Rejoice; I'm back.
My family is filled with people with fucked up senses of humor. I appreciate them very much so. A few days ago that my brother has Stage 4 liver cancer. Stage 4 meaning "It's spreading". Needless to say, jokes ensued. About the spreading, not the cancer. That part sucks.
So my brother calls me at 7am to tell me has six months to live. I'm like dude, you have shitty timing with jokes. He says, Well, I have six months to get the timing right. See? THAT'S funny.
He goes on to say, his cancer is an attention whore. It's going around to all his other organs drama-queen style. So now people reading my timeline are like "Wait, cancer isn't funny" I don't want to laugh at that. But yea, we laugh.
That's why I prefaced this random rant with "my family has a fucked up sense of humor". Anyways, back to business. Show me your tits, it's for breast cancer awareness.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Don't point your finger at me!
Many moons have passed since I updated this blog. After much bickering, and finger pointing (at myself mostly) I've decided to write whatever came to mind in order to satisfy your shitty-blog-needs. Now, seeing that we are in the topic of shitty needs; why not start there?
At some point most men will either be offered a prostate exam as part of general health screening, or, it will be advised because of their age, or in some rare occurrences due to "problems relating to difficulty in passing urine".
So here I am having "difficulty in passing urine". Why, you ask? The short version? A miscalculated drunken crane kick a couple days earlier. In retrospect that dude should not have been wearing steel-toed shoes, but I digress. Let's fast-forward a little bit... I am sitting in my family doctors office discussing the possible causes for my difficulties doing number one.
There is no proper way to share this information with a heterosexual male without causing mental anguish, and panic. The mere thought of a finger being inserted into your rectum to examine and/or probe your prostate is not only nauseating, but scary. Not "Oh my god, there's something wrong with me. I hope I'm okay" scary; but rather "I hope he doesn't have gargantuan Nordic Viking man-hands" scary.
My doctor demanded I stand, with my feet apart, facing the same couch I used to sit on while my older siblings received their annual vaccinations. He asked that I bend forward so that my arms were laying on the couch. He kept repeating "just relax, and breathe in slow, just relax". The whole time, I kept questioning myself wondering what I had eaten the night before. It could quickly become a 1-doctor-1 cup scene at any moment.
Now these words I will never forget: You will feel a little pressure but no discomfort. These were the last words I heard before my anal-cavity's virginity was taken from me. My body reacted aggressively, I bucked like a horse. Really, it was more of a kick. Literally, I kicked the doctor on his knee as a sort of self defense mechanism. He jumped back, and let out audible yell. He screamed "Why the hell did you kick me?" pointing his shitty finger at me.
I laughed, those were the exact words I used during my Mister Miyagi moment that landed me here. Delicious irony.
At some point most men will either be offered a prostate exam as part of general health screening, or, it will be advised because of their age, or in some rare occurrences due to "problems relating to difficulty in passing urine".
So here I am having "difficulty in passing urine". Why, you ask? The short version? A miscalculated drunken crane kick a couple days earlier. In retrospect that dude should not have been wearing steel-toed shoes, but I digress. Let's fast-forward a little bit... I am sitting in my family doctors office discussing the possible causes for my difficulties doing number one.
There is no proper way to share this information with a heterosexual male without causing mental anguish, and panic. The mere thought of a finger being inserted into your rectum to examine and/or probe your prostate is not only nauseating, but scary. Not "Oh my god, there's something wrong with me. I hope I'm okay" scary; but rather "I hope he doesn't have gargantuan Nordic Viking man-hands" scary.
My doctor demanded I stand, with my feet apart, facing the same couch I used to sit on while my older siblings received their annual vaccinations. He asked that I bend forward so that my arms were laying on the couch. He kept repeating "just relax, and breathe in slow, just relax". The whole time, I kept questioning myself wondering what I had eaten the night before. It could quickly become a 1-doctor-1 cup scene at any moment.
Now these words I will never forget: You will feel a little pressure but no discomfort. These were the last words I heard before my anal-cavity's virginity was taken from me. My body reacted aggressively, I bucked like a horse. Really, it was more of a kick. Literally, I kicked the doctor on his knee as a sort of self defense mechanism. He jumped back, and let out audible yell. He screamed "Why the hell did you kick me?" pointing his shitty finger at me.
I laughed, those were the exact words I used during my Mister Miyagi moment that landed me here. Delicious irony.
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