Black Eye Friday

thSo today was another Walmart  Black Friday.  *yawn*  There were fights, *double yawn* and stuff.  You know the old stabbing, stun gunning, gun shotting and fisticuffing kinda Black Friday, nothing special.  Some got hurt, some got flat screens. Some saved a few dollars but missed work so it balanced out.

America, isn’t it fun?  The world is watching you as you line up for blocks to save a buck and then rush through the doors like barn animals that were locked away for too long, trampling each other as you make your way to the feeding trough.  America, America, it’s damn embarrassing!

American Thanksgiving is world renowned.  Turkey dinners, family, thanks given, oh never mind, that was before this Black Friday thing.  Now it’s “Hurry up and eat your damn turkey so we could go camp out at Walmart!  We could always give thanks later.”

As of today, Black Friday is going to have a new meaning.  I decree that Black Friday be set aside for something more beneficial to society.  Let’s recognize black people.  Yeah, you heard me.  What? I heard that!  You said there’s already MLK day and Black History Month?  Ok fine, how about we call it Black Eye Friday then?  I mean tomorrow, many of you shopaholics would be sporting some dandy shiners.

Looking good, America, looking real good!

It’s Not That Easy Buying For Her, Is It?

I hear that!

Musings Of A Daddy

imagesOn the radio today, the question was asked, “What is the worst gift to buy for a woman?”  One listener, a female, said that unless the guy is 100% sure of the size, clothes are a no-no.  If it’s too big, they see it as sending the message that they are fat.  Too small says that they need to lose a few pounds to fit into the dress.   And here was I thinking that buying it a size or two smaller would be flattering…  I would expect to be greeted with, ‘Awww, Honey, you actually thought I was a size two?”  You aren’t?

Kitchen utensils and appliances were also ranked high on the not-to-buy list.  So don’t get her that fancy set of pots you had your eyes set on, and forget the ice-making fridge too.  I really can’t see why any woman would not be excited to get a …

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My Most Embarrassing, Agonizing and Violating Experience. Ever

Warning:  Blog contains graphic detail of catheter inserted in penis and the odd sexual innuendo.

Today I had the worst experience of my life in terms of pain and discomfort.  I made the mistake of complaining to my doctor about some issues I was having about two months ago with my bladder.  After sending me to see a urologist, I was booked for a Urodynamic Assessment.  Don’t know what that is? You will by the time you are through reading this blog.

I had an idea what I was in for as I read up a bit on it.  I knew something was going to be inserted into my urethra.  I also knew it would cause some pain, but nothing prepared me for what was in store.  Nothing could.

When I checked in, I was sent to a change room to don a robe and gown, much to my dismay.  I always feel a little less of a man when wearing that dreaded gown.  Plus, I had nothing on underneath!  I was sent to sit with a bunch of old timers dressed like I was.  They were all hooked up to IV’s and I suspected were there to have various ‘old timers’ procedures.  There were two women among them and the thought that they too were naked underneath the flimsy cloth made me feel just a bit uncomfortable.

Remember I blogged a while back that I have this fear of having erections at the wrong places, like massage tables etc.?  Here.  Well as I sat crossed-leg, I thought, “What if I get a hard-on and then they come to get me?”  The thought terrified me so much that I was determined not to let that happen.  I started to think of nonsexual things. Like the old timers sitting with me.

I was supposed to report for my procedure with a full bladder and by the time the nurse came to get me, I could barely stand.  I wanted to go! Bad!  She called my name and asked how I was doing and I replied, “I really really want to pee!”

In the room, I sat in visible distress as she went over what was to take place.  She placed a long plastic object on the table and informed me that it was to be used as the probing object.  It would be inserted into the tiny hole in my pee pee and all the way into my bladder.  The thought alone made me ill.

As if it wasn’t bad enough, this young female nurse was the one who was going to administer my torture!  She sent me to lie on the bed while she prepared the tools of her trade.  Lying there, we talked about our lives, The Voice, family, etc.  I was getting rather comfortable with her.  So comfortable that again I thought, “What if I get a hard-on right here?  How embarrassing would that be?”  So I bit my fingers to distract myself.  Then thought of what lay ahead.

Then she was hovering over me, lifting up my robe and gown exposing my privates.  Thanks darling, I needed that. Then she showed me a small pack of antiseptic wipes.  Or was it gel? Not sure.  “I am going to wipe you with this, ok?”  I nodded.  I had no choice as I was at her mercy.

She took hold of my member and gently wiped it.  Then again.  As she wiped the underside where the nerves were, I instantly felt myself reacting to it.  (Come on! I am human! Don’t go judging me!) Oh gosh no! Seriously?  Kill me now!  Please nurse, stop wiping and get on with it!  This was bad.  Down boy! Down! This is the absolutely worst time!

The nurse must have felt the sudden change too because all of a sudden the wipe was out of her hand and replaced by the catheter, like a magician.  And just like a magician, it was suddenly being pushed into my urethra! OH. MY. GOD!


I knew it was going to be bad but had no clue what bad was.  It felt like a scaly garter snake slithering up my penis!  While she urged me to breathe in and exhale through my mouth, I thrashed and writhed and clenched my fists.  Then I groaned then half screamed. I was in agony.  Distress. Traumatized. Violated.  And I was dying.  I wanted to stop her.  Call it off.  Anything to make her/it go away. I also wanted to kill her and her entire family.  Whatever it took to make this stop.  I hated her!

After what seemed like an eternity in hell, it was all in.  I whimpered inside like a wounded animal.  The violation was not over.  She then inserted another object into my anus as part of the test.  So I was DP’d.  Wow!  Could you say EMBARRASSED?

When it was all done, I told her that it was officially the worst experience of my life.  I have an excellent pain threshold but this was not pain.  This was something else.

Against my better judgement, I went back to work and shared my story.  Well it made me the butt of jokes for the day.  Oh and no pun intended.





Ok, Who Farted?

English: Treason!!! John Bull emits an explosi...

English: Treason!!! John Bull emits an explosive bout of flatulence at a poster of George III as an outraged William Pitt the Younger ticks him off. Newton’s etching was probably a comment on Pitt’s threat (realized the following month) to suspend habeas corpus. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I grew up with my aunt who was a no-nonsense kinda woman.  No swearing, not even the word ‘damn’ was allowed within earshot.  Because of that upbringing, I was never comfortable discussing disgusting bodily functions.  Loud belching, farting, spitting and talking about poop were not conversations I engaged in.

My exes could attest to the fact that they never heard me fart out loud.  In fact I only started doing that around my wife maybe a year ago.  We have been together for over 10 years.  She let it rip right off the bat, assuring me that doing so meant that she was comfortable around me. Don’t ask.

Farting is as much a part of our everyday lives as breathing and should be treated as such.  I have come to realize that and have eased up on my tight-assed attitude.  A bit.  In fact, I have become comfortable enough that I can now blog about farting.

So, do you entertain a feeling of pride when your fart smells as though it was created from the deepest smelly pits of hell?  I bet you do, admit it. Come on! It’s me, you can tell me anything. How about the flipside?  Your farted and sniff the air like a hound trying to catch wind of your wind but nothing assails your nostrils.  At least not what you expected. Do you feel letdown? Disappointed? Yeah, I hear you.

Have you ever been safe and alone, maybe in the sanctity of your office, and decided to let one rip with reckless abandon? It smells like King Kong’s ass and you are quite understandably proud of your handiwork.  Or should I say asswork?  Then it happens!  Karen, the nosey chick, no pun, who always sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong, again no pun, decides to peek in your office.  “Hey, are you still working on…hmm…what is that smell?”  Pride is erased from your face and replaced by a poker player’s emotions.  “Yes, I smell it too! Smells like something died behind the walls.”  You know she doesn’t buy it but you had to try.

Guys, how about this.  You are wandering down the aisle of your favorite store and after checking around, you felt safe enough to deflate your bowels. You cut no corners as of course you are alone.  As the sound of an angry elephant echoes off the shelves, you saw her.  How did you not see her?  The unlucky recipient of your windy leftovers wrinkles her nose like Jeannie the genie then stop dead in her tracks as though she just walked face first into an invisible wall of feces.  Although there’s no one within 50 feet, you look around as though saying, “Who the hell farted up the place?”

You see the thing is, although farting is an acceptable and oft discussed function, we still get embarrassed if we are caught dropping stink bombs.  Especially by a lovely damsel.

The F in Friday: Those Damn Bosses!

Who's the Boss?

Who’s the Boss? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Today I was thinking, yes I do that sometimes, about the way some bosses are.  You know what I’m talking about.  Well maybe not at this moment as I’m just introducing the topic but you will.  Trust me.  If you don’t then you are probably your own boss or an unemployed bum.  In either case, I’m not hating.  To each his or her own.  But anyways, back to the task at hand.  We are talking about bosses.


Have you ever been called to the boss’ office and you think it’s something important but you get, “Karen, I have this email here that I want you to send it to the other employees.  I’ll forward it to you as we speak.”  You, being Karen, looks at him like, “WTF boss! You call me in here for this?  Is there a trick to this?  You just sent the damn thing to me, why didn’t you just add the other names and send it?”  But of course you won’t, or maybe you did and that’s why you are now an unemployed bum. I got it.


But seriously, what’s wrong with bosses like that?  I’ve worked with a few of them.  Lazy buggers who makes you question their credentials. “How did boss get that job? He’s a lazy so and so.”  Don’t worry Karen, or is it Susan? he’s just being your typical boss.


Now why would boss sit with you in his office going over spreadsheets then after, tells you to print a copy when you get back to your desk?  While he had it open, couldn’t he had pressed, ‘print’?  Nah, never mind.  Too much work.


Have a great weekend, Boss.  And remember to lead by example.




Tacky Tuesday: Honey, Unlock Your Drawers. I’ll Be Home Soon!

chastity-beltHave you heard about the new tool in the fight against rape?  It’s a new form of the chastity belt,  complete with a lock that can only be removed if one uses the right combination.  In other words, the vagina is under lock-down until the warden decides to open it.

I am not sure how effective it is going to be against a rapist but think of the daily nightly issues faced with wearing a panty that needs a combination.  Women are generally not that good at remembering things like combinations to locks so imagine the situation where a couple is about to get freaky, then suddenly, “Ahm…honey, what’s the combination? I can’t get this thing off.”  You know us men when it comes to doing ‘the deed’ we have no patience.  That’s why in x-rated movies, (not that I’ve seen any) the undies are usually ripped off and thrown aside.  So now the woman who is already in a state of turnedonism groaned out a sequence of numbers.  (I wish I could do the voice for you).  “8, 13, 34, 6.” The man hastily tries these numbers to no avail.  The anti-rape panties are not coming off.  His partner mumbles out different combinations.  Her bank card code, her ex’s phone number, nothing works.  The mood is all but killed.  “Open Sesame” fails to work also.

Now do you call a locksmith in this case? “Hello, Locksmith?  Yeah, my wife and I are trying to get it on, if you know what I mean but we can’t get her drawers unlocked.  Could you help?”  If it’s a male locksmith, he would be over before the husband hangs up.  “Ok show me this woman of yours.  I’ve never the seen the drawers I couldn’t get into.”

Panties with a combination lock could make for great fun in the bedroom also.  “Honey! Do you want to play ‘Guess The Combo’ in bed tonight?  There’s something in it for you if you do.”

As for deterring rapes, not a chance.  Well that’s unless the wearer walks around making sure everyone knows that she is wearing one.  “Don’t even try it, punk! I am wearing one of those thingies and you can’t get into my drawers unless I let you!  So back the eff off!”  Yeah, and the tough rapist would just walk away with his head bowed in submission.  “Why the hell does she have to wear one of those?  That’s like the fricking 3rd chick this week.  I am so horny today too!  Shit!”



Note:  Rape is a terrible crime against females, and males too.  It has no place in society and my blog is not intended to make light of this issue.

The World’s Ending! Get Me To A News Reporter Quick!

ines-sainzFirst let me say that my thoughts are prayers go out to the people of the Philipines devastated by the monster typhoon this weekend.  I can’t imagine your pain and loss.

While following this news, I watched videos of reporters reporting from the heart of the devastation.  It made me wonder, how come these news people are always in the centre of trouble but rarely, if ever, get hurts?  Afghanistan, smack dab in the middle of the Taliban war, Iraq war with bombs dropping all around, Hurricane Katrina, you name it, they are right in the middle of it and while reporting live, look none the worst for wear.  Makeup done right, dressed neat, even in high winds and rain.  I don’t know how they do it.

So I made a silent vow while I watched the coverage of the typhoon.  In the event of a war or life threatening disaster, I am going to find the closest news reporter and stick to her like glue.  Yes, I hope it’s a ‘her’.   I’ll go to hell with a news reporter at my side and I’ll fear no evil for she’s with me.  Her Mike and her notes will comfort me.


From the fiery pits of Hell, this is Inez Sainz reporting.  Hey! Excuse me! Why are you clinging to me?  Get off me! You are cramping my style.


Don’t worry Eggman! I’m coming to save you!!

Manic Monday: Honey, I Cleaned The Toilets.

imagesI hope my wife is happy.  Why?  Because I cleaned the toilet. Not entirely but the most important spot, the bowl. Before you die in consternation wondering what’s the deal about  cleaning the throne, let me explain.

I have this thing about seeing shit stains in the toilet when I stand to tinkle.  You know those stubborn stains that no matter how you try to flush them they never disappear? They loiter around the bowl like zits on a teenager’s face.  Well I hate them. They irk me.  They are my pet peeve.  So when I pee, I used my tinkle like a fireman’s hose and hose it all off.  Shit stains be gone!

I usually walk out of that washroom as proud as a peacock, after admiring my handiwork before I exit. It’s so easy.  Men, if you are like me and hate seeing your porcelain throne desecrated, use what God gave you and give it a good hosing down.  Wave goodbye to those shitbits.

Last night I went to use the washroom and saw some remnants of the last worshipper’s visit. No problem, I’ll take care of that.  I aimed my stream directly on the stains.  Close to the rim, along the top, everywhere.  Before my bladder was completely empty, not a stain remained.  Success!  Now my wife would/should be very happy.

Sometimes if I’m in a good mood, I’ll even put my hose to good use at public washrooms. It’s not always a success story in those places as the stains are more than just stubborn, they are clingy, they are dogged. They are determined to stay put and there are lots of them!  Ever heard the saying there’s strength in numbers?

If I’m ever at your house and you noticed your toilet bowl is spotless when I leave, thank me later.  Just using my hose, ma’am.

Disclaimer: the above does not work on underwater stains.