Brow-Beaten....

In my never-ending quest to humiliate myself in a public forum (my pope-like self-flagellation by blog) and in the interest of full disclosure, I reveal to you my latest indignity...

I got my eyebrows did.

You read that right. Dye. On my fucking eyebrows. To make them look darker. See, at an age when most dudes' brows start sprouting like those of, say, a James Whitmore or a Sean Connery, mine are looking more and more like those of a Whoopi Goldberg or a Mike Nichols before putting on his body merkins. They're fading to nothingness -- my family can't even tell when I'm surprised anymore.

So I went to my haircutterlady, with whom I already have issues, and kindly asked her to give me a nice, gentle B.J. -- a Brow Job.

So, she slapped some jizz on my invisibrows, cut my hair and then wiped said jizz off my head just before what little browage I had left burst into flames. I'm telling ya, if getting one's brows burns like that then the anal bleaching I was planning on in the spring is definitely OUT!

She did mention that the skin under my brows would be stained for a day or so, which explains why people have been stopping me on the street to ask if I'm Brooke Shields' special brother.

But today they're looking pretty fucking sweet. The area between my eyeballs and my forehead feels 15 years younger! I don't know... you be the judge:

A Boy & His Dog...

Mr. Z and Grover have been practicing, this winter...

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The Wedge of Night...

"I haven't had a single night of acid reflux since buying the wedge pillow. Definitely worth every penny!" -- Signed, Stew McAcid

My reflux situation was getting so hein-ass that I was becoming desperate. I had resorted to trolling heartburn message boards to find an elusive magic bullet and noticed that a lot of threads discussed these wedge pillows that elevate one's head so the stomach acid doesn't bubble up into one's esophagus while sleeping.

What the shit... why not?! The heartburn relief tea I got was total fuckshit and the dickfers who got me to drink pickle juice had pretty much succeeded in burning another hole or two in my already hole-ridden digestive system. Fucking pickle juice. Assholes!

So I drove on over to Bed, Bath & Bewildered and picked up the "Bed Wedge Pillow" for $29.99:



Looks harmless enough, right? The Old Lady guffawed in my face when I lugged that thing into the house. I told her, "Laugh it up, sister! You're lucky this is only reflux I'm dealing with. It won't be long before I'm coming home with support hose and one of them toilet-chair contraptions!"

Cut to midnight and I'm lying down on my new wedge, ready for an acid-free, cozy journey into slumberland.

How did it go? Well, here's a photo of me getting out of bed this morning:



FUCK THE WEDGE PILLOW! Holy crapstain that thing ripped me multiple new ones. I would've been better off sleeping in a wheelbarrow... filled with anvils... and snakes. I swear to shit I can barely stand up straight now. I tried to take a piss today and I literally could not look down to see if I was even getting it anywhere near the bowl. I think both of my clavicles are broken. And if you ever had a desire to sneak up on me, do it now, 'cuz I couldn't turn my fucking neck if my life depended on it.

But you know what... my reflux wasn't as bad today...

GERD Dammit!

The Old Lady's out of town 'til Sunday night, so it's me, the Spawnage and Cujo for the entire weekend. I can already taste the stomach acid bubbling up into the back of my throat.

Literally.

A couple of months before we moved to the Mitten, back in "aught four," I started getting some really heinous reflux. I'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling like Fred G. Sanford having "the biggie," which freaked me the shit out until I finally went to a gastro doc who said it was most likely reflux. Just to be sure, he knocked me out, snaked a tube down my esophagus and, when I woke up, I was pregnant. No, wait... wrong story.

When I woke up, he said I had GERD, or Gastro-Esophogeal Reflux Disease. Better known as heartburn. And it didn't take no highfalutin' poo-poo doctor to tell me that I was getting it because I was stressed out. Then again, I get stressed out if my morning bowel movement arrives a few minutes late, so...

The doc prescribed me some Zegerid, the magic anti-reflux pill, and I've been GERD-free (as free as the wind blows...) ever since. That is, until it kicked back into high gear last week. I started waking up with the burn-y, scratchy throat, and my teeth hurt and it felt like someone was cranking a car jack on my sternum, from the inside. You know, the usual.

So now I'm stalking around like fucking Columbo, trying to figure out what the shit is causing it. Is it from the all the wine we've been drinking with dinner, lately? Maybe. Was it all the rich foodstuffs I crammed into my facepipe over Xmas break? Perhaps. Did the dog shit in my mouth while I was sleeping? Probably.

Whatever the reason, I'm doing all this fucked up shit to try to fix it. I'm sleeping on a bunch of pillows so my head is higher than my stomach. Does it help? Well, if fucking up my lower back beyond repair is helping, then yes. I'm downing handfuls of Gaviscon at bed which is supposed to form some foamy barrier in front of one of my many faulty sphincters to keep the acid from a-backin' on up. I don't know if that's helping but, between all the aluminum and sodium it has in it, I'll be too worried about my early-onset Alzheimer's and my gigantic goiter to care about some goddamn reflux.

I'm also analyzing every fucking thing I put in my mouth. Can I eat a grape? Hmm... I don't know. Grapes could be the culprit. Better not! How about an apple? That could either fix it or burn a hole in my esophagus. Tough call. I think I'll just play it safe and eat three sleeves of saltines and drink a jar of pickle juice... from now until I die.

Which may just be sometime between now and Sunday night.

IM-barrassed...

Mr. Z got home from school today and wanted to do some noodling on the computer, so he turned on my laptop upstairs while I was toiling away in the basement. Apparently, the laptop was still logged in to my Google account because a friend, we'll call her Ms. M, tried to IM me. I was working on my Mac, though, and, thus, she was IM'ing Mr. Z, instead. Here's their conversation:

MS. M: How's your anus?

MR. Z: I'm not Andy.

MS. M: sorry...

MR. Z: It's OK.

It was at about this time that I switched back over to my other computer and saw their conversation. I almost launched a brain lobe outta my right nostril, I laughed so hard. I typed:

ME: you there?

MS. M: yep... horrified!

ME: Why did you ask Mr. Z how his anus was?

MS. M: I'm so sorry!

ME: I'm laughing so hard right now.

MS. M: me too... i have tears

ME: I wish he would've answered, "Fine, how's yours?" That would've been more polite.

MS. M: I like "I'm not Andy."

ME: Morning! How's your anus? [I'm not Andy.]

MS. M: I'm not Andy's Anus.

ME: Hi, this is Andy's anus. I'm not home right now...

MS. M: Leave your message after the brap! By the way, my vagina won't take my brain's phone calls after the stunt she pulled.

ME: Mr. Z, are you still there?

MS. M: wait...is Mr. Z listening?

ME: Uh, I better make sure he's off the computer!

I ran upstairs and he wasn't. He was working on some Mario game he's making. He said he wasn't watching the conversation. Hm. Maybe he wasn't, maybe he was. If he was, he now knows that something was up with my anus. Even more interestingly, though, is that he's now aware that Ms. M's vagina can apparently pull stunts.

I wonder what we'll be talking about at Mr. Z's bedtime tonight.

The O-Ring of Fire (Fin?)...

… And the itch raged on. This thing was like some sort of rectal Godzilla… Godzillass. Nothing could stop it – not mineral baths, not mini butt-bullets, not even Mothra carrying a giant tube of Preparation H. I was all ready to have my entire ass surgically removed when I stopped for a moment to reflect. What had changed in my life since the itch started? Hmm… well, we had gotten the dog. Could I have contracted some bizarre dog-bung malady? The doctor said that there was no evidence of pinworms and I had long ago stopped eating dog turds on my daily walks, so that was out.

What else? Well, I WAS walking the dog a couple of miles every day. And I DID get kinda sweaty in the assy area during said walks. And the boxers I’d been wearing WERE a cotton-poly blend. And after said walks, I DID go back down to the basement and sit on my vinyl chair for up to 10 uninterrupted hours at a time, creating the perfect environment for a rectal terrarium to thrive.

Hm.

I turned to the very last resource at my disposal. Meijer, or in Michiganderin: The Meijers. If the solution to my derriere dilemma couldn’t be solved at the Meijer, I would be itchin’ my ass to the grave. I high-tailed it on over there, the front doors wooshed open and I marched straight for the Men’s Delicates department. I dug through all the tightie-whities and silky 80s undies until I got a hold of a 3-pack of Fruit of the Loom 100% cotton boxers. They glowed in my shaking hands like… well, like I’d imagine the boxers of someone who lived in Chernobyl might. I almost dropped trou right then and there to pull them on but I restrained myself and waited until I got back home. Besides, I figured I should wash them first – didn’t want to get anyone else’s fruit juice all up in my loom.

But while I was still at Meijer, I thought I’d take a stroll down the toilet paper aisle, as I am wont to do, and I came across a different brand of “Moist Wipes.” Charmin’s Freshmates. Wha-huh?! A different brand of flushable moist wipes?! I wasn’t informed of this!!! It was a sign. Why not try out the new cottony undies AND rotate in a new brand of moist wipe?! OF COURSE! It all seemed so clear now!!!

So my asshole and I zipped home to try out the new goodies. While my new skivvies were a-tumblin’ in the laundry, I decided to see how my new Freshmate and I got along. Besides, it was just about time for my mid-day Operation Dumbo Drop. I pulled out the first ‘mate, applied it to its intended target and… the heavens opened up, the angels sang and I’m pretty sure a flock of white doves sprang from my fanny.

As moist and wipeable as the Cottonelle Fresh Flushable Moist Wipes had been, these new Charmin Freshmates were a-moister and a-wipeable-er! It was like mashing a melange of ambrosia, gossamer and bunny tears into my crackhole. I think I actually felt my anus smile, if that’s possible. And it was at this very moment that I knew my itching problems had been solved.

And that’s pretty much it. No disease. No bugs. No unborn twin. Just sub-par boxers and moist wipe-sensitivity. Not very romantic an ending, I know, but, hey, that’s reality. Reality is… irritating. And we look for big, clear-cut solutions to our problems but sometimes the solutions are as simple as changing your underwear.

I think Lennon and McCartney said it best on their song "The End" from Crabby Road: “And in the end, the shit you take is equal to the shit you make.”

Although I probably should've quoted something from "The Wipe Album."

The O-Ring of Fire (7)...

... Now, if you’ve never attempted to insert a suppository into your blowhole, well then, my friend, you are fucking MISSING OUT! I’ve been trying to find the words to describe the process and I have to say I’m at a loss. The best metaphor I can muster up is that it’s akin to trying to put an extra Pez candy into a completely filled Pez container. That is, if the Pez candy is 50 times bigger than the container’s opening. And if the container’s opening is actually my anus.

And then, if and when you get the fucking thing in there, it’s gonna just pop right back out in a second… as it rightly should! “Sorry folks, asshole’s closed! Moose out front shoulda told ya.” But fuck it, I needed to fix the goddamn itching problem, so I sucked it up… so to speak. And I’m lying there, on the bathroom floor, trying to poke this fucking glorified Mike & Ike up my patoot. In it goes, I stand up, POIT! Out it pops. Lie down, push in, stand up, POIT! I felt like a goddamn broken vending machine. “INCORRECT CHANGE! TRY AGAIN!” And I had to perform this little butt dance without the Old Lady walking in and, thus, immediately nullifying our marriage. I had officially, and literally, sunk as low as I could go.

I will admit that, a couple of times, I actually managed to poke the thing in there, stand up, clamp my hand over my clenched ass cheeks and dive into bed, without blasting that fucker outta my ass like an errant mortar round. But after a coupla days of this mostly fruitless barrel-loading, I gave up. You know, I’d rather have an itchy bung than continue with this humiliating game of rectal Whack-a-Mole any longer. What to do… what… to… do…?

Up Next: Could This Be the End???

The O-Ring of Fire (6)...

... The verdict? Fuck if he knew. He said there might be a mild internal ‘roid in there and he gave me two prescriptions: one for a cream and one for… suppositories. [SFX: tuba blat] Can I get a what the shit?! Someone just shoot me now.

So I drive on over to Kroger to pick up my magazine of bum-bullets. Now one of the myriad shitty things about living in a small town is that the pharmacist knows every goddamn pain, rash, infection, psychological disorder and zit going on in your miserable existence. And they know your name. It’s nothing like Cheers, where you go in for a beer and everyone yells, “NORM!” It’s more like, you walk up to the counter and everyone yells, “HEY CRABBY! HOW’S YOUR SORE BALL SACK?”

Anywhich, I dropped off the scripts and skulked on over to the magazine rack to wait until it’s my turn to be publicly humiliated. And I didn’t have to wait long. They called me over and said, and I shit you not:

PHARMACIST: Uh, Mr. Crabby? Yeah, we have that Nupercainal ANAL OINTMENT here for you but the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES? We don’t have the exact brand that your doctor ordered so we’re going to call him to see if we can substitute the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES we have here, okay? It’ll just be a few more minutes…

ME: Oh, okay.

ME, IN MY HEAD: One, thank you for announcing my ASSHOLE DISORDER to the entire goddamn store and B, why didn’t you call the fucking doctor FIRST and see if it was okay before calling me over here and embarrassing my ass in front of every goddamn senior citizen in town to TELL me that you were about to call my doctor to ask him. And three, thanks tons for hitting the word “rectal” so fucking hard?! I sure can’t wait until I get ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION. Ya fuck!

And then, about 15 minutes later (when the line was nice and long) they called me back up:

PHARMACIST: Yes, Mr. Crabby? We talked to your doctor’s office and they said the RECTAL SUPPOSITORIES we have here will be fine for YOU. So, if you’ll look here, it’s one suppository, IN YOUR RECTUM, two times a day. Mmmmkay? Do you have any questions?

ME: Just one. Why do you hate me so?

I grabbed the bag, weaved in and out of the line of the elderly and infirm circling me, pointing and laughing, and exited the store in a cold ass-sweat. I realized at this moment that it would have been much easier to have just gotten my asshole removed. Maybe next time.

Up Next: When the Bullet Hits the Bum…

The O-Ring of Fire (5)...

... Okay, so fast-forward a coupla weeks and I finally decide it’s time to air my ass woes out to (at) my doctor. Poor guy. So I head over there under the guise of getting a prescription refilled and then at the last minute, after some good-natured chit-chat, I spring on him, “Oh… and I’ve been having some itching going on in the rear-end area [circular hand gesture] that I thought I should maybe mention.” His smile fades and he gets that look that you get when you realize you’ve just stepped in some dog shit and you’re going to have to spend the next 20 minutes sitting on the front porch, picking it out of your waffle soles with a stick.

So he reluctantly gloves up, lubes his finger and tells me to roll on my side and grab my ankles. At least that’s what I think he said. It all happened so fast. Luckily, he’s a wee man and, thankfully, sports a wee forefinger, to boot. He pokes his mini-digit in there, twists it around, says everything “feels normal” and then, like Little Jack Horner, withdraws said digit… sans plum, thank god. Just as I was about to roll back over and retrieve my pants (and my dignity), he inserts something that felt like… well, I’m pretty sure he rammed an inverted orange traffic cone up my fanny. Apparently, he needed to “open the aperture” a bit to take a little lookie-loo. Holy fuckstain, the dude could’ve walked in there at that point! It’s a good thing I didn’t blow one while that thing was in there ‘cuz the whole town would’ve high-tailed it to their basements, thinking the air raid sirens were going off. Eventually he withdrew the cone and my poor sphincter slammed shut like snapping turtle’s jaws on an unsuspecting wader’s pinkie toe. My poor, poor sphincter.

Next up: The Verdict...

The O-Ring of Fire (4)...

... Now, while my third theory is the most ridiculous and improbable, it is, of course, the one that freaks me out the most. What if I have some sort of killer anus disease. It could happen. Farrah Fawcett Majors had anus cancer and I’m sure her asshole was WAY cleaner than mine could ever dream of being. That would seriously suck. The high point of my pitiful day is my 9:37 AM daily dumpage. And the late afternoon dumpage. And the occasional late-night dumpage. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I had to have my asshole removed. And I can’t imagine that filling up one of those colostomy bags could ever be as satisfying as pinching one’s loaf the old-fashioned way. Frankly, having one of those bags has always been my worst fucking nightmare. Although… it would pretty much cut the bathroom trips out of my schedule -- that’s a good couple of hours I’d get back per day. The things I could do with two extra hours a day. Maybe I won’t write off anus-disease quite yet...

Up Next: What's Up (There), Doc?

The O-Ring of Fire (3)....

... My second theory is that my oh-so-delicate "escape hatch" has become sensitized to the Cottonelle Moist Wipes I use on a daily basis. As you may or may not know, a couple of years ago, I pretty much ditched traditional toilet paper for the miracle that is the “moist wipe.” (And you're welcome for that news flush.) Cleaning up with those babies is akin to having the tongue of god lick your ass clean… I'd imagine. But lately, it’s been starting to sting a little when I swipe one of those fuckers down there and I’m beginning to think that maybe my anal immune system is rebelling agin’ the perfumes, chemicals and unguents infused in said wipes. (My ass has always been a bit of a rebel.)

Of course, installing a bidet would probably remedy the situation but that would cost a butt-load and there is really no extra space for a French ass sink in our tiny bathroom. No, the quickest solution to this problem would be to sit in a vat of peanut butter and have the dog lick my ass clean. I mean, he already loves licking his own ass and he fucking loves the taste of peanut butter... and shit. Frankly, it would be a win-win-win for him. But there is that slim chance that I’d be caught. Hmm... that’d be a tough one to explain away…

The O-Ring of Fire (2)....

... I did have my theories, of course. My first theory was the most logical – my bung-o-flames was being caused by the piece-o-carp, leatherette office chair I plop my skinny ass in for ten hours every goddamn day. As the day wears on, the ol’ crackerino transforms into an Arizona sweat lodge. It’s like a wood-burning pizza oven down there – I swear, if I jammed a pinch of sourdough starter up my shitter each morning, I’d have a steamy loaf by lunchtime… San Francisco style. And the rubbery/silicone-y seat cushion thing I bought to better distribute the pressure on my bony-ass assbones probably isn’t helping matters, either. I might as well be sporting rubber baby pants all day. I'm surprised I don't have lichen growing on my taint. What I really need is one of those Aeron chairs with the mesh seat so I can properly “Aeron” my crackhole out. Damn, if only I hadn’t spent that last thousand dollars on food, clothes for the spawnage, the mortgage and that Take 5 bar...

The O-Ring of Fire...

It was the itch that woke me up. That relentless, sweaty, crawling-with-panko-caked-baby-spiders itch that made me wish I could just rip my skin off and jump into a vat of Greek yogurt. For two weeks I had been awakened this way. Where the itching came from, why it was happening now, how the fuck I could get rid of it… I had no answers. All I could do was lie there, wondering if anyone had ever gone clinically insane from an itchy asshole...