Eyes Not Shut

What kind of sick fuck invented the Sleep Study? “Hey, how ‘bout I cement a buncha shit to your face and then watch you not sleep for nine hours?” Sign me the fuck up, assbag!

I’m getting ahead of myself. First, I should explain why I ever agreed to participate in such a pointless pigfuck. I think the answer is that, once again, I listened to a doctor. I’ve gotta remember to stop doing that.

So, I’ve been having this issue with asthma that just kinda came out of nowhere about a year and a half ago, and I’ve been to a succession of doctors who get more and more specialized and less and less able to explain what the shit is going on. 

I started my quest by visiting an allergist. Allergists are really good at telling you that you’re allergic to everything, giving you weekly injections and handing out an assload of nose sprays and inhalers. That’s basically all they know how to do. They couldn’t really explain what was going on with me (surprise), so they sent me to a pulmonologist.

I visited the pulmonologist. Pulmonologists are really good at explaining how allergists don’t know what the fuck they’re doing, ordering a bunch of breathing tests and handing out a different assload of inhalers. They couldn’t explain what was going on with me (shocking) but they thought I should maybe go to a gastroenterologist to talk about reflux.

I visited the gastroenterologist. Now, gastroenterologists, much like their area of focus, are assholes. They’re really good at bad-mouthing allergists and pulmonologists and handing out Prilosec. That’s literally all they do. The “doctor” actually said, “Well, there’s really nothing I can do, other than tell you to take two pills a day instead of the one you’re already taking.” How many years of med school did it take for you to learn that brilliant, nuanced treatment, ya worthless turdcake? 

Finally, I was sent to a different pulmonologist in that mecca of diagnostic medicine… Ann Arbor. Now, that’s akin to venturing from Mayberry to Raleigh. Actually, more like going from Hooterville to Pixley. Needless to say, my expectations were in the shitter. The crooked, outdoor shitter built by Ralph and Alf Monroe.

The new pulmonologist was a nice guy, mind you. I’ll give them that, all the doctors I’ve seen are… nice (except for the gastroenterologist. He’s just a douchespigot.). This new guy put me on a new inhaler… check. He had me do a breathing test… check. He prescribed me a different nose spray… check. And he told me to go get a sleep study. DING-DING-DING! (See second paragraph.) I guess I agreed to do it because… well, because it was something different. I had already submitted to every other moronic fucking diagnostic test invented. Why not toss a sleep study log onto the fire?

So, on a Thursday night, I drove out to the sleep study building that’s situated in the middle of some random farm on the outskirts of Ann Arbor. Why is it on a farm? I guess a bullshit science like “sleep studying” needs a steady stream of fresh bullshit to keep it running at maximum bullshit level. Anywhich, they buzzed me in and I filled out an assload of paperwork absolving them of any liability on the highly likely chance they accidentally killed me in my sleep. Then they took me to my room. Now, the brochure they sent me said I’d be spending the night in a “special hotel room.” In reality, it looked a lot like the room I’ll probably find myself in when I’m just about to die. Bed, tray, TV on the wall, nurse button, safety bars, monitors and a big ol’ box of latex gloves.

The minute I walked into that room, I knew I wasn’t going to sleep a fucking wink.

A man nurse and a lady nurse made me sit in a chair and then they proceeded to tape, stick and hot glue gun a shitload of wires to my head, face, chest and legs. I lost count but I’m guessing there were, say, 9712 wires adhered to my person. Oh, and the lady nurse was new, so the man nurse had to keep explaining to her that what she was doing was really wrong, all while unsticking and resticking the wires, adding an extra hour or so to the joyous proceedings.

When they were done, they asked if I had to go to the bathroom and, realizing that that might be my last chance to drain it before they plugged me into the wall, I said that, indeed, I did. So they wrapped all the wires around my neck like some sort of robot ascot and I shuffled into the bathroom like… well, like an ascot-wearing robot. I managed to whiz a bit but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get up at 3:00 in the AM like I am wont to do, so I winky-tinked some more. And then I sat there and thought about waterfalls, rain on a tin roof and garden hoses until I peed some more. I peed until air came out, basically. Then I shuffled back into my death closet.

By this time, the man nurse had left, so the newbie lady nurse plugged me in (not a euphemism, unfortunately). She told me that I could watch TV for a while and that it would shut off automatically in about a half an hour. Then the lights would go off and I would drift off to a robotic slumberland. Then she said, “Oh, and if you need anything, just talk because we’ll be listening all night and that camera on the ceiling will by videoing you. Sleep tight!”

That cinched it – I definitely would not be sleeping one wink’s worth of sleep that night.

And I didn’t. Okay, maybe I got a couple of hours of winks but that’s it. It was literally me just lying there, sighing heavily, trying to will myself to sleep, which is about as effective as trying to will myself to grow thicker eyebrows. And if you’ve seen my eyebrows lately… well, lemme know because I sure as shit haven’t seen them. Fuck you, Peter Gallagher.

And that’s pretty much the saga. There’s really no revelatory ending to this pathetic tale. I struggled through my two hours of sleep and then the lights came on at 6:00 AM and they told me to get the fuck out. I haven’t heard anything since. I can’t imagine what the pulmonologist is going to make of the results. He’ll probably say something like, “Well, I still don’t know where your asthma is coming from but we now know that you have trouble falling asleep when people glue shit to your face and force you to sleep in artificial death-rooms.” 

If he recommends that I go see a sleep doctor, I’m gonna cut the fucker.

2/22

Mr. Z and Miss O's song from back when they still wanted to record with me:

"Two-Twenty Two" by Mr. Z and Miss O

Random Stool Collection (The Final Chapturd)

 (cont.)

Day Two

The procedure for Day Two was identical to Day One, so it was slightly less harrowing. I guess the only difference was the actual stool itself. You know, you really feel like you get to know yourself when you spork your shit for a couple of days in a row. Sure, on a daily basis, I glance into the toilet bowl after a dump to see what’s coming out of me, but that’s nothing like sitting there on the bathroom floor, face-to-face with your leavings, using your little spork to carefully select the choicest cuts from your ass-burgers. I think everyone should have the opportunity to perform a Random Stool Collection. The world would be a better place… and the landfills would be overflowing with shit tubs.

Day Three

Now, Day Three… THAT’S when things got really interesting. It started out like Day One and Day Two: fill the Green-top SAF tube with sporked shit-balls. But then came the all-new “Step Eight”!

Step 8: On Day Three, use the wooden stick provided and one stool specimen, fill all three tubes first, and then fill the empty white-top cup. Open the empty white-top cup. Using the flat wooden stick provided, pick up several portions of stool from contrasting areas in the collection tub. Add sufficient stool sample to reach the 40-ml line. Using the wooden stick, mix stool in white-top container. Recap the container and check to ensure it is securely fastened. DO NOT OVERFILL. 

First, I’ll ignore the run-on sentence. Second, after filling a single tube two days running, packing up the three tubes was no big deal. The “white-top cup,” however, was another matter entirely. All the “collection tube” rules went right out the fucking window. Now, I was supposed to take a glorified popsicle stick, swirl it into my final turd like it was some kind of hazelnut gelato, and then wipe/stuff whatever I could pick up into a clear plastic cup. It’s not as simple as it sounds, mind you. It’s one thing to blindly stab a spork into your shit but it’s quite another to jam a stick into it over and over and then attempt to spread whatever you manage to balance on the stick into this fucking plastic shot glass. And it was some kind of magic bottomless shot glass, too, because no matter how much I spread in there, I could never reach the 40 milliliter fill line. I felt like I was working at a really disgusting soft-serve ice cream store. I even looked in the box to see if there was one of those paper busboy hats that I was supposed to wear.

At least I remembered to put the glove on, this time.

And then, just like that, it was over. My stool had been randomly collected.

To tell you the truth, going to the bathroom the regular way is now kind of a letdown. Before it was like The Hurt Locker, where everything could just blow up in my face at any second if I did something wrong. Now it’s so mundane… so… vanilla. Maybe they’ll screw up the analysis and I’ll have to fill out a whole new kit!

Fingers crossed!

Random Stool Collection (Part 2)

(cont.)

Step Two: Open the green-top SAF collection tube. Using the spoon in the cap of the tube, pick up several portions of stool from contrasting areas in the collection tub. Be sure to collect any blood or pus and samples from areas of different color or texture. Add sufficient stool sample for stool and tube liquid to reach the red “fill” line, as shown on the label. DO NOT OVERFILL!

Now, I’m not sure just what happens if the collection tube is overfilled, but I was not ready to find out, so I really tried not to rush things during this stage. So, in a nutshell, you unscrew the top of the collection tube and it has this little spork attached to it. The idea is to jam the spork into your freshly-laid logs, seeking out the bloodiest and pus-iest turdlets available. At this point, I was starting to feel pretty good about whatever was ailing me because there wasn’t any visible blood or pus anywhere! I mean, how bad could things be? In fact, my leavings had quite a uniform texture and color, with nary an irregularity to be seen.

So, without any obvious malignancies to target, I just sporked the thing willy-nilly. It was kind of like playing with Play-Doh, if the Play-Doh were made of shit. I’d spork out a dung-ball, dip the loaded spork into the collection tube, swish it around to disengage the bolus, and then repeat until I reached the red line. I DID NOT OVERFILL!

I wasn’t quite sure what to do at that point. I twisted the cap back onto the collection tube but I was still left staring at the poop-filled collection tub. I figured that, before moving on Step 3, I should empty that tub as soon as possible before the air in that bathroom turned to mud. So I picked up the tub and turned it upside-down over the toilet bowl. 

Nothing happened. It was stuck. I anxiously scanned the Random Stool Collection kit but there was absolutely no “unsticking” tool to be found. I thought about running to the kitchen for a spatula, but unsealing the crap-chamber I was in could potentially kill the entire crabbyfamily, so I was forced to dislodge the dung manually. I started tapping the bottom of the tub with my free hand like I would a ketchup bottle. Five minutes of well-placed thumps later, the giant log finally tumbled headlong out of the tub and splashed into the bowl like a baby beluga being rereleased into the sea after being studied and tagged by a boatful of marine biologists. Swim! Be free, little one! You’re just a little brown whale on the go!

Step 3: Mix and mash the specimen with the spoon until the sample is thoroughly mixed and is as smooth as possible.

Okay, now they’re just being fuckers. I mean, I get pissed off when I have to stir in all the oil in a fresh jar of all-natural almond butter. And at least I get to eat the peanut butter. Fuck you, Genova Diagnostics.

Step 4: Recap the tube and check to ensure it is securely capped. Then, shake well until mixed thoroughly.

Genova Diagnostics is definitely the James Bond of Random Stool Collection – they prefer their stool samples shaken, not stirred. 

Step 5: Write your name and the date the specimen was collected on the tube label.

I really wish I had written my name and the date on the tubes before stuffing them full of my shit. It just makes more sense. I mean, at this point I felt like I needed a day long shower and now they’re making me hunt around the house for a pen? And then I have to write in all this information on these tiny lines on the side of the tube? Assholes. So there I am, squinting and holding the tube up close to my face as I’m writing, watching the fecal stew slosh around on the inside of the tube. Oh, and that’s another thing – clear tubes? Really? You couldn’t make the fuckers opaque? We all know what’s in there – it’s not like it’s a fucking mystery.

That’ll go on my “Helpful Hints for Genova Diagnostics” list: 

1. suggest that stool collectors write in name and date BEFORE filling tubes with shit
2. make tubes opaque

Step 6: Be certain cap is tight for shipping. Place the filled tube in the Biohazard bag corresponding to the day’s collection. Seal the bag securely. Do not freeze the sample. Discard glove and used tub.

Glove?! What glove?!?! I was supposed to be wearing a glove?!?!

I dumped the box out, looking for the mysterious missing glove and found nothing. Then I rechecked the bag that contained the “Day 1” collection tubes and, sure enough, there was a single latex glove jammed in the bottom of it. Great. That’s definitely one to move up on the list:

1. find well-hidden latex glove and put it on BEFORE you start shitting into the plastic tub and then jamming said shit into your tiny, clear shit tubes

I love how the shit-stuffed vial is a “biohazard” only after it’s placed into the “Biohazard bag.” Not a biohazard while I’m sporking it and stuffing it into the vial, mind you. Only AFTER it’s securely capped and placed into the bag. Nice touch, Genova.

And why would I freeze the sample? Is that something people accidentally do? “Hmm… my shit’s all nicely packed into the vial and secured in its “Biohazard bag.” Wonder what I should do with it now? Uh… well… I suppose I could put it in the freezer. Yes. That is what I’ll do! I’ll just make room for it next to the ice cream sandwiches and the leftover chili. Into the freezer it goes!”

Now, as far as discarding the “glove and used tub,” that was a toughie. One can’t just toss that kind of thing into the garbage can. At least, I couldn’t. I put the collection tub, and the unused glove, inside an old Ziploc freezer bag. Then I put the freezer bag in a plastic grocery bag, tied it closed, put that bag into a second plastic grocery bag, tied it closed and placed the whole wad into the trash can in the garage. Then I moved said trash can outside, fearing that, within a matter of hours, entering the garage would be akin to entering my colon. Luckily, trash day came and went and the receptacle was emptied. It’s officially out of my hands now. Some day, centuries from now, an archaeologist will unearth this abomination and speculate that it was some sort of offering made to an ancient god. Or they’ll just figure it was some sick fuck’s shit tub.

Tomorrow: The next day...

Random Stool Collection (Part 1)

 “Random Stool Collection.” It sounds like something that’d be found wedged into a back bedroom on the show “Hoarders.” 

“Well, we knew Aunt Betsy had a problem when we pried open the door of the guest room and her random stool collection came tumbling out: step stools, barstools, toadstools – if it was a stool, it was in there.”

Of course, that’s not the kind of random stool collection we’re dealing with, now is it? No, I’m talking about the Genova Diagnostics Random Stool Collection prescribed to me by my new alterna-doctor at the “Center for Integrative Medicine.” Now before I get all technical and start discussing the various apparati and the complex procedures for said stool collection and storage, I’ll try to sum it all up for you: it’s three days of shitting into a glorified margarine tub. Things start out simple enough on day one. 

Step One: Pass urine into the toilet if necessary. Pass stool into one of the collection tubs provided in the kit. Do not let urine or water from toilet touch the stool specimen.

Well, that doesn’t sound too difficult. They even provide a special holder “to suspend the collection tub over toilet.” Unfortunately, my special holder didn’t fit on my special toilet, so I had to resort to the “crouch and hold collection tub under ass with left hand whilst shitting into it and trying to desperately divert pee from tub with right hand without spraying all over the toilet seat” method. I’ve never been much of a juggler, but I imagine the process is akin to juggling a bowling pin, an apple and a sousaphone while riding atop a unicycle… and shitting.

Once I finished “collecting,” I had to untangle myself, put the full collection tub on the floor and quickly snap the cover over it before vomiting. Next I had to wipe my fanny, flush the toilet, pull up my pants and then immediately crouch on the floor to frantically scan the informational pamphlet for my next stool collection directive. I was five minutes into the process and the bathroom already smelled like the inside of a Porta-Potty on the last day of the Bonnaroo Music Festival (minus the patchouli). Just the freshest shit smell you could possibly imagine. In fact, I’ll wager that you’d have to actually be riding the shit straight out of my asshole to experience a fresher shit smell.

And whoever suggested breathing through one’s mouth when smelling something repulsive has obviously never participated in a Random Stool Collection. If I breathed through my nose, well, it just smelled like I was somehow inside my own ass. If I breathed through my mouth, however, it was closer to what I’d imagine eating a turd was like. The smell was so fucking thick, it was coating my tongue like a turd comforter on a crisp, February morn. I imagine it was a lot like being in the room during the filming of “Two Girls, One Cup.” Yep, breathing through my mouth was just a bad, bad, bad idea.

Tomorrow: "Step Two"

Next Year I'm Calling in Sick

Just attended the 16th or so school curriculum night and, for the 16th or so time, I've come home with the same realization -- I hate all parents.

I hate the parent who asks moronic questions like, "Yes, I'd like to know what books you'll be reading this year?" Look you fucking assbag, every question you could possibly cook up in that bloated moose-head of yours is answered in the 900 page handout the teacher just passed around. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up so I can get the fuck out of here!

I hate the parent who knows all the teachers because she has older kids and has to point that fact out to all of us. "Hi, Sue. I know when Caitlin was in your class, you took a field trip to the Detroit Art museum. Will you be doing that again this year?" You know what? The teacher hated Caitlin almost as much as she's going to hate your little Taylor this year. And you know what else? She hates you, too. She hates you when you stop her in the grocery store to talk about Caitlin's freshman year at Moron State and she hates you when you stop her at the tennis club to see if Taylor can do some extra credit to get her grade up. No one cares that you know the fucking teacher. Your kids are idiots. Sit down.

I hate the parent of the kid who has been a complete fucking douche-hose to my kid for the last six years. Your kid's a dick. Literally everyone knows it. You're a shitty parent who is oblivious to the fact that your child is a sociopath who will, most likely, murder you with one of the many hunting rifles you keep in the unlocked cabinet in the garage. How can you not notice that your child is fucked up? He's in sixth grade and he has a full beard. His eyebrows are permanently in the "angry" position. I'm scared of him and he's 10 years old.

I hate the parent whose phone goes off in the middle of the classroom (ringtone: "Smells Like Teen Spirit" MIDI version) and they answer it. "Hello? Huh? Oh, hey. No, I'm at curriculum night. Yeah... uh huh. Well, get the plunger and fix it. It's in the garage. Huh? Then get the mop. Look... I gotta go." Oh, and nine times out of ten, this parent smells like they bathed in a mildew-caked tub filled with mothballs, asparagus pee and Pall Malls.

I really hate the parent who takes their five kids along with them to curriculum night, even though they got about 50 emails and flyers saying, "This night is for PARENTS ONLY." (I may just hate this parent most of all.)

I hate the parent who lives on the "fancy" side of town and has a pool. You know what? You'll never come close to getting back what you paid for that McMonstrosity, so fuck you and your pool. And Miss O says your daughter's a dick.

I hate the parent who I've met, like, ten times and who never remembers me. Look, I never even wanted to meet you in the first place but at least I have the common courtesy to remember you and acknowledge your presence, you selfish fucker.

And I hate all the other parents.

You Know What Really Sticks in My Craw?

(Warning: This was written yesterday, while still under the effects of "twilight" anesthesia.)

Be careful 'cuz I am now bugged. I'm wired for sound. In fact, this post is probably being recorded as I type, so comment at your own risk. Oh, I'm also still doped up on funny juice, so forgive the flrb mmrshn grm.

This morning, I had a "procedure" foisted upon me called the "Bravo pH Test" and boy, is my larynx tired. It's part of the endless barrage of tests invented by doctors to frighten, humiliate and, ultimately, relieve me of the spawnages' college money.

The Old Lady and I drove to the "surgery center" at the crackhole of dawn, I filled out some paperwork absolving everyone in the state of Michigan of my inevitable death, and then I was told to strip down to the waist, slip into a backwards shirt and put a shower cap on. It was nice to have a nurse order me to do that instead of the Old Lady, for a change.

Then they jabbed a needle in my hand (my hand!), rolled me into the surgery room and put what I think was a ball-gag in my mouth. Those stomach doctors are are some kinky-ass mofos (they put the "enter" in gastroenterology). Then a guy who looked a lot like Joe from the Three Stooges came in and told me what kind of roofies he was going to slip into my drip and it was off to fairyville.

When I woke up, one second later, I was in a different room, the Old Lady was standing over me with that "How did my life become this?" look I've grown to know so well, the ball-gag was gone and someone had drawn a Rollie Fingers mustache on my face in permanent Sharpie. Oh, and it felt like a homunculus was inside my esophagus, pinching the fuck out of it.

Basically, they snaked a tube down my throat (not a euphemism) and attached a small(ish) capsule to the wall of my esophagus that transmits a (most-likely lethal) signal to a little (genitalia sterilizing) receiver I have to wear around my neck that makes me look like a low-rent Darth Vader. There are three buttons on the receiver that I'm supposed to press whenever I have a specific sensation. There's one for "reflux," one for "regurgitation" and I think the third one dispenses a Pez out of my throat.

I'm supposed to wear the monitor for 24 hours and then turn it back in to the doc's office. Then, apparently, the capsule is supposed to release its death-grip and detach from my throat in "7 to 10 days." Seven to ten days?! I'll never fucking make it. I'll die from "pinched esophagus syndrome" by day three. No, if it doesn't detach after 48 hours, I'm grabbing the tongs off our barbecue and extracting that fucker myself.

Eating has been fairly brutal. Toast was a bad idea. Chips? No fucking way. Even chicken noodle soup felt like I was swallowing chicken-flavored fiberglass. So far, the only thing I can eat without wincing is ice cream so, fuck it, 48 hours of ice cream it'll have to be.

Five bucks says I gain 40 pounds and end up with "the diabeetus."

Mr. Commode's Wild Ride

The Old Lady found a frog on the toilet seat in our bathroom. The bathroom off of our bedroom. On the second story of our house. A frog.

What the shit, indeed.

There are many theories as to just how the fuck this wily amphibian made its way onto our crapper...

• It secreted itself inside either my, or the Old Lady's, asshole whilst we weren't paying attention. Say, when I was bending over and reaching into the garden to pick a plump tomato, or when the Old Lady crouched down on the sidewalk to retrieve a quarter. Then, while we were getting ready for bed, it hopped out of one of its sphincter-y sanctuaries and onto its toilet-y perch.
• While we were walking the dog, our froggy fugitive climbed aboard the dog's back and traveled, rodeo-style, into the house, up the stairs and lassoed itself onto the shitter.
• It hopped into my mouth while I was sleeping, survived a nightmarish rollercoaster ride through my colon, was blasted into the toilet bowl during my morning constitutional, then dredged itself up out of the muck and collapsed on the seat.
• It got washed down a sewer drain, swam upstream, weaving in and out of rocketing turdpedoes, into our sump pump, where it then crawled, Andy Dufresne-style, up the plumbing pipes and onto the throne.
• It's always been there and we just never noticed it.

I'm leaning toward the second theory because I just like the image of a frog riding a dog. Maybe I should make a little saddle for the pup and strap it onto his back before his walks. I could fashion it out of a piece of twine and a Pringle. We could get a whole stable of rodeo frogs, nay, Todeo frogs. We could charge admission and I could make the spawnage dress up as clowns and hide behind big barrels as the dog rocketed around the yard, desperately trying to eat both the frog and the Pringle off of his back.

This might just be the retirement opportunity I've been waiting for. To the pond!!!

The Log Days of Summer...

Question of the Day: Is there a dignified way to extricate a turd that's fused to your dog's ass-hairs, while he's yelping every time you tug on it and desperately trying to bite it off himself?

Answer of the Day: Nope.

To better illustrate the futility of such a task, let me relate it to you with a timely summer metaphor...

Imagine you're at the state fair, snacking on a delicious salted nut roll. While the salt is helping to replenish the precious electrolytes you've lost touring the sweltering fair grounds, you now crave something sweeter. You spy a cotton candy vendor and sidle up to the cart to watch a fresh batch being flossed into existence. As you peer into the giant silver reservoir, you lose your grip on your now-sweaty nut log and watch it tumble, headlong into the spinning candy webbery. By the time the vendor shuts off the machine, your nut-studded nugget is interwoven in a dense plexus of sticky candy reticula. Any attempt to remove the bolus from the hive's center will result in the vicious tearing of the delicate sugar-lattice and render both delicious treats completely inedible.

Such was my dilemma. (Although my goal was not to eat the dog's turd or ass-hairs, so i guess that's where the comparison falls apart.) So how did I resolve this doo-doo dilemma? I chased him around the backyard, hoping his spirited loping would help knock hunks of the fastened feces off his fanny, which it actually did, a bit. Then I got the hose out, switched the nozzle to "crappé" and blasted the remaining bits to kingdung come.

Mission Asscomplished.

Radon, It's a Crazy Feelin'...

Well, the verdict is in and, unfortunately, my basement is Radon free.

What does that mean? It means I have to find something else to blame my debilitating feebleness on, that's what it means. And I was really hoping to be dying of Radon poisoning, too. It's so mysterious and fancy.

CONCERNED PERSON 1: How did Crabbydad die?

CONCERNED PERSON 2: I heard it was... (whispering) radon poisoning.

CONCERNED PERSON 1: Oh man, that sounds horrific! What were his symptoms?

CONCERNED PERSON 2: Tiredness... occasional wheeziness... lack of desire to do anything substantial with his life... oh, and of course the chronic crabbiness.

CONCERNED PERSON 1: He must have been very brave.

CONCERNED PERSON2: Hm... no, not really.

So that basically leaves "being old" as the cause of all my symptomology. I'm tired because I'm old. My lung capacity is down because I'm old. I have a pulsing flesh-nubbin jutting out of my armpit because I'm old. I can't start or end my day until I make a nice B.M. because I'm old. I can't drink more than a glass and a half of wine without drying up into a dessicated husk overnight because I'm old. I don't have eyebrows anymore because I'm old. I constantly trip over my pendulous scrote that's dangling down around my ankles because I'm old. FINE! I GET IT!

It would've been a fuck of a lot easier to have had radon-poisoning, though.

Homeward Bound... and Gagged

Back from Portland and I have to say that I never truly comprehend just what a worthless shit-hole of a town I live in until I travel. Holy fuckstain. Every goddamn block in that town is an embarrassment of riches -- restaurants, food trucks, galleries, book stores, gluten-free bakeries, hemp refineries, hair salons specifically catering to rich white kids with dreadlocks, there's a patchouli river that courses through the city, and there are vegan gumdrops made with unbleached spelt and sweetened with agave nectar that rain down from the skies.

Here, we have Old Country Barfet.

I'm ready to move. My bag is packed. (Also, my luggage is filled with my belongings. Hello.) All we need is for a professorin' gig to open up at Portland State and we're there. Sure, the spawnage flip their collective lid every time we mention moving, but they'll get over it. Moving never killed anybody. You know who moved a lot as a child, according to Google? Tupac Shakur. And look how he turned out. Shit, he just performed at a concert as a hologram! The spawnage love holograms!

Anywhich, the trip was great. I don't feel like blathering on about all that we did, so I'll sum it all up in three bullet points:

• We went here.
  
• I got Chicken 'n' Waffles from a food cart.
  
• Miss O almost sharted at an outdoor festival.
  

Now if that's not a successful vacation, then I don't know what is. Of course, we fucked it all up by taking the brown-eye home on Monday morning. Or is that the "red-eye"? Whatever it is, it sure felt like the brown-eye. And now it's all just a distant memory... like "The Wire" or "my eyebrows."

Five bucks says I could even buy a set of goat hair eyebrow merkins from one of the many Alternative Body Hair Toupee vendors roaming the streets of Portland. Stupid Portland.