the covers.  You have to pay for certain ‘services’, and one of the most popular is known as Escape From Fred.  You see, the only real way to end one of his one-sided spit chats is to have a sudden excuse.  But it has to be good.  Lighting your hair on fire when Fred isn’t looking probably won’t get you excused…he’l l talk right through your screams (and, chances are, the spit will put the flames out anyway).

So what you do is hire a protector whose job it is to keep an eye out for when Fred has you cornered.  If this happens, your protector is supposed to come by and say something like “Server A, the one that handles all of the company paychecks, just crashed!  We need you NOW!”  That’s the only escape, and it has to be good.

The problem is that I get in early, and so does Fred.  The issue is when I go to get my tea.  I have to run the gauntlet out to the main hallway where the water dispenser is, and where Fred makes his rounds of doom.  I often hum the Mission Impossible theme as I slink around the cube walls, peering down the hall for Fred, listening for any sounds from his wobbly mail cart, my heart racing…

And so it is…I can brave endless status reports, I can tackle sudden server issues, I can breeze through doing live presentations about potential projects I know will never be funded but we invest hours anyway talking about what we’re not going to do.  But I am humbled by Fred, and his Spittle Death Ray.

 I discovered a new invention, and it’s going to make me rich.  It’s a simple thing that will solve one of the major dilemmas of drivers everywhere.  It may even bring world peace.

Like most inventions, mine happened purely by accident.  There I was, making my way along in the center-lane of a 3-lane highway, trying my best to avoid taking any part in the daily mess that is the Afternoon Commute (aka the “Idiot and A-Hole Parade”).  I don’t drive slow, but I don’t drive fast either (unless I get in the passing lane…in which case I do that most rare and unusual thing…I actually PASS people).

When I can, I prefer to mind my own business when I commute, and stay as far away as possible from the Retard Factor.  One of my favorite RF scenarios is the Creeper in the Passing Lane.  This is the guy who either refuses to accept the reality that some people drive like NASCAR wannabes, or he’s well-aware of it, and likes to try and slow them all down.  What he does is park his ass in the PASSING lane, and go just a little bit faster than the cars in the middle lane.

This has two main effects.  One, it REALLY pisses off the NASCAR / Starbucks-Infused crowd.  These are the people who ‘absolutely, positively have to be there in the next few seconds’.  They show about the same level of patience as Donald Trump would with an unattractive female contestant on “The Apprentice”.

The other effect is that it pisses off ME.  Why?  Because I’m usually in the middle lane, (minding my own business, remember?).  Normally, I’m semi-content.  But like most people, I don’t like being boxed in.  So while I’m sitting contentedly in the MIDDLE lane, here comes The Creeper.  And he’s got about 30 cars in his wake, all jockeying around like agitated hornets, buzzing in and out of all three lanes in a frenzied attempt to get around this idiot.  Traffic is somewhat heavy, but moving.

Now, I don’t like to be caught up in this stuff.  Generally-speaking, I like to side-step tornados…rumor has it that they kind of suck.  If this guy was going the typical speed in the passing lane, I’d probably be OK.  But here’s what usually happens – as Zucchini-Brain gets closer, traffic ahead of me invariably slows down drastically (for no apparent reason other than the fact that *I* have arrived). 

I could cut over to the PASSING lane, but right at that moment the idiot is now on my left, having decided that this would be a good time to speed up a little.  Besides, I’ve lost count of the number of times that I have lost my patience and tooled into the passing lane pushing 90, only to see a State Trooper materialize out of the nether.  I swear I can make the law appear just by THINKING about running a yellow light.

So now I’m in the thick of it.  Mr. Clueless is slowly leading an entire pack of really angry wolves, several of which are now stacked up right behind me like I’m a slow guy at Daytona.  I myself can’t go anywhere due to the now-slower traffic in front of me, but that doesn’t matter…I’m now bearing the brunt of the mess that the Idiot slowly pulling away on my left created.

Tailgating is perhaps one of the more annoying things anyone could do to me.  I’m fairly certain I could be the sole adult at a day-care center for aspiring Bart Simpson’s, and come out of it less aggravated than being tailgated in situations where there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.  I always wonder what’s going through the pea-brains of these idiots while I sit there counting the hairs on their faces.  Do they expect me to just start plowing into the cars in front of me, all so THEY can go faster?  I can’t even pull out of their way due to the traffic.  And they took away my rear-mount RPG hookup, so I can’t just blow them up, tempting as it is.

That’s where my new invention comes in…The Tailgate Buster.  As I continued to drive along, I saw a few cars ahead of me swerve a bit.  This usually indicates some type of road debris.  Most times it’s harmless.  I love it when somebody drastically alters the path of their 4,000 pound SUV tooling along at 75 mph because they almost hit a plastic grocery bag. 

In this case it turned out to be a big ball of black twine.  It was fluttering about loosely enough as cars went by it, which implied it was lightweight, so I ruled out the chance that it was some type of cable.  It was definitely in the “string” category.  Given the fact that if I swerved to avoid it I would probably cause a 20-car pileup, I opted to run right over it.
That’s when the fun began, because it apparently got stuck under my car somewhere.  But it was an end-piece that got stuck, not the main ball of twine itself.  The main ball of twine began to play out behind me, reaching a length of about 30-40 feet or so before it knotted up.  I was now ‘towing’ a spastic ball of twine.

I immediately noticed an effect…the cars behind me BACKED OFF.  It was as if I was dragging a small nuclear device.  People scattered faster than what happens when a stranger yells “HELP” in New York City.  All these macho guys who moments ago were ready to scrape the chrome off my bumper were now retreating in the face of…a killer ball of twine.
So for the rest of my drive home I sat back and smiled as my twine gleefully skittered from side to side behind me, keeping the Idiots and A-Holes at bay, while I mused over the various names under which I would market my new invention.

It all started innocently enough.  I was at my doctor’s office to get a pain in my foot checked out.  As per the usual quality of HMO’s in these fine United States, I had spent over five minutes just trying to make the appointment, I had to leave work thirty minutes early to get there, I arrived five minutes early, then sat in the waiting room for fifteen minutes, all so I could get about three minutes and twenty-five seconds worth of quality health care from my doc.

I’m kind of excited actually, because at this rate I will earn my “100 Minutes With My Doctor” mug before I reach 70.

So we were chatting away about my foot…

Me:  “Doc, it hurts when I walk on it.”
Doc:  “Does it hurt when I do this?”  (presses hard where it hurts)
Me:  “Tell you what, let me put a pair of forceps around your nuts, then repeat that little procedure you just did.”

At the end of my visit, he asked me if anything else was giving me any trouble.  In retrospect, this was one of those classic “Shoulda kept my mouth shut” moments.

I casually mentioned that I had seen blood in my crap a couple of times.

I guess this was kind of like when Keanu Reeves in the first Matrix movie mentioned his déjà vu incident.  My doc immediately sprung into action, and before I knew it I was all signed up for my first colonoscopy.

Colonoscopy…such an innocent word.  Whatever happened to the simple language that is so often ascribed to Native Americans?  Why can’t they just call it what it is…Long Hose Inserted Up Ass.

Over the next few weeks I became more familiar with my impending probing.  I learned about the procedure itself, including every thing I could expect during the operation.  I even had an initial consult at the office of the doctor who would be performing this little diddy on me.

I also learned about Trilyte…with flavor packs.  And I quickly became aware of a pattern…no one who has ever had this done really recalls the procedure itself, but they sure remember the alien skank fluid called Trilyte that they had to drink as part of the prep.

Trilyte is another one of those medical misnomers.  I have a few other, more appropriate names for the stuff.  Like how about:

Bowel Flush
Rotten Egg Surprise
Kolon Klense
Rectum Purge

I don’t fully know what Trilyte is, but I sure know what it does.  It came as a powder in a four-liter jug.  I mixed it up the night before, along with my flavor pack of choice. I picked Lemon Lime. 

When I had my first drink of the bowel wonder juice, I was reminded of an old axiom: shit…sprinkled with a little bit of flavoring…is still shit.

The whole point, of course, is to flush out your digestive tract.  There are obvious reasons for this, but in retrospect I think I would have preferred if they could have just stuck a blow hose down my throat and forced my cavities clean that way instead.

It took about 3-4 glasses before I felt the first twinge in my nether regions.  The next thing I learned is that you don’t get a whole heck of a lot of time between “twinge” and “sploosh”.

When I felt the first rumblings, I was sitting on the couch.  I thought “Wow, that stuff works kind of fast.”  Seconds later I was scrambling for the can, almost running in a half-bent position.  Along the way I was looking for possible alternative locations to deposit my load, because I figured I wouldn’t make it.  One of the larger potted plants in the entryway was barely spared a rather gruesome fate while I briefly admired the broad rim of its container.

That first ‘expulsion’ was a work of art.  Trilyte really is some type of wonder fluid that will take whatever is in your bowels, break it down into some type of amorphous goo, and then force it all out at once in a mini enema explosion that could probably clear twenty feet or more if all you did was step outside, bend over, and aim. 

I could probably make a small fortune if I set up some big canvases outside as targets.  I could create truly unique ‘frescos’.  I mean why not?  They sell that crap that elephants paint, don’t they?

When I was done, I didn’t know if I should flush my toilet, or administer last rites.  Were it not for the holding tank, I’m not sure I would have even recognized it.  I could have sworn I saw a blueberry or two in there, which is really impressive since I ate my last one over 24 hours prior.  I didn’t want to think about where those little suckers had been hiding all this time.

This pattern repeated for the next several hours.  I just set up shop in the bathroom…figured that was easier.  If it had gone on much longer I was going to run some cable in there so I could at least watch TV.

Finally, it was time to go.

Now, nothing against those people who see long objects around them and say to themselves, “Hmmmm…I wonder how that would feel stuff up my coo?”, but I really wasn’t relishing this whole tube-up-my-ass deal.  I mean really…is there such a thing as a gay plumber?  Because I would think it would be too tempting to be surrounded by all that tubular paraphernalia day in and day out, not too mention those retractable pipe cleaning things.  Ew!

So as my way of voicing my protest at this entire event, I downloaded three little “signs” from the Internet.  I printed them, then cut each one out.  Next, I had Melissa tape each one to my backside, just above the target zone.

The signs said:

“DANGER:  Trail Closed”
“STOP:  No Spectators Beyond This Point”

And my favorite:
“Do Not Enter:  Dogs Running Free Inside”

I’m sure people have done similar things.

When we arrived they did the pre-op check in, and then I was taken to the patient area.  I was told to strip down and put on a hospital gown.  Somebody has got to invent a better model of the classic hospital gown.  Calling these things a gown is like calling a thong a pair of shorts.

After setting up an IV, I was given a briefing by the nurse.  One of the things she put a lot of emphasis on was the fact that I would feel very bloated.  She kept saying “Don’t be ashamed to blow those bunnies out”, and “When you feel a little gas, just push those little bunnies right outta there.”

OK, not for anything, but when I’m visiting a doctor’s office to have a tube shoved up my coo for the first time in my life, hearing analogies about the possibility of fuzzy, little bunny rabbits ALSO being stuffed up there doesn’t help my overall motivation factor.  I mean really…is there some line of children’s books out there that explains flatulence by depicting cartoon bunnies popping out of little kids’ buttholes???

I was next taken to the room where the probing would commence.  I told the doc that if he finds Hoffa, all he gets is a finders fee.

It was at this point that they gave me the anesthesia, and for the rest of the procedure I was in happy happy unconscious land.  As for the whole tube thing, it’s greatly overrated as I was pretty much running on one brain cell, and never felt a thing.

When it was all done and I began to come out of it, it would be a stretch to say that I was ‘conscious’.  I don’t remember too many details.  My wife was there, and I was still in my gown.  Apparently at one point the nurse was telling me to get dressed, and I misinterpreted this to mean lay on my side because they were going in again.  Guess I didn’t mind it after all!

We had planned to go to a local Italian place for food afterward, and this is where things got REALLY interesting.  You see, one of the things they do when they probe you is to blow air up inside you.  Guess this helps expand the colon, and give the doc more room.

Thing is though, if there’s anybody out there on this big planet of ours who really should not be subjected to yet more ‘air’ blown up his ass, it would be me.  As Melissa can readily attest, there’s already a healthy volume of air that comes OUT of my ass…there’s really no need to pump in any more to the mix.

So there we are at this little eatery, surrounded by other couples and families.  In particular there was a family of four, including two young boys.  My state of being is pretty much akin to being three sheets to the wind, and I’m not really aware of too much beyond my own drool.

But, I knew I had a gas problem, and I was ‘sober’ enough to stumble my way to the men’s room, whereupon I entered the one and only stall, and sat down.

Shortly after I sat down, I heard the door open.  This was followed by the unmistakable sound of two young boys standing at the urinals.

Being who I am, and recognizing that these fine lads are at an impressionable age, I began to quite deliberately release huge volumes of all that extra air that was stuffed up my ass waiting to come out.

I felt bad for one of these kids because he clearly was having allergy problems, or perhaps he had a cold.  I could tell because I literally heard the snot come out his nose as he and his brother tried in vain to control their laughter.  Which of course only made them laugh harder, at which point I proceeded to fart harder.  They couldn’t take it any more and ran in hysterics back to their Mom and Dad.

Apparently it was quite the show because they were still laughing when I came out.  And pointing, of course.  It seemed like the whole place was wondering what was so funny, and I just stood there grinning like a drunk fool.  It crossed my mind to perhaps do an encore for a wider audience, but I either fell back into my seat, or Melissa kicked me out of sheer embarrassment.

The final phase of my story happened on the way out.  After attracting a whole lot of undue attention, and still stumbling, we walked out just as a cop was coming in.  Great…just what we need!  In my state I’m sure I would have gone out of my way to explain that I wasn’t drunk, but that I had just had a tube stuffed up my ass, and did the nice officer want me to show him for proof?

We managed to make it home, and luckily I went the whole way without another gas attack.  Which is a good thing because Melissa probably would have dumped me by the side of the road.

Our dog Mickey is such a joy to have around.  That’s what I tell people anyway.  In reality, he’s evil and he hates me.  How do I know this?  Because he torments me, and no one realizes it.  It’s worse than a bratty kid sticking his tongue out at you while in his Mommy’s oblivious arms.

I know what you’re thinking…he’ s a dog, you idiot.  Dogs run around, pant a lot, shed, chase cats, and drool.  They don’t concoct clandestine plans of constant revenge and games of mild torture.

Oh, but you are so very, very wrong.  THIS dog does just exactly that, and he’s damn good at it too.  Here’s one sample:

We have a small pillow for him set up in front of the TV.  When he’s not constantly berating us to throw him his slimy, little toy for the umpteen-billionth time, he lays on the pillow.  But he doesn’t just lay down.  Instead he proceeds to immediately partake of that time-honored male doggie pastime that is the source of much jealousy in their brethren’s human world – he licks his balls.

Now, I realize that my own inherent jealousy may be clouding my judgment here a bit.  It certainly looks that way on paper at least.  Dog licks balls…I yell at dog…therefore I yell because if *I* can’t do it, then *he* can’t do it.  Seems logical I suppose, but there’s more to it than that.

The issue is the WAY in which he, um…’grooms&r squo; himself.  You ever happen to be around a cow when she’s licking up her newborn’s cud?  It sounds like she’s slurping up jellied road kill.  And that’s EXACTLY what my dog sounds like.

HOW he manages to do this is beyond me, which leads exactly to my point…the “physics” of the sound he makes just aren’t there.  I mean, there’s no freakin CUD!  So how the hell does a dog make that damn sound?  I’ll tell you how…the little shit PRACTICED until he got it just right, knowing full well it can take the enjoyment out of whatever we’re trying to do at the moment (which often is trying to eat).

Why does he do this?  It’s simple…we stopped playing with him.  You are not allowed to stop playing with He Who Must Be Played With, for as soon as we do, he resorts to the commencement of The Licking of the Gonads.  It’s a cunning ploy to annoy the piss out of us, and force us into more toy-tossing.

Naturally I yell at him to stop whenever he does this.  At which point he looks directly at me, and then starts licking his paws.  The look says it all…”Listen, just because YOU can’t pleasure yourself this way doesn’t give you the right to deny ME of it.  But since you’re yelling, I’ll just push your buttons a little more and lick my paws instead.”

So I yell again, and what do you suppose the bastard does next?  He starts to lick his pillow.  It’s like “Hel-looooo???  ; You’re 9 years old!!!  The teen years are over, so CUT THE REBELLIOUS CRAP!!!!”

I yell once more…he looks my way with dagger-eyes…grunts a doggie “Harumph”, and then finally lays down.

You’d think that would be the end of it, but if you start counting you will see a new pattern emerge.  In a little while he will dream up some excuse to bark at something, which 99.9% of the time is actually nothing.  But doing so gives him the excuse to get up and rush to my wife’s feet, ostensibly to protect her from whatever he barked at.

Thanks Mickey, but you just barked at a dust ball…I may be going out on a limb here but I’d say that we’re all pretty safe from harm at the moment.

Now that he managed a coy excuse to get his ass off his pillow, this frees him up to begin his usual attention-sucking routine in which he moves back and forth between me and my wife, getting as much attention as our arms can endure.  If we stop for just an instant he immediately nudges our arm (with a cold wet nose of course) as a gentle reminder that his needs are not being fully met.  Truth be told I think a nuclear-powered auto-petting machine that ran 24 x 7 would still not fill his “needs”.

Once he realizes that Attention Time is fading, then he moves onto Slobbery Plush Toy time.

Do you see where this is going?  This story started out mentioning toys.  And guess what?  That brings us back to the beginning of the cycle.

Dog lays down.
Dog commences cud-licking.
Dad yells at dog.
Dog licks paws.
Dad yells at dog.
Dog licks pillow.
Dad yells at dog.
Dog flips off Dad, grunts “F-you”, and lays down.
Dog barks at leaf that fell from tree in neighbors yard two houses over, thinks there’s some risk, gets up and goes to Mom.

And it goes on…and on…and on…

The thing is, I KNOW what he’s up to, and I know the he knows that *I* know, and I know he does it knowing that it torments me.

Man’s best friend my ass.

I have an unhealthy relationship with my toilet.  I think we need each other, in some warped, symbiotic way.

On my end (no pun intended), I really find it hard to do a good dump anywhere else but on my own little throne of human detritus.  Even when I have to go at work, it’s a struggle.  I have to squeeze so hard I feel like a vital organ’s gonna pop out.  It would be just my luck to give myself an aneurism while on the crapper…such a noble end.  I can hear the epitaphs now:

Here Lies Pooped Out.

Dumped His Last Load

Shit Out Of Luck

I bet even Aunt Edna would get in on the fun…”He looked so flushed last time I saw him”, as she stifles a chuckle.

That’s OK auntie…if you begin to notice a mysteriously high number of occasions when you discover the toilet paper roll is empty right when you need it the most, think of me.

But seriously, if I’m away from home, I can go days without leaving any racing stripes on any toilets anywhere.  In fact my body doesn’t even seem to need to go at all.  It seems to ‘know’ that ‘The Toilet’ isn’t in the vicinity, so it goes into some type of catatonic state.  Inside, somebody has flipped the old Crap switch to the off position.

Now, I know this isn’t healthy, so often times wherever I am I go and sit anyway, just to give it a try.  I find I have to play mind games.  You know, like I try and sneak up on my bowel movement.  I pretend I’m not interested in dumping, and I sit as relaxed as I can.  Sometimes I whistle.

Then, when my body least expects it, I do a major squeeze hoping to catch it off-guard.  But it never works.  Best case is this little marble-sized thing that looks like it came from a rabbit pops out.  It can be so embarrassing too, especially if the guy next to me is making noises akin to the sound of a logging chute as tree after tree splashes into the river.  Meanwhile there I am squeezing so hard my eyes are bulging, and all you can hear is “squeak”, followed by the tiniest of plops.

So what usually happens is I go for several days or more of nothing.  But my diet doesn’t really change.  I still take in the same excessive amount of food each day.  So where the hell does it all go??  It’s scary to think of it.  If I ever get killed in some accident, my body will probably discharge days and days worth of crap.  Ug.

Now, whenever my time away from home is up, that’s when the fun starts.  For all of the time I have been away, not a single cheek twinge has occurred, nor barely even a stomach grumble.  But no sooner do I begin to make the journey back towards home, the Gotta Crap switch begins to turn on.

It’s like my ass has toilet radar…like it has some genetic predisposition which allows it to sense the fact that the return trip has begun.  I almost wonder sometimes what would happen if I could somehow levitate my body…I’m willing to bet that my ass would find its ‘own’ way home by following the constant pull of porcelain…ITS porcelain…like a salmon returning to spawn.

The ‘pull’ gets stronger the closer I get to home, which can make whatever mode of transportation I am using very uncomfortable.  Trust me, after three days or more of lots of intake with no corresponding output, I can’t even take the risk of squeezing out a small fart to relieve the discomfort.  There’s just way too much stuff backed up in there to risk any cheek openings unless I am seated firmly on an oval ring.

I even did an experiment once…halfway home I promptly turned around and headed the other way for several miles.  Sure enough I could feel the need begin to fade.

By the time I do get home, I walk the stairs up to the house looking like I’ve been in the saddle for a week straight.  Unpacking can come later…right now I have some ‘special’ unpacking to do.  And sure enough, no sooner does cheek touch porcelain then the explosion begins.

And once again, my ass is content…if I ever get rich, I think I will arrange to have my toilet shipped with me and temporarily installed wherever I go, even if it’s on an African safari.  At least that way I’d be able to vacation longer…