New Year of the Same Old Shit

You always want to return from your vacation, or holiday, wanting more. I know this 'cos twice now I've been on vacation longer than I wanted. The most recent of the two was this Xmas.

I work at a K-12 school. We get the last two weeks of the year off. Most people mistakenly think this is awesome; it isn't. The reason, no one else has those two weeks off with me. There's nothing like being off while the people you want to spend time with have to work. Oh, wait, yeah, there is something like it, unemployment, which, as it turns out, sucks too.

Don't get me wrong, the first week off is fine. The second week is when things get tedious. By week I had watched all the movies and TV shows that were back logged, books, comics and/or magazines had been read, the house was clean, and my video games had been beaten, twice. This is when the walls started closing in.

I would have "just got out" if we had two cars; we don't. During the week our car was in use taking my lovely fiance, Vicky, to work. I couldn't justify, nor afford, taking her in each day. The drive, one-way, is right about 20 miles. We live in the suburban armpit of Bumfuck, Egypt.

So, come Monday, January 2, 2012, I was all too ready to return to work.

Naturally, my alarm failed to go off. I woke at 7 a.m., which allowed me fifteen minutes to get ready and get out the door. Surprisingly, I managed, with a couple minutes to spare.

Vicky's daughter had an extra-curricular event to attend, so I was dropped off at the bus transit center. I waited 30 or 45 minutes before I realized that the buses weren't running. A quick visit to their website on my iPone confirmed this. With a sigh I called Vicky to come pick me up.

The traffic on the ride into work was surprisingly light for Monday morning rush hour. Before I knew it we were pulling into the empty parking lot where I work. Had I been early, this wouldn't have been surprising. As I was nearly an hour late this was quite distressing. All of my morning had been for nothing. Sigh.

Worst of all, after all of this, all there was to do was return home. There's always grass to watch grow.

A Shitty Experience

I absolutely hate when I shit in my pants. To add injury to insult, it always happens in public.

My friend and I were catching up over grande Caramel Macchiatos. It was a cool evening, and as we live in Houston, TX, on such a rare evening it would have been blasphemous to sit inside. Our conversation passed lazily over the wide range of events that had happened since we had last talked, when… 

I felt a rumble pass through the cavernous twists of my colon.

I have, at best, a very persnickety digestive tract. I have come to terms with it. Most of the people who suffer through my company have come to terms with it. For the most part, I know what will set it off, and prepare accordingly, and as I am an asshole, sometimes I prepare deliberately. 

This time was unexpected. Nothing alarming, in and of itself, just unexpected.

So, I did what I always do, I tried to let the malcontent sneak out. I figured that with the pleasant breeze to waft it away, and lack of other patrons, there would be no problem. It is unfortunate that I continually forget the frequency and severity of which I’ve spent my time pursuing nefarious deeds. Karma’s memory is long like the lines at the DMV, and like their workers, she is a horrible bitch.

This rumble was loaded, and not afraid to back up its boasting. And so, it was after a sneaky squeak, I found myself reclined comfortably in my chair with peanut butter butt. To keep matters interesting, according to my gut, there was more to come.

I sat there for a while, trying to convince myself that this had not, in fact, just happened. No matter how hard I wished it away, it was still there. Mind over matter, indeed! Eventually I knew I was going to have to do something, the sooner the better. I’ve never really been bothered to work within the confines of proper etiquette, but there is a certain amount of grace one has to use when excusing oneself from the table, where loaded drawers are concerned. My desire to end this as quickly as possible soon overwrote any fears of social faux pas, and I jumped up, cutting off my friend mid-sentence.

“Sorry. Gotta go. Coffee goes right through me.”

I would like to point out that it is much harder to move quickly, and in no way is it graceful, when one is clenching their creamy butt cheeks together. Alas, I made it to the bathroom. I flipped the lock to insure my privacy, as the bathroom was one of the big open jobs, and the clerks were cleaning up (it was near closing time). I peeled myself from the offending undies and finished the deposit in the proper receptacle.

While I washed my hands I toyed with the idea of washing off my underwear and hiding them in my pocket, but decided a bunched up pair of wet underwear wouldn’t be the most comfortable thing to carry around. When I went to throw them away, I found myself in another mess altogether.

As I parenthetically mentioned, it was close to closing time. The bathrooms had just been cleaned. The empty trash can sat by the door, all wide mouthed because it’s lid was off somewhere, possibly being washed. There was nothing in the bag. My friend and I were the only two customers. Even if there had been others, I was obviously the last one coming out of the bathroom. I knew, therefore, when the clerk returned with the lid, he was sure to know it was I who had deposited the shitty underwear. Furthermore, and more importantly, he would know it was I who had shit myself, and trying to hid my humiliation, had thrown the underwear in there.

Luckily, my pride can think very fast on his feet when faced with the prospect of being caught trying to dispose of incriminating evidence. I had a couple paper towels in my hand, from drying my hands after I washed them. I would just grab more, enough to cover the underwear completely. Brilliant. Not very green, but brilliant. Sorry environment, but you had to take yet another one for the team.

Whereas pride might be quick, it’s not very inconspicuous. I must have almost filled half of the container with paper towels before I felt safe enough to leave the bathroom.

This is where the walk of shame is the hardest. I had to walk as cool as I could, past the employee sweeping the floors and putting up the chairs, all the while thinking about how elegantly I had passed just minutes before. I should have clenched up and played it off as an unfortunate birth defect in my gait. 

Whatever. At this point damage control consisted of one option, Cheese It!

“Have a good night,” called the barista as I reached for the door. Jesus Tap-dancing Christ, the son of a bitch had to talk to me.

I looked in his direction and nodded, deliberately not giving eye contact. When I got through the doors I told my friend we should get going. They were closing and we should let them finish up. Thankfully, he agree and we left. Rather unceremonious a ending, I know. That is a good thing, in this case, cause now I feel pretty confident that I can mark one thing off my karmic payback list.

The Awkward Delicacy of Humble Pie

I could have killed my best friend yesterday. It was all a silly misunderstanding, of course.

See, even though I work very hard to not allow my psychotic hypochondria get the best of me, there’s little I can do to remedy my failing memory.

It all started yesterday morning when...

I was enjoying a quite hearty constitutional. This is not unusual, unless, of course, I’ve enjoyed my favorite candy snack, gummy [fill in the blank].

What was unusual was the amount of time the morning express from turd tunnel took to leave the station. I’m a get-in, get-done and get-on-already kind of guy. This kind of colonic tomfoolery has no place in my schedule. Yet, had I properly stocked my bathroom with toilet reading material, or brought my iPad with me, this would not have been a problem. What was I to do?

I have a restless mind like an adolescent monkey; I bore quickly. My attention passed lazily around the room until I noticed my pinky toe. It was wrapped tightly in a Sponge Bob band-aid. The bandage was protecting a wound from the previous day, I had kicked my little toe sharply against the corner of the refrigerator.

I took it off because it's better to let a wound have air, right? I dropped the band-aid in the toilet to dispose of it. Note: keep that in mind, for I did not. That handled, I passed the time creating brail caricatures out of the texture on the walls. After ten or fifteen seconds of that I was bored again.

Sigh.

After much searching and grunting and flexing, I finished with a deeply gratifying slop. I went to wipe and...

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT RED AND YELLOW THING?

I nearly jettisoned another constitutional right there.

I closed my eyes and focused on my breath. In 4-count. Hold 7-count. Out 8-count. I continued until my legs could no longer silently enduring the burning involved in half standing, hunched over. I opend my eyes to examine the oddity.

Though there hadn't been too much stink higher up, down there (read: face in the bowl), SUH-weet Jesus on the cross! I fought back the retch to get a look at this red and yellow— thing— in my stool.

At that precise moment (read: me head neck deep in the toilet), my dog decided to join the investigation. Anyone with at least a cursory understanding of canine nature knows the dog’s affinity for our nether regions. Following standard protocol, he started his investigation right at the source of the intoxicating smell.

It's hard to say which was more frightening: finding something abnormal in my first dump of the day or my dog's cold nose massaging the ole puckered poo-hole.

I snapped to attention like my first prostate screening, squarely kicking the toilet with my busted toe. I'll save you all the colorful expletives and animal abuse. Suffice it to say, when I got back to flush the toilet I remembered, thanks to my newly throbbing toe, that the red and yellow thing was a corner of the band aid I had deposited there earlier.

I believe I owe Beaux, my dog, an apology. He was only helping. In all likelihood, he saved me from fishing out that turdlet and taking it to the ER for diagnostics. I suppose that once I can walk normally again I'll take him for an extra swing around the block.

Damned Drought or It's Time to Impeach Obama!

I live in Houston, TX, and this year we've had something like 200 consecutive days of triple digit heat. To compound this meteorological faux pas we have not had any rain since Ike devastated us back in 2008.

In other words, we’re fucked!

I’m beginning to see a recurring thread here. Hmm... But I digress.

The result of the uncivilized heat and drought has killed much of the shrubbery and underbrush in the wooded park I frequent. This is bad because I am now completely exposed when I masturbate while watching the passing joggers.

Though I have managed to avoid detection so far, that dog will not hunt!

So, I am calling for all patriotic US citizens to unite to impeach President Obama, whose administration, and its global warming, is clearly to blame for this whole debacle.

Scoff at your own risk. Today it's my hidey hole. Tomorrow it will be yours!

Mother Earth Spoke to Me

Meditation is the shit! Because it’s so fuckin’ cool I meditate every day.

Well... mostly. Weekends are spotty 'cos my social engagements which keep me out late. Still, I would say at least 5 times a week, definitely at least 4 out of the 7 days in a week. 

At any rate, the two days a week I practice, I wake before the sun rises and sit in zazen, soaking in the peaceful darkness. When the light finally breaks through my window, I return to the rat race renewed, reborn and refreshed.

Arrows Enter Your Abdomen. Arrows Exit Your Face.

Yesterday something magical happened; I reached the 24th level of awareness. Having only a week and a half of practice under my belt, this was quite remarkable, or so the online forums told me.

There literally are no words to describe the beauty of the experience. Here’s exactly what happened: 

I communicated with Mother Earth. Her warm, soft voice enveloped and cradled me like a womb, without all the blood and jelly umbilical cord. All of the splendor came from her two simple words, "You're fucked."

Though she was speaking to me, the "you" I believe was the collective you, as in the whole of the human race. 

I’ve researched being fucked, and aside from some great pornography, I’ve learned that the end of Life, the Universe and Everything is to transpire October 21, 2011. Coincidentally, this is the exact same prediction of the end of times from my good friend Harold Camping.

Uhm... Er... Uhm... Uh...

This morning I managed to catch up with Mama Earth again and I asked, "So, there is a God? Harry was right?"

Her retort, "No, dumb ass, but it will totally fuck with the atheists."