Friday, March 17

It's always nice to have a shitty week when the weather's so nice

I don't have anything to write about, but I want to get that last post off the top of the screen because it's ugly and depressing.

So I want to take you to a fanciful world where everything uttered will make you laugh. I want to take you to Paul's Letters to Larry (David).

Now, I don't know Paul, but he lives here in Memphis. I found his blog through another Memphis blog (A Pulp Faction, maybe?) and yesterday I laughed my ass off reading through his archives.

Let me whet your whistle just a little.

From "Smell My Finger":


What up, player? This won't be long. Just wanted to tell you about a milestone that I reached the other day. You know that I had the surgery last week, right? Well, I've been pretty sore since. I think that I might have an infection. Not sure.


Anyway, since the surgery, I haven't been able to move around very well. This has been a hindrance for going to "see the doctor". In addition, it's prevented me from showering regularly. I think that it was Monday that I was finally able to take a bath. Anna said that she'd help but then fell asleep far too early. This left me to go it alone. Mission accomplished. However, since I'd established that I was in too much pain to do it regularly, I decided to wait until yesterday to get in the tub again. Jonathan came over in the middle of the day. But by then, I was as ripe as a banana. In fact, I can remember on several occasions, while he was here, smelling myself uncontrollably. Don't get me wrong; it stank. But there's something about that smell. It's one of those smells that you can't help but smell. It was repulsive. And yet, I could not stop the constant whiffing. I really wanted Anna to smell it, simply because it was so bad. So I held off on the shower. I wanted to at least wait until she got home so that she could get a taste of this bad medicine. So, Jonathan left and she got home. I confessed to her that I was in dire need of a bath. She was tired after a long day's work. She was weak. I slid my finger into my pit-not finger to shirt but finger to actual armpit. Then I begged of her..."Please, smell this-one time". She partook. She did smell of the finger and I'll be honest, because I'm somewhat proud, she gagged. Not once, but four times. The scent did activate her gag reflex.

This one from "Memphis Drivers":

Larry, old boy. How was your weekend. Mine? Nice, thanks. Had some great Thai food and did some much needed yard work. But I did forget to mention the incident that happened on the way home from the Doctor's office on Friday. I was driving home, going my usual route down one of the Parkways, when out of the blue this car on my left starts to drift in my lane. I honked my horn because when people drive like shit, I want them to be aware of it. How else are they to know that they drive like shit if good samaritans like me, don't tell them. So, quickly the car moved back into it's lane and I was momentarily relieved. That is, until the car started slowing down. Was I afraid? No. Not at all. It was a big green jalopy and I knew by the make and model of the car, coupled with the speed at which this car was moving, I was dealing with an old person. Older than you, my friend. No offense. So, she's (it turns out that the driver was a woman) slowing down and we are quickly approaching a red light. She rolls her window down and I can tell that she's trying to tell me something so I oblige by rolling down my window as well. She asks me, somewhat annoyed, what's the problem. And here's where it gets frustrating because I have the opportunity to rip into her like Conan the Barbarian, fresh from the sword sharpening shop. And I say to her, "Yes, the problem is your driving". She quickly retorts, "What's the problem with my driving?" I've got her right where I want her. So I say, "Your driving is a big piece of crap!" That's the best I can do. So often, we are confronted with situations in which we are speechless. If we could only take a moment or two to really collect our thoughts, we'd possibly have something poignant or witty or acerbic to say. But most of the time, we are idiots. Dumbfounded or mute or unintelligible. At least I am. Funny side note-she apologized for her poor driving and went about her merry way. Kind of takes the fun out of it.

From "X-Ray":

So, I got an intern at work. Sort of. He's been hired for six weeks to help out while Angela is on maternity leave and Tim's out with a ruptured neck or something. He's just about to go off to college and he's in this for some extra money. I want him to do my job so that I have more time to surf the internet and read articles about zombie dogs. By the way, there are zombie dogs. Ask me how! So, Todd is there for the next couple of months and right off I have him cleaning out storage closets and throwing away shit that should have been thrown away ten years ago. Meanwhile, I'm sitting at my desk getting some much needed rest-from all of the delegating, you see. And I'm checking out this urban legend website because I notice that on this particular day, they are dealing with the urban legend about the girl that gets the coke bottle stuck up in her business-her lady business-and I remember that in high school, we had a story like that. I don't mean that I did, but I remember hearing about it only it was a hot dog and a glow stick. Two different stories. Both probably untrue. So I was eager to find out if the story was true. It turns out that many people have had many things stuck up their asses over the last 50 years. You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Ok, I'll tell you. This is a pretty fucking disturbing list:

A bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's syrup, an ax handle, a nine-inch zucchini, countless dildoes and vibrators including one 14-inch model complete with two D-cell batteries, a plastic spatula, a 9-1/2-inch water bottle, a deodorant bottle, a Coke bottle, a large bottle cap, numerous other bottles, a 3-1/2-inch Japanese glass float ball, an 11-inch carrot, an antenna rod, a 150-watt light bulb, a 100-watt frosted bulb, a cucumber, a screwdriver, four rubber balls, 72-1/2 jeweler's saws (all from one patient, but not all at the same time, although 29 were discovered on one occasion), a paperweight, an apple, an onion, a plastic toothbrush package, two bananas, a frozen pig's tail (it got stuck when it thawed), a ten-inch length of broomstick, an 18-inch umbrella handle and central rod, a plantain encased in a condom, two Vaseline jars, a whiskey bottle with a cord attached, a teacup, an oil can, a six-by-five-inch tool box weighing 22 ounces, a six-inch stone weighing two pounds (in the latter two cases the patients died due to intestinal obstruction), a baby powder can, a test tube, a ball-point pen, a peanut butter jar, candles, baseballs, a sand-filled bicycle inner tube, sewing needles, a flashlight, a half-filled tobacco pouch, a turnip, a pair of eyeglasses, a hard-boiled egg, a carborundum grindstone (with handle), a suitcase key, a syringe, a file, tumblers and glasses, a polyethylene waste trap from the U-bend of a sink, and much, much more.

I told you. And I just read where one guy who was feeling depressed, stuck a 6-inch paper tube into his rectum and then dropped in it a lighted fire cracker. As the kids say, he tore that ass up.

But that's all beside the point. I'm reading the story and at the end of the article, there's a link to another site on which one can find x-rays of all sorts of random shit that people have put in their asses. I'm reading this when Todd walks up behind me, ready for his next assignment. I wanted to close the window but couldn't. All I could do was smile and laugh. He had to have seen the title page. Rectal Foreign Bodies. It really stands out, doesn't it?

Read the rest. It won't disappoint.


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