April Fool’s Day

So, it’s April Fool’s Day again and the pressure is on to come up with something clever to confuse and confound the kid when she wakes up today.  Last year, I completely filled her dresser drawers with toilet paper rolls, so this year I have to top that.  But I only remembered what today was at 11:30pm last night, so whatever it was it was going to be had to be quick and easy to organize.  Fortunately, I found a clever prank on line.

First of all, it’s my opinion that every good prank worth doing has to encompass poo in some fashion.  Why?  Because I’m a guy and she’s nine-years-old and poo is rightfully considered as considered as funny and, therefore, totally prank worthy.  You may not share the same sentiment but, hey, we have a healthy respect for poo in this house.  What can I say?

So the premise of the gag is to create a fake poo and leave it somewhere where she is sure to stumble across it.  Now, you can create fake poo pretty easily out of a wide variety of materials laying around the house, but this one is pretty simple and easily crafted out of an empty toilet paper rolls which, fortunately, we have a lot of.  You can never have too many empty toilet paper rolls laying around in my opinion.

Anyway, here’s the gag:

1.  Soak a toilet paper roll in water until it’s good an moist.

1

2.  Shred the wet toilet paper roll into little pieces.

2

3.  Bunch up the shredding pieces into your hand and squeeze tightly to drain of excess water.

3

4.  The compressed shreds should resemble a piece of poo.  Well, to the unsuspecting eye anyway.

4

5.  Leave the fake poo laying around somewhere to be discovered.  In this case, I left it on her toilet seat knowing she would inevitably be up for an early morning bathroom stop.

5

6.  Hilarity hopefully ensues, or at least a little shrieking anyway.

Of course, the cats had the last laugh this morning when they left their own April Fools prank outside the laundry room in the way of the grossest fur ball I’ve ever laid eyes on, the little buggers.  So, yeah, I was upstaged by a feline.

God Help Me!

Time Turns Elastic

For Christmas this year, HRH received what’s known as a ‘Rainbow Loom’. Basically, it’s a plastic loom upon which you can make elastic bracelets, anklets, etc., from billions of tiny multi-colored elastics.  Oh joy.  It was the “In” toy this year so, of course, she just had to have it.  Thankfully, it was quickly lost in the ebb and flow of crap that spills out onto her bedroom floor and under her bed like another Exxon oil spill, and all was well with the world again.

Unfortunately, it was rediscovered during a recent deep exploration into the darkest recesses of her room.  Crap.  So what this means now is hours, well, minutes maybe, of endless rainbow fun for her and, me?  Well I get to look like an 80’s prostitute.

Don’t get me wrong, I love that she thinks enough of me to make me kazillions of colorful pictures and drawings and I typically keep them all.  At my work desk alone, I have about a half dozen of drawings of me as a bunny, a princess, and what have you.  Real manly stuff, right? But it makes her happy and keeping her happy makes me happy so I do the right thing and suck it up and pin them up for display.  Others, I keep stashed away in a folder for posterity.  Almost never does anything get simply thrown away, no matter how random, uninspired, or lame.  Except, lately, with the reemergence of this stupid Rainbow Loom, these drawings have now turned into neon elastic bracelets.  Oh goodie.

I still love getting these little gifts – don’t get me wrong – and I love that she’s thinking of me n’ all, but what am I supposed to do with these freakin’ things?

I mean, seriously, look at these things:

Elastics

How cool would I be wearing these?

First off, despite their elasticity, none of them actually fit me.  They’re so tight I’d probably loose fingers if I ever tried to wear them.  Thank God too as I’d look like a reject from some 80’s sitcom.  Secondly, since you can’t hang them per se, they’re now everywhere.  On my desk, on the gear shift in the car, dandling from my key chain and, yet, they just keep coming.  Similarly, our floor is now absolutely littered with the damnable things.  Each morning, I practically have to peel them off the soles of my feet.  If these elastics were currency, I’d be Bill-fn’-Gates!

So what do I do?  Do I hang on to these bracelets too or what?  Am I likely to one day pull them out from my ‘Man Trunk’ and reminisce over them fondly as I might do with her pictures at some point?  I’m thinking not.  The worst case, is that someone’s going to find these gaudy things while going through my stuff after I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil and think that I was a closet transvestite.

God help me.

The Toothpaste Conundrum

I found myself in a bit of a predicament the other night when I happened to run out of toothpaste in my downstairs Man’s Bathroom.  Innocent enough, right?  Kelly had already gone to bed so I didn’t relish sneaking into our Master Bedroom and risk waking her up, so I decided to steal some from HRH’s bathroom instead which is just at the top of the stairs.  Little to my dismay, she only had a tube of – *sigh* – special Hannah Montana toothpaste; strawberry-flavored to be exact.  FML.

Do I or don't I?

Do I or don’t I?

But, hey, toothpaste is toothpaste after all, right?  So what if I was about to fight plague with something endorsed by and proudly depicting Miley Cyrus.  I hesitated at first, but soon figured that it was doubtful I would ever catch something so I tried it and it was…amazing.  Strawberry!  I could’ve brushed for a week.  And you will all be happy to note that it has not yet brought on a random desire to suddenly begin twerking, or caused my tongue to inexplicably attempt to touch my left ear lobe.  No, it was just pure strawberry deliciousness.

So this got me to thinking, why don’t adults have better tasting toothpaste anyway?  At the very least, why don’t we have better flavors to choose from?  Don’t adults like the taste of strawberries, or other kinds of fruits for that matter?  Shit, why not a chocolate and salted caramel flavored toothpaste?  Tell me that shit wouldn’t sell.  So why then are adults typically only offered such standard and uninspired flavors such as spearmint, peppermint or, hell, baking soda?  Seriously, baking soda?  Whoever looks at a box of baking soda and thinks to themselves, “Mmm, I bet that sodium bicarbonate shit is tasty!”  Umm, no one!  That’s who.

So, while it may not be the manliest thing I’ve ever done, I sure do love me some Miley Cyrus toothpaste.  I wonder what the reaction will be at the checkout this weekend at the local supermarket when I wheel through an entire shopping cart of the stuff.

God help me.

Blades of Glory

I have been skating exactly twice in my life.  Once the other day as fulfillment of a promise I made with HRH   (more to come on that) and the other exactly 35 years ago.  I know, not very Canadian of me, eh?  Well, allow me to explain a bit.

Here’s a shot of me during my very first outdoor ice-skating experience in 1979 along the Welland Canal by the old GM Plant 1 facility.  I was all of 6 years old at the time.

Skating

Seriously, how cute am I?  What this picture doesn’t illustrate is what happened shortly afterwards when I fell through the ice.  Yeah, total bummer, right?  I don’t recall much detail of it actually happening other then one second I was skating and the next…’splash’.  I’m underwater water and everything is dark.  Mostly, I remember it being extremely cold and scary as all bejesus.  Needless to say, I haven’t felt the need to don skates, like, ever again.  No sir, it’s one of those ‘once bitten, twice shy’  kind of dealies.  Now, I realize that you can’t exactly fall through the ice at a skating rink but, still, just thought of being on ice-skates brings back that terrifying feeling of suddenly being immersed and fighting for air.  Not cool.

Anyway, fast forward 35 years to this past Monday and I’m skating with the child at the ‘Rink on the Brink’ in Niagara Falls, just at the top of the falls themselves…well, not ‘on’ the falls, per se, as that would be pretty damn stupid, but off to the side at the top of the escarpment.  You see, earlier this year I had made a deal with HRH  that if she managed to complete her first triathlon, which she successfully completed this past July, then I would learn to ice-skate.  God help me.

So, anyway, I’d be lying that I haven’t been doing my best to put this off as long as possible until Kelly mentioned that the ‘Rink on the Brink’ was hosting a free skate on Monday’s, so there was no better time than the present.  A deal is a deal after all and I’m a man of my word, so I cinched up the ‘ol apple sack, rented myself a pair of skates and apprehensively made my way onto the ice.  Oh Lord.

How did I do?  Well, see for yourself:

 

Yes, I’m sure this might resemble a baby deer taking it’s first delicate steps to most Canadians, but I’m pretty stoked.  The best part is that I’m still alive to tell the story.  In fact, I might just give up on this whole Ironman dream and pursue a career in figure skating instead given my natural talents.  Oh, and for the record…I didn’t fall, like, once.  How awesome am I?

Merry Duckmas!

Its three days before Christmas and I should be over-inundated with the usual traditional Christmas holiday crap but, I’m not.  No.  Instead, you know what my Facebook feed and subsequent Internet browsers have been subjecting me to ad nauseum?  Duck-freakin-Dynasty!  That’s what.   It’s bad enough that you can’t walk into a store – ANY STORE – without bumping face first into a Duck Dynasty POS display hawking ball caps, sweat shirts, and what have you, but what’s wrong with our society when what some camouflaged idiot with a beard may (or may not) have said about gays overrules the spirit of the Christmas Season?  Seriously, who gives a shit?

It’s Christmas!  It’s about the ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’, not ‘Ho! Ho! Homosexuals!

Now, I’m not passing judgment on the whole A&E controversy as, truthfully, I couldn’t give a festive rats ass.  Hell, I’ve never even seen the show, like, once.  In fact, A&E totally jumped the shark for me years ago when they first started airing ‘Storage Wars’  marathons, like, every day.  But, hey, I do hate to buck popular holiday convention (especially with a child around the house) so maybe I should just learn to ‘go with the flow’.

So screw Christmas, we’re celebrating the spirit of ‘Duckmas’ this year by reveling in all things Duck Dynasty.  Yeah, Christmas is so passee anyway!

As such, we’re decorating the tree with duck calls, wrapping the presents in camouflage, and hanging beards instead of mistle toe:  “Oh honey, you’re standing under the Duckmas beard, you know what that means…pucker up!”  And forget about hanging Christmas stockings, we’re going to use rubber boots.  Oh, and instead of a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer, Santa now drives a 49.8 horsepower ATV so we’re leaving a barrel of gasoline out instead of cookies and milk.  And, hey, instead of your usual turkey dinner Christmas Eve, we’re having roasted duck and honeyed frog legs and we’ve even replaced our ‘Elf on the Shelf‘ with a bobble head of Phil Robertson.

Yup.  This is going to be the best Duckmas ever!

God help me.

Introducing Walter

I am still new to this whole parenting thing and, as such, I am very out of touch with many of the popular kid’s trends and customs that other parents have no doubt already been exposed to ad nauseum.  In my previous bachelor life, my only responsibility was to make sure my cat was fed and the cactus was watered, well, every so often; neither of them expected much else.  Life was easy.  But now, holy shit!  With a child around there’s so much more to be aware and on top of.  One such custom is this whole ‘Elf on a Shelf’ phenomenon.

For those of you who have either been living under a rock, or perhaps don’t have kids in the house, let me enlighten you.  Here’s the skinny directly from the website:

The Elf on the Shelf is a special scout elf sent from the North Pole to help Santa Claus manage his naughty and nice lists. When a family adopts an elf and gives it a name, the elf receives its Christmas magic and can fly to the North Pole each night to tell Santa Claus about all of the day’s adventures. Each morning, the elf returns to its family and perches in a different place to watch the fun. Children love to wake up and race around the house looking for their elf each morning.

There are two simple rules that every child knows when it comes to having an elf. First, an elf cannot be touched; Christmas magic is very fragile and if an elf is touched it may lose that magic and be unable to fly back to the North Pole. Second, an elf cannot speak or move while anyone in the house is awake! An elf’s job is to watch and listen.

Walter, the Extortionately Priced Elf

Walter, the Extortionately Priced Elf

Okaaaaaay.

Just what this house needs…another creepy doll.  And, hey, for a whopping $35 a pop, never mind encouraging good behavior, this damn thing had also better make me breakfast in the morning and file my taxes.

So, anyway, HRH  has decided that she wants an elf of her own since the rest of the free world seems to have one.  More correctly, Kelly decided that HRH  actually needed one in an effort to get her to better cooperate in cleaning her room, tidying her desk, and keeping the downstairs play area clutter free.  I can definitely support that I guess as a peaceful, non-argument free household is happy household.  So a plan was put in action.

The first order of business was to send HRH  an official email from Santa via “Santa Mail” from the North Pole indicated his concern regarding her recent stubbornness and poor behavior and suggesting that an elf might in fact be needed.  Yeah, you can thank yours truly for that little nugget (okay, it was really Kelly’s idea but I crafted out the email and perpetrated the whole Santa fraud).  But what I (we) got back in return the next morning I (we) couldn’t have ever prepared myself for in a thousand years.

Email Reply #1“Santa i need to know can an elf kill me”

The fuck?

Email Reply #2“Santa clause I’m scared of an elf on a shelf because i read online that if u have a ouji bord the elf can turn evil and kill u in your sleep.”

Thank you, Internet.

I guess my responding now with Walter’s (our particular elf’s name) past dabbling in the Black Arts, or maybe his affiliation with the KKK would be a bad idea, huh?  As would his being on the recent Black Sabbath tour or being able to recite all the lyrics to Hotel California backwards.  Shit, I could definitely have some fun with this…but I won’t.  Or will I?  Maybe I can take some candid “never before/behind the scenes” shots when the child is safely asleep.  Stay tuned, readers, this is going to get interesting.

God help me.

“You want a WHAT?”

Remember as kids when Sears, or maybe Eatons if you’re old like me, released their Christmas Wish catalog?  All the kids just couldn’t wait to get their hands on it an ogle all the possible new toys that Santa might come through with…if we were lucky.  I remember locking myself in my closet away from my siblings prying eyes with a flashlight as soon as I could wrestle it away from my mother’s clutches and furiously circle all the desired items I could ever hope to find under the tree on Christmas morning – *sigh* – good times.

Well, that ritual is still very much alive and well with HRH.  Except, nobody ever gets an actual paper catalog delivered to their mailbox nowadays, oh no, you have to go online  now to view the new Christmas inventory instead.  Like this child doesn’t spend enough time glued to her electronic gizmo’s as it is.  Anyway, that’s her custom.  Kelly plops her in front of the laptop with the new Sears website and she browses all the new tchotchkes and whatnot and then bookmarks them to add to her letter to Santa later; same principle, different technology.

‘Oh, the times they are a-changin’.

Anyway, it’s funny to see what grabs an eight-year-olds attention nowadays.  Back when I was that age I was all into my Star Wars and G.I. Joe like any other red-blooded boy my age, where my sister had her Barbie’s, Cabbage Patch Kids and My Little Ponies.  I guess I was kind of expecting to see the same with HRH.  You know…girly stuff.  But, oh no!  That would be too easy.  Instead, she wants this:

A magic mood lamp.

Sure, she reads “Orbeez Magic Mood Lamp”, but what I see is a huge God awful neon purple dick.  Should I be worried?  Seriously, look at that thing!  It would make Jenna Jameson more than a little uncomfortable.  Shit, I feel dirty just looking at it.

Now, forget for a moment its inherent penis shape, what does an eight-year-old need with a mood lamp anyway?  The catalog offers this as an answer:  Just fill with Orbeez and watch as it magically lights up and changes color from one stunning transformation to the next.” Really?  I had a mood lamp back in University and we used to do just that too, but I also know what states of mind we were usually in at the time.  What’s she going to do?  Chug down a little ‘No More Tears’ and retire to her room to trip the light Fandango before bedtime?

“Like, totally wow, man”.

God help me.

How Awesome Is This?

I had a really pleasant surprise waiting for me on my desk the other morning.  Something that still proudly resonates with me now and more than likely always will.  In fact, it might just become my new slogan for life.

Every now and again, HRH  likes to leave me little notes on my desk as a surprise when I go downstairs to enjoy my morning coffee and check my work email prior to taking her to school.  Often they take the form of pictures or simple drawings, other times they’re short silly stories and sometimes, well, sometimes they’re completely inspirational such as this little acrostic poem yesterday:

Awwww.

Awwww.

I mean, really, how incredibly awesome is that?

Just over two years ago, when I did my workouts I went out, busted ass, then came home and plopped my exhausted rear end into my EZ-Boy in front of the boob tube.  Nobody ever noticed and, more than likely, nobody would have cared.  In fact, most people simply thought that I just had a screw loose for punishing myself so hard.  Fast forward to today and, clearly, things are a bit different.  But while I’ve harbored the concern that my Ironman training might take me away from my family more than I’d like, my ultimate fear has been that it might be perceived as ultimately more important than they are in that I’d rather be training than spending time with them.  And while Kelly is more than able to understand my passion, HRH, well, maybe not so much.  She’s only eight-years-old for Pete sakes.  What does she know about training and goals and whatnot, she just wants her cuddle time in the comfy chair and a Disney movie and anything that might prohibit that time could be perceived as an immediate threat.  And who can blame her?  It is.

But, regardless, maybe this is a sign that I’ve been worrying too much; either that or I am currently doing a pretty good job at managing my home and training commitments.  Good for me!  Whatever it is, I am absolutely stoked at this revelation that she doesn’t think I’m either a total wack job or I am consciously dismissing our cuddle time to indulge in my own selfish interests.  Actually, it seems like she’s perfectly fine with it.  Hell, she thinks I’m a rock star.  That doesn’t sound like she has negative issues with it, does it?

Tough?  Energetic?  Awesome?  No, it sounds like I’m doing a pretty good job at whatever it is I’m doing and that feels pretty good.

God help me.

Man Day

When I gave up my bachelorhood I knew that it would inevitably mean many changes.  I fully understood that there would need to be a certain amount of conforming on my part, if you will.  Hey, living with two girls is, well, it’s just different.  It’s not bad, mind you, it’s just that I have to be more conscientious about the things that I might not have hesitated to do as a single guy in my own natural habitat (i.e. my old bachelor pad).  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret this decision, in fact, my life is better for having made this change, but there are still times I miss being a dude, a man’s man, or whatever you want to call it.

But, luckily, I still have the opportunity to partake in all the little things that I used to take for granted.  You see, usually every other weekend I am left to my own devices when Kelly goes to work and little HRH  is off visiting her dad.  These weekends are glorious in that I can feel free to indulge – unobstructed mind you – in my proud masculinity; without judgment, without ridicule, and without a “Hey, shouldn’t you put your pants on?”  These are days to truly celebrate.

I call these special occasions ‘Man Day’…queue the angel choruses.

On ‘Man Day’ there are certain rules.  Kind of like my own ‘Ten Commandments’, except way cooler and much less inhibiting.   These rules, while definitely important, will also ensure that my personal holiday will be a complete success from morning to night providing me with every opportunity to embrace and worship my inner beast, lest I start to buckle under the extreme weight of two weeks’ worth of femininity and my shit totally starts to slide off its cracker.  In short, it keeps me sane.

These all-haloed rules-slash-commandments for ‘Man Day’ are:

1.       Thou shalt sleep in until 9:30am.

Lord knows I get up early(ish) most days either to run, hit up the pool, go to work, take the kid to school, or whatever.  On ‘Man Day’, life does not begin until after 9:30am…preferably 10:00am.

2.       Thou shalt wear thy pajama pants until noon.

Who am I trying to impress?  Usually, I don’t even brush my hair until after lunch.

3.       Thou shalt take ones time at the gym. 

No need to hurry the sets in order to rush off and pick up the child from ‘Kids Club’, or be home to thaw out the chicken for dinner when the girlfriend gets home, on ‘Man Day’ it’s about me and the heavy iron.  That means no “Please be home by…”  Heck, I might even read the newspaper.

4.       Thou shalt fart, burp and scratch openly and without shame.

For centuries man has expressed himself through his diverse cacophony of gastro eruptions.  Just because girls don’t speak (or appreciate) our unique and intricate language, doesn’t mean we should lose touch with it either.  I consider myself bi-lingual in this regard; fluent in both English and Male.

5.       Thou shalt spend at least two hours on the couch worshipping at least one of the ‘Patron Saints of Man Day’: Clint Eastwood, Jean Claude Van Damme, Arnold Schwarzenegger, or Harrison Ford. 

Yes, Harrison Ford!  He’s Han-freakin-Solo for God sakes!   Indiana Jones?  Hello?

6.       Thou shalt consume copious amounts of protein; grilled and otherwise.

It’s the perfect way to satisfy our primal manly instinct to build fires and roast small animals over them.

7.       Thou shalt forgo the salad; preferably for more protein.

You never saw drawings on cave walls of men sitting around eating salad did you?  Likewise, there was never anything known in history as the ‘Great Salad Hunt’ was there?

8.       Thou shalt poop with the bathroom door open afterwards.

It’s a man thing.  Sorry girls, it happens, what with all the digesting protein working through our systems and everything.  Besides, being bottled up in close quarters with all that fetid stink is simply too much to bear.  We’re likely to have an aneurism or something and that’s no way to celebrate the holidays!

9.       Thou shalt play ones AC/DC at volumes which might make your ears bleed.

Forget Bruno Mars, Taylor Swift, Celine Dion, or whatever it is you might be forced to tolerate when the girlfriend is around until your penis shrivels up into dust, on ‘Man Day’, it’s all about the rock and roll.  Play it loud and play it proud.

10.   NO DISNEY CHANNEL!  Ever.  Period.

Seeing as how I watch more ‘Jesse’, ‘Good Luck Charlie, and ‘Wizards of Waverly Place’  than any man should ever have to endure, on ‘Man Day’, the Disney Channel is as off limits as chemicals weapons are in the Geneva Convention (refer to Commandment #5).

The Prostate Panic

There are three things that as a grown man I am scared to death of and which might from time to time keep me awake at night:

  • Balloons
  • Miley Cyrus
  • The threat of being anally violated

This is a story of overcoming one of those fears.

I’m sure many men will have a similar fear of having the sanctity of their delicate tuckus’s penetrated; others, well, that’s their business but, for me, it’s definitely true.  In fact, for the past 41 years I have been extremely successful at remaining 100% penetration free, and then on one fateful day that all ended at the latexed hand of a blonde medical intern.

I knew already that when a man turns a certain age – 40 being the commonly accepted age – that certain measures need to be taken in regard to his physical health; namely his prostate.  I know this because my nurse girlfriend takes great evil pleasure in reminding me.

I was more than a little anxious last year when I turned the big four-oh, but I managed to escape that appointment unscathed with nary a gentle prodding; heck, I didn’t even have to get undressed.  Just ‘stick out your tongue, take a few deep breathes for me, now hop up here and have your weight taken’, before ‘off you go Mr. Nash’.  I did note though, a certain menacing twinkle in the doctor’s eye as if he had mercilessly let me off the hook or, for whatever reason, saved me from an unavoidable fate.  It was like he was purposely preventing himself from leaking a spoiler about the outcome of some fantastic season finale or blockbuster flick at the theaters.  I was immediately suspicious.  So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I booked this year’s appointment and, apparently, I had good reason to worry.

It’s important to note that my doctor’s office is more of a medical school, in that sometimes you get the doc himself, and other times you get one of his practicing interns.  I’m not fussed really as long as I’m healthy, which, I typically am.  On this day, I happened to be scheduled with an intern…a rather pretty, blonde intern.  Oh, just great.  “Pleasedontlettodaybetheday…pleasedontlettodaybetheday…dontlettodaybetheday…”

The exam started innocently enough.  After answering the initial bevy of simple questions about my health and how I was feeling in general (fine – I always feel ‘fine’), she took my weight, tossed me a surgical gown and invited me to get undressed as she fled the room.  I started to hyperventilate.  All signs were pointing to ‘brace yourself, cowboy.  Today is the day’.  Surely, the doc would walk in at any moment and save me from this madness right?  He didn’t.

Back in came the pretty physician and she proceeded to take my blood pressure, listen to my heart through a stethoscope, tapped on my abdomen like she was drumming out the solo to ‘Inna-Gotta-Da-Vida’, and checked out my pupil dilation by shining a bright light in my eyes.  Then it happened, a snapping of a rubber glove followed by “now I’d like you to roll over facing the wall and bend your legs”.  Oh shit.

“Okay, Mr. Nash.  You might feel a little pressure”, she cooed.  She sounded absolutely giddy about the prospect as if she simply couldn’t wait to get to it.  What I heard was:  “Okay Mr. Nash.  I’m going to stick my finger up your ass now”, so that eagerness wasn’t completely appreciated.  It was Go Time; Zero Hour; the Point of No Return.

Although I couldn’t see her, I could just sense the huge smile of eager anticipation that only a practicing intern might have.  I, however, wanted to cry.  I wanted to run.  I wanted to, to…stall for more time.  Maybe I should engage her in meaningful dialogue and perhaps try to learn a little more about her first.  What’s her favorite color?  What her favorite food?  Where does she see herself in five years?  Maybe set it all to the cool styling’s of a Sade CD.   But before I had an opportunity to ask her any of these important questions, Ms. Sausage Fingers was wrist deep in my ass and poking around like she was drying to unplug the kitchen sink.

I took another breath and the room spun like the Tilt-o-Whirl at the local carnival, after three corndogs slathered with mustard.  Searing pain.  Mind-numbing, star inducing pain.  I felt like a cornered and frightened dog.  I wanted to turn around and bite her and I was actually considering doing just that when the glove snapped again. “All done.”

The verdict you ask?  Well, my prostate is 100%, A-okay.  The sanctity of my poop hole, however, destroyed.

God help me.

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