All posts by pictsean

Toilet Humour

*Spoiler Alert* 

The following story contains details about my arse. It may cause you to lose your appetite and think less of me.

What makes a man? I’m talking about a fully grown adult man, not some half-baked manchild. Is it a penis? Well, yes (most of the time) but besides that? How do you know you are an adult, and in my case a man?  I recently got married, have a car loan and health insurance. If that doesn’t make me a man then surely the 12 chest hairs I have been cultivating since I was 25 might have something to say about it. If all of this isn’t undeniable proof of my maturity & masculinity I have a wild card, a draw 4+ for adulthood. Haemorroids.

The word itself is enough to simultaneously spawn giggles and winces. So let’s join hands and break down the preconceived notions of haemorroids. The first step is to define them…

 

  1. A swollen vein or group of veins in the region of the anus.

 

Swollen arse veins. Let that sink in for a moment. There’s a renegade group of veins on my butt that are engorged and painful. How are you supposed to react to this news? Recoil in disgust or snicker uncontrollably?

A fully grown adult man takes life in his stride, he laughs at life’s obstacles as he hurdles over them. Even if that particular motion would cause some mild to moderate discomfort, he does it anyway! The journey I have been on since this discovery has been painful yet entertaining and went a little something like this…

Wake up one morning and realise that my butt is sore, think nothing more of it and assume I had an awesome night. Travel 3 hours home in a Navara that has questionable suspension. Arrive home and come to the painful realisation that sitting down is not an option, cautiously think that I might have to stand up for the rest of my life and come to terms with this fact. After a lengthy period of standing motionless the chamber pot called my name. I said some swears as the pain ensued. Now you can probably tell I am avoiding detailed descriptions so here is a visual aid…

 

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 Figure 1. A confectionery description of my butt.

Sitting on a post-war latrine and crying into a toilet roll isn’t the most amusing scenario. The real entertainment comes with a visit to the GP. How do you choose which lucky doctor gets to spread your cheeks apart and look into your big brown eye? A la la la la long, a la la la la long long li long long long. It was a simple choice, a male doctor would be preferable as I am now married and have been off the ‘scene’ for almost a decade. The very fact I thought I could pickup a nice lady doctor when she is looking at my butt speaks volumes of how in touch I am. So a man it is, a man with the most appropriate name I could find. Due to my assumed massive popularity of this blog I won’t reveal his name, but it rhymed with lube (and boob). He was close to my home so he ticked all the boxes.

Having Dr. Lube inspect my butt for lumps was ridiculous, his gloved fingers probed as I giggled uncontrollably. Perhaps my response stemmed from fright and embarrassment, but I can assure you that Dr Lube most certainly did not find it funny.

“Immediately I can see a lump, does this hurt?”

I whimper that it hurts as he finds an effective way to stop my incessant laughter – PAIN. From this point on I have to assume that he is some kind of sociopath that hates laughter, a medical Grinch of sorts. His next move is a textbook play, if the textbook is ‘Scare Tactics: Butt Edition’ and he proceeds to tell me my options.

“Well you could just leave it alone, use some cream and it will get better in time. The other option is the procedure whereby we inject a local anaesthetic directly into your anus (the bumhole); make an incision and drain the fluid. It’s quite a painful procedure, and the recovery time is variable, also there is risk of infection but otherwise it is a safe and recognised procedure.”

I opted for the anus cream. It is more pleasant because it almost sounds like ice cream and didn’t involve sticking a needle directly into my arse.

As I pulled my pants up, Dr Lube’s final words of wisdom were “Remember to eat lots of fruit & veggies and consider using a stool softener or fibre supplement such as Metamucil. Oh and stay away from spicy foods”. This wasn’t what I wanted to hear as my meals in the previous 24 hours included: A non-descript curry, a spicy burrito and some peanut butter on toast. You may think that last one doesn’t sound so bad, but it was crunchy peanut butter and it was on soy & linseed bread. 100% shrapnel. If anyone has the twisted desire to experience this just go abroad and sit down on a landmine. I’m sure the difference would be infinitesimal.

This experience is just a baby step in the ocean of life. A baby who can walk into the ocean is one that, presumably, has no fear of death and probably doesn’t even understand the concept of drowning. I am that baby, all grown up and without fear.

Leisure Sickness

Spring break!!!!1! WOOOOOOOOOOO

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Spring break? It’s autumn and we live in ‘straya ya dickhead. 

You are right to query the opening statement for more than the mistaken seasonal observation. Let me explain why I quoted Spring Breakers. It wasn’t because it stole 94 minutes of my life and turned me off all movies specifically about Spring Break starring James Franco, Vanessa Hudgens and Selena Gomez. Not at all.

The motive behind such a glorious statement is that I am on holidays for a month. 31 days. 1/12th of the entire year. Wonderful plans and aspirations are in place for this period of time, a period far superior to all that came before it. I can see the opportunity for menstrual and sperm puns in the previous sentence but I will ignore it as I enter this new era of opportunity. With this new time off I can get fit, clean the house and create an insect wrestling league in a Tupperware container. Right?

Not right. Or as they say in Wales, wrong. My delicious alabaster body has joined forces with my weak constitution and they have arranged to give me the gift of pestilence. Sickness – coursing through my body and stealing my sunshine. According to WebMD it is either ‘Leisure Sickness’ or ‘Cancer’. My inner optimist is assuming it is the former but leisure sickness is almost impossible to diagnose or even explain to a person that hasn’t had at least 4 years of professional medical training. To simplify it – it done makes you sick when you don’t at work.

What a wretched curse this is! How will I co-ordinate, view and judge the Intercontinental Championship title between Antre the Giant & Hulk Housefly? Perhaps the answer is in the question…

Eureka! If I keep up a level of stress equal to that of my job then I won’t be sick on my holidays. It seems simple enough; I just have to put pressure on myself for everyday activities.

What if I miss a spot when I am brushing my teeth? I could get a cavity. What if the 5-0 pulls me over and does a cavity search? They would put their fingers in my mouth and it would be freaking gross. What if they did it after they searched my bum? I better brush them again.

As the strain of everyday activities bears down on me I have gained a level of health that only 3 day old pizza and litres of soft drink can provide. My muscles feel tense and my hunch is more pronounced than ever. It’s not just physical improvements either, I am so irritable that the slightest misfortune will cause me to flip out or break down. And therein lies the excitement of this type of treatment, I never know how I’ll react.

There sauce bottle has a crust of old sauce on the lid? “BRAUGHAHE, THIS IS FUCKING BULLSHIT!” I scream at the bottle. Then slowly I crawl into the foetal position when I realise I am yelling at a sauce bottle. Poor Mr Fountain, he just wanted to make delicious sauce more accessible for the people. How was he to know the single flaw in his otherwise perfect condiment dispenser?

Now that I am back to at least 51% health I have a meeting with the one and only ‘Stone Cold Steve Waspin’. He is possibly the greatest insect wrestler of his generation, even if his lifespan is only 22 days. So off I go, crying uncontrollably and singing the theme from Sesame Street. Sunny days, sweeping the clouds away, on my way to where the air is sweet….

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How to buy an engagement ring

Alone on V-Day? Well you are probably thinking of proposing and are in need of a ring. You could use the internet to order but know nothing about rings and are far more willing to let the person at the ring store dictate how much additional money you will spend. So go to the ring store. But read this how-to guide first because find the perfect ring can be a daunting experience.

Once in the ring store you should stand around and look at what you think are engagement rings whilst being ignored by wispy women wearing so much jewellery it looks like they raided the Cave of wonders from Aladdin. Add an inch or so of makeup and you have a typical staff member, otherwise known as Blinged up makeup monsters  or  BUMM. After 5 minutes of awkwardly standing around, walk over to the watch section of the store where a polite and incompetent holiday staff member will ask if you need assistance.  Inform them you are looking for an engagement ring. For about half a minute they will look at you with confusion and surprise. Not because you have a girlfriend, but because this is the watch section of the ring store. You should have gone to king of knives.

This is a good time to self-assess your entire life because you think a junior temp is judging your entire existence. The silent stare-off is broken as he tells you he will get one of the makeup monsters to help you with that. He will shuffle over to one of the BUMMs and whisper in her ear while making a deflated attempt to distinguish you from the other plebs in the store. “The gentleman over there in the torn skinny jeans and the t-shirt that says FBI – Female Body Inspector. No not that one, the other guy, with the cheezel stains on his face and the mismatched socks and crocs”. Spend approximately 10 full seconds staring blankly at the lady. (Note: This time you are most definitely being judged.)

After this she will hover over to you and ask you to follow her. The BUMM will ask you what you have in mind for an engagement ring. Your knowledge of diamonds and rings pales in comparison to your knowledge of everything else important – politics, history, the entire discography of Len and how many packets of Mi-Goreng you need to sustain yourself for 1 entire week. Politely reply that you would like to learn more about engagement rings. If you are feeling particularly alert try to spot whether she dies a little inside because she has to spend longer near you, or if her eyes light up because she can give you a ticket to the ‘take all my money train’. Usually it is one or the other, but in rare cases it can be both.

Note #2: If you are in a hurry than this following section can be skipped as it outlines the different aspects and qualities of a ring that makes more money go away.

Colour: Like grades in school they range from A-Z. With a Z grade typically being a premature diamond or in lamens terms a lump of coal. At the top end of the scale is A grade, these are so incredibly rare that only a few lucky people have seen them. And lucky they weren’t! Some say that if you gaze upon a Grade-A diamond that the light is so intense that it turns your eye’s into dollar signs and you are tragically left blind for the rest of your days.

Clarity – How clarit the ring is.

Cut – how the diamond is cut, or, the % chance the wearer has to cut things with it. A well cut diamond has 50% chance to do deep wound damage.

The Rest – Did you actually read this section? Oh man, it was just filler. Just skip to the next section.

Once these have been explained to you and forgotten it’s down to business. How much do you want to spend? (Tip: It isn’t enough). Give the BUMM your price limit and allow further judgement as she raises her eyebrow and shows you one in your budget. It should look something like this:

The next option will be a Grade-Z ring, but as a savvy buyer and boyfriend you know that coal isn’t technically a diamond. The third and often final option is the ring you buy. It is out of your price range, scores well in the quality criteria and it’s shiny. Girls like shiny things, so do magpies. Magpies are birds. Sometimes girls are called birds. I digest…

Sizing time. Now that you have the perfect ring for the significantly other person in your life you should congratulate yourself on being awesome.  The next step is getting the size kind of close so that when you propose it will fit on her sausage finger. The universal law of ring sizes states: One of your fingers is probably the same size as her ring finger. Probably the pinky, that sounds about right.

This information is vital if you want to reduce the time of your next interaction with the BUMM. Her soul piercing eyes will look at you with contempt and resentment as they ask “do you know what her ring size is?” Quickly and monotonously blurt out that it is the same size as your pinky finger while simultaneously moving your arm towards her face with your pinky outstretched. Not only will she be impressed by your knowledge of the universal law of ring sizes, but she will also be terrified of your actions, speech and overall demeanour. This speeds up the entire interaction.

Payment! Now if you recall, you made a terrible decision and have gone severely over budget in the name of a compressed mineral. Actually paying for it will instill a new wave of fear because your card limit doesn’t go that high and ring stores traditionally don’t accept Guzman Y Gomez cards. The best thing to do is make a deposit and over the coming weeks/months you can drop by the store at your leisure to make payments. During these visits you have the opportunity to mentally deconstruct your decision to buy this ring. As well as this you will have many more interactions with the BUMM who sold you the ring. Ensure that you are dressed appropriately for the occasion, you do not want to be under dressed like before. That  FBI shirt did not win you any favours. Try wearing your good t-shirt that says “I’m an Organ Donor – I donate it every chance I get” on the front.

Eventually the ring will be yours and you can start to worry about the proposal. With all this information firmly imprinted in your brain you are ready to go out there and get the perfect engagement ring for that special someone. Remember that a diamond lasts forever, so it will be there long after you are both dead.

But hopefully after a long and happy life together.