Corndogs, Nachos, Bud LIght, and Other Various American Delicacies....

            This weekend marked the 1^st fair of the year in the great state of California, the Cloverdale Citrus Fair.  I have been hearing of its awesomness for a few years now, so the family and I made the trip up this past Saturday to behold it with our own eyes with some close friends of ours who go every year.

            Folks, let me tell you: it did not fail to disappoint.  The Cloverdale Citrus Fair is roughly 10,000 square feet (which is only slightly larger than your average Safeway) of carnie rides, food stands, various locals hawking their handmade trinkets, and tens of locals with a good reason for some afternoon drinkin’. 

            The theme of this year’s fair was Rock N’ Roll, and judging by the TWO homemade citrus fruit displays depicting a large guitar, and a pick-up truck – the theme really snared the interest of Cloverdaliens everywhere.  After walking through the auditorium/grange hall/local Baptist church at the entrance, you make your way through the Citrus Fair bazaar.  The bazaar is about 4 booths selling homemade pet treats, handmade jewelry, knock off Tupperware (my wife registered for the drawing to win 500 bucks worth….solid), and various baked goods.  Judging by the people selling the baked goods, I am fairly certain they were “edibles.”  This space is roughly 1500 square feet, and there were about 1000 people inside which made negotiating the area with my son in his stroller a bit of a challenge.  I suppose he had to learn how to handle Bud Light being spilled on him by a stranger at some point. 

It became clear the Cloverdaliens had their priorities in order when, upon emerging from the Bazaar, you find yourself smack dab in front of the booth boasting two tap handles dispensing nothing but Anheiser Busch’s finest light American lager. 

Of course, I had one. 

            It is important to note, this was the ONLY booth dispensing these treasures, which made it even more popular than the bazaar.  In the small courtyard next to the beer booth, was a gaggle of young couples with small (and some not so small – I swear one kid was 7) stroller-bound children.  Our friends pointed out to us that this group is the same group that found themselves partying like Charlie Sheen at the fair in years past.  This definitely explained the forlorn looks on their faces as they gazed down upon their broods of failure and chugged beer as if they weren’t there.  I wondered aloud how many of those kids were conceived at the fair, as they seemed to be grouped in ages of three months; 15 months, 22 months, etc…do the math.

            We did no rides. I don’t do rides.  I had a bad experience, just without the chaw:

           

Besides, something about the carnies and their toothless leering faces make me nervous.  I refuse to plummet to my death at the hands of a professional meth addict. 

This brings me to the food at the event: here is all you need to know.  There was a booth that sold pizza, fries, and nachos.  And there was a booth that sold fries, corndogs, funnel cakes, deep fried oreos…in fact now that I think about it – there was a certified cardiologist on hand at all times at this booth.  It was glorious.  Since I partook in 2 plastic pints of suds on this day, I steered clear of a plate of fair faire. 

Fucking responsibility….I am GAY for corndogs. 

My wife, however ordered a plate of nachos, which came with tepid cheese, pickled jalapenos (we watched her take them out of the Costco jar), and sour cream from a squeeze bottle!  It was magnificent in its entire poorly executed splendor.  My wife loved it (at the time – the plumbing had a little trouble with it later) and my son even enjoyed his first taste of nacho cheese.  Even at 10 months old, he loved it.  We only gave him a teaspoon of the stuff, but he still managed to rub it all over his face like Oil of Olay.

I was envious.  So, so envious….

There were a half dozen game booths of standard variety – ring toss for fish with 35 minutes to live, basketball shots with rims smaller than the balls, baseball throw at lead bottles cemented to the table, and finally the game where you shoot the red star of Russia out of a card with an fully automatic pellet gun.  The most important thing to note about the games is the prizes.  Every fair I’ve ever been to have games that boast huge stuffed animals that dads win for their kids.  The kids don’t want to carry them so the dad has to walk around with it like a douchebag in the sweltering heat.  Not the Citrus Fair, ho no – this fair had a top shelf full of Nascar Jackets.  Nothing but Nascar Jackets.  ‘Nary a Jeff Gordon to be found either.  I commented on that and the music stopped, the rides screeched to a halt, and somewhere by the beer booth, a posse formed to find “The Picklekisser.”

It was wonderful; the whole spectacle was absolutely wonderful.  The only way I would have felt more American is if there was a John Wayne movie booth, and an octagon where a couple of guys in Affliction Tee’s (there were a lot of them) could get in without signing a waiver and beat the ever living shit out of each other.  Maybe next year?  We’ll be back!

I’m getting good at my Tony Horton Screen Shots!  Check out these doozies:

I like to call this one: “So then I took his head, and placed it on my pelvic area.  Y’know, as a hint…”

       

I like to call this one: “Dude, you don’t touch the beautiful genius, I touch you.  Eww.”

Last week was the beginning of phase two, which means there are two new workouts.  Monday is now back, shoulders, and triceps.  Wednesday is now back and biceps.  I don’t mind Wednesday, although I can’t help but shake the idea that it is a day for vanity, and that one-day I will end up so enthralled with my own impressive biceps that I will end up like this guy:

Probably not, because I work out with the bands.  And the bands are for shut-ins and weaklings. 

I do hate Monday though, and I hate Monday for one reason and one reason alone.  The pike push up.  This is a pushup where you get in a position similar to a woman in congress of a cow, and then do a pushup (so it is much like Congress of a Cow – since you get FUCKED!).  It sucks the butthole.  All the blood rushes to your head, and then snot drips out of your nose, and on the last one: you struggle to keep from peeing yourself.  This is particularly dangerous; because as everyone knows, pee flows toward the lowest point.  The lowest point here happens to be YOUR FACE!  Boy, if Horton can’t actually piss on you, he has figured out a way for you to get pissed on.  You gotta admire his diabolical tenacity.

            The best thing about phase two, is that plyometrics is still on Tuesdays. 

Did I say best?  I meant worst.  I hate Plyomtrics, I hate plyometrics more than Brett Favre, Pete Carroll, Manny Ramirez, and the Entire Los Angeles Dodgers organization combined.  Fuck them all, fuck them long…fuck them hard.  Onto the 5 things!

5 Things I Learned This Week!

1)      Quality Chinese food will be the death of me.  My father-in-law works next to this Chinese restaurant that churns out the best Chinese food I’ve ever eaten.  It’s become a little tradition to get carry out from there on Fridays.  Clearly, Friday’s have become the cheat day of the week.  The best thing is pops-in-law has developed a friendship with the chef/owner.  This means we don’t get the round-eye menu.  We get the traditional Chinese menu, which is far more delicious than your traditional orange chickens, and sweet and sour pork (which I’m not knocking, Daddy gets down on some sweet and sour pork).  We get some special soup with mushrooms, rice noodles, and shrimp which rocks the shit.  There is the Mandarin Calamari, homemade pork shu mai, some traditional Fried Rice, house made kim-chi (which I know is Korean, but I don’t care.  I would put that shit in my oatmeal), I could go on for days here.  So let me sum up.  This food is THE TITS!  I always just assume “I’ll be hungry in an hour!”  which means this food must be good for me. I stuff my plate to the brim, eat until I pass out, and then wake up and shit a jade dragon from the Ming Dynasty.  Saturday is a day of vegetables, and nothing but vegetables. 

2)      I can finally do pull ups without a chair.  By pull-ups I mean 1 ½.  1 ½ is more than 1; therefore, grammatically it requires a plural form of the noun.  Ipso facto, I can do pull-upS without a chair.

3)      The best time to weigh yourself is first thing in the morning.  I like to do it before I drain the sea-monster, and then again after.  Sometimes it’s as much as one whole pound!  The other best time to weigh yourself is immediately before and after dropping a deuce.  Sometimes the amount of weight lost there is ungodly.  My record so far is 3 lbs.  It’s like playing Keeno.  I guess the number, and then hope it shows up on the screen of the digital scale.  I WIN!

4)      My son can do pull-ups.  I hold him up to the bar, he likes to grab it, and pull himself up.  Of course I have a firm grip on him (I’m not Michael Jackson, and he’s not Blanket) but he pulls himself up.  He’s 10 months old and already asserting his dominance over his muffin-topped father.

5)      I learned that I have lost another pound this week, which puts me at 206.  Only 26 more pounds to go.  I think I may have to incorporate more cardio into the regimen, since Phase 2 of this Devil’s Hoe Down seems to want to incorporate more size.  So, I’ll be looking into getting back in the pool.  I used to swim competitively in school, and it’s probably getting to be time to pick that back up.  I’ve just been worried about my added buoyancy.  Immediately the song Baby Baluga comes to mind… 

Enjoy the short work week everyone!           

A Glorification of Front Butts

This is not a Valentine’s Day post.  I hate Valentine’s Day.  Chocolate, roses, diamonds, overcrowded restaurants, and forced romance…what’s to love?  The only things I know about Valentine’s Day is that those boxes of assorted chocolate suck. 

 “I think this one is filled with Liquid Plumber…”

"Oooh, mine has mayo in it!"

Also, stuffing your face with chocolates and then trying to fend off the hyperglycemic coma as you bungle your way through an attempt at sexin’ your lady always ends up awkward.  Then you pass out with chocolatey fingers, and you wake up panicked that one of you shit the bed.  No thanks.  My wife already knows I love her, and I know she loves me.  I asked her to inspect my butt crack.  She did.  ‘Nuff Said.

           

Some of you will relate to exactly what I am talking about here.  If you don’t, bear with me.

            When I was a gangly acne ridden teenager, I actually had a little bit of athleticism.  Like all teenage boys, I liked to test the limits of that athleticism in the interest of showing off….most of the time for no one.  Any time I walked by a relatively low overhang, (8-10 feet) I would jump up and touch it.  Signs, awnings, storefronts, high doorways…it didn’t matter.  I was going to violate it with as much of my hand as possible.  Every boy who’s into sports does this; it starts around the age of 12.  I suppose the rationale is that at some point, some scout for an NBA or NFL team is going to be walking past you on the street take notice of your impressive vertical leap, and invite you back to team headquarters.  Boys are fanatical about this, it’s crazy.  At the prep school I went to, guys would attempt to jump up and touch the entrance to a building with a backpack filled with 490 lbs of books in it.  More than once, those guys ended up on their asses, and when that happened you felt better, because you knew if the scout saw that guy, he would never get asked to THQ.  BETTER CHANCES FOR MEEEE!!!!

            The only exception to this rule is soccer players.  They try and kick any and all projectiles.

“Hey dude, toss me a soda?”

Soccer friend intercepts tossed soda with top side of foot, kicks it away.

“Fuck, dude!”

“Hey, anytime the ball goes up in the air, it’s a chance for greatness.”

“That was a fucking soda!”

“Whatever. Chance for greatness…”

“What? That doesn’t even make se….”

Now in my face: “CHANCE FOR GREATNESS!!!!

            Fucking Soccer players, I digress.  This desire to prove my athleticism/manhood has re-manifested itself.  As I’ve mentioned before – we installed a pull-up bar in the doorway of our master bedroom.  Despite my initial concerns, it has managed to hold together.  In any case, it’s kind of a pain in the ass to take down and put up, our son isn’t yet at an age (although it is coming) where closing the door is necessary so we leave the torture device up there.  Every time I pass through that doorway, I can hear it mocking me like the evil furnace from Home Alone.  What I’ve started to do is jump up and do at least 1 chin-up every time I pass through.  At this point, I’m doing 2 or 3 without a chair so I guess it has helped.  Actual pull-ups are a little different story. 

            I walk up, grab the wide grip handles, begin to hang, pull up about 3 inches,

“PHOOO, Not today, big dog, not today…”

           

 Every time. I’ll get there.

            Thanks for all the support from the readers who were concerned with the health of my ass crack.  It is much appreciated.  I could feel all of the positive thoughts pouring into my butt, and I believe it helped.  You will be happy to know the cyst has disappeared, and I after 12 days I have returned to my normal self.  Thank you to Nick Catelli who suggested I join the NBA because of all my “asscysts.”  Clever.

            I have not been able to do a workout in 9 days, as every time I exerted myself for a while it felt I was going to shart my spinal cord.  Therefore, the last 2 weeks have been a particular;y intense focus on the diet.  It’s a lot of grain breads, lean proteins, and TONS of vegetables.  I am starting to realize I am winning the struggle now.  We went out to eat a few times last week, and I budgeted appropriately for the meal that night.  In the past, I would fill myself up for lunch, and then it was a race to drop a deuce before dinner.  If I dumped too early, that was no good.  I would just snack until I was full again.  If I lost that race, it didn’t matter.  I would stuff my jiggly maw with something that was 40% lean and deep fried in lard and Everclear.  Then I would spend the evening complaining to my wife that my stomach was upset, and it must have been something I ate. 

“Actually, it was EVERYTHING you ate.”

“DON’T JUDGE ME WOMAN!”

“Why are you yelling?”

“BECAUSE…because I am upset.  I’m going to have a piece of cake.”

            When we went out last week, it was a far more calculated day.  If I knew we were going out to eat, I would lay off the sandwich, and eat a big bowl of salad, or vegetables.  It worked out nicely, especially considering I go crazy for chips and quacamole.  I mean, I shovel that shit in like I’m shoveling coal into a locomotive that needs more speed.  If I ate too much for lunch or in the afternoon my chip intake would be compromised.  You know what I say about that?

Fuck that.

I planned accordingly.

Since I have to watch the number of tortilla chips I can have now, I try to get as much quacamole on each chip as possible.  This is bad for two reasons:

1)      I get more guacamole than my wife does, and this displeases her greatly.  Especially because I probably ate it all while she was doing something worthwhile like situating our son at the table with snacks so she and I can enjoy a nice meal together while I son happily stuffs his face like Dada.

2)      Overloading a chip really strains the structural integrity of the chip.  We eat at a place that makes their own tortilla chips.  DELICIOUS!  But, sometimes the chips are a bit undercooked.  An overloaded, undercooked chip will bend but not break and make you look like a mental patient while you tilt your head and try and eat it before the guacamole slides off.  Even worse – the chip bends mid-dip.  This blows the donkey.  You may as well have given me a tortilla, Jose!  Sometimes they OVERcook the chip.  An overcooked chip is delicious.  It’s the same principle as the well-done fries at In-n-Out – crispy, salty goodness fried at a nuclear temperature until all nutritional value has been extracted.  *food-boner*  However, an overcooked chip is brittle.  Overloading that chip will snap it like Thiesmann’s leg, and guacamole falls onto the top of your belly.  OR – the chip breaks mid dip, and all you are left with in your hand is a small piece of the chip unfit for dipping, and a chip hidden balls-deep in guacamole that should be in your mouth.  Do you dig through and find it?  Your wife WILL clown you.  Do you leave it be?  Then I know it’s there, and I go crazy thinking my wife will find it before me.  There is NOTHING better than dipping a chip and coming up with a shit ton of guacamole AND ANOTHER FUCKING CHIP!!!  I must have it! 

It’s very stressful.  I should just moderate how much guacamole I load up, right? 

WRONG!

I just pick through the chips and find the perfect dippers.  I feel like I’m handpicking my own elite Army Ranger Squad whose sole mission is to act as a vehicle for my gluttony.  I’m sure it looks like I have O.C.D. but who cares?  I HAVE PERFECT CHIPS! 

This also helps maintain marital harmony, as I am wrapping up my chip recruiting, she is finishing settling in my son (She always takes on this duty, my son just throws food back at me), so all the guacamole is still there.  I WIN!    

Since no workouts – the weight loss has slowed, although there is still progress.  I began this process at 225 lbs. I am now 207.  I was 209 before the cyst put a halt to my hate-fuck sessions with Tony Horton.  I think the two pounds I have lost since oozed out of my buttcrack, but weight lost is weight lost.  I am going to pick back up today, and I will probably throw up another post on Thursday.  The majority of days I missed were the recovery week for Phase 1 (2 days of yoga, 1 day of stretching, etc) so I will just forgo that week, and pick up where I should be.  Obviously, I can’t wait.  I was getting tired of lifting a paper towel without my body hurting, anyway. 

5 Things I Learned this Week

1)      The remainder of a spilled glob of guacamole on the top or your belly sucks.  My body has started to change, and my belly is a little less noticeable.  Nevertheless, when a spilled substance sits right on top of your belly, it reverts you back into a fat slob.  It’s like one of those 3D art posters from the 90’s.  The longer you stared at it, it turned into something, like a pirate ship, or a flower, etc.  The tummy-stain has the same effect.  At first glance I just look like an unremarkable guy with no redeeming or memorable features.  A longer gaze reveals the guac stain and then your eyes adjust and you see me as a corpulent scallywag who shovels food into his mouth faster than his mouth can handle it. 

2)      I learned this week that my wife would be making cakes for a few special events in the upcoming weeks.  She does this as a side gig, and has done some really great cakes.  Recall from an earlier post my intense ardor for baked goods.  Remember?  Schoolchildren, buses, punch, kick, blood – me eating cookies.  This news is a big problem, because the only thing worse than having cake in the house that you cannot eat, is having fresh cakes baking in the house while you workout with Tony Horton who pops a boner every time he does a pushup.  It smells like Jesus, and you’re stuck with Satan. 

3)      Moving sucks.  My buddy and his wife are moving into their home (first time homebuyers – AMERICA – FUCK YEAH!) this week, and a few of us helped them move yesterday.  It’s exciting for them, and I actually don’t mind helping.  It’s always an opportunity for a few laughs, especially when one buddy tries to lift something that’s too heavy, and then tries to power through just to prove a point.  Then he has to put it down every 3 feet because it’s “akward” to carry.  Bullheaded testosterone never wins out.  My favorite moving moment came a few years ago, when I was helping move a buddy’s washing machine.  It was unquestionably the heaviest washing machine ever, and I was convinced it was made of lead.  We carried it downstairs, onto the truck, and then into his new laundry room.  I went to plug it in, and for some reason I felt the need to open the lid.  It was full of wet fucking clothes.  WHATTHEFUCK!!!  THIS ISN’T WORTH THE CASE OF PABST BLUE RIBBON, FUCKFACE!  The real suckiness comes in to play long after the help has gone home.  It comes in exactly at the moment you head back to your old rental home and realize: “Fuck, we still have to clean this place.”  That blows, all you want to do is settle in to the new place, and you still have to go back to the old place.  The old place has suddenly become the nastiest cesspool of filth and sadness ever, even though it was perfect for you over the last 5 years.  You have to do shit like wipe down walls, and detail grout, and spackle, and ugh.  It’s all ass.

4)      Fresh Choice is the greatest arena for people watching ever.  People will grab one scoop of iceberg lettuce, than pile on 1 lb of baco’s, spaghetti, 2 slices of pizza, and then 4 gallons of ranch on a plate, then order a Diet Coke.  It’s glorious.  Every time they go to put something unhealthy (read: delicious) on their plate, they give this equally devilish and shameful sideling glance to either side to make sure no one is looking, then go right after it.  They then sit at their table looking straight down at their self-constructed piles of self-loathing.  It is a phenomenal collection of FUPA’s, turkey necks, and cankles.  I feel right at home.  Last time we ate there, we actually saw someone who grabbed a whole pizza pie from the pizza and bread station.  I wanted to shake his hand, he must have a huge set of balls tucked underneath that dickey-do. 

5)      This one is actually something I’ve learned in life, not just this week.  Looking back at number 3: It’s ALWAYS worth the case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, fuckface.

Happy Monday, gumba’s! 

    

  

...In which I am forced off the wagon.

Before you read today’s superfluous folly, please consider this imperative caveat.  TODAY’S SHIT IS GROSS!  Consider yourself warned.  NOW LET’S GET IT ON!

            I have had a hard time this week getting the workouts in.  It’s not so much due to time constraints as is the fact that I seem to have a cyst…

…In my buttcrack. 

Let me back up. 

Last Thursday I started to notice this pain in my tailbone.  I thought that maybe I had bruised it during the ab-ripper workout.  If you are not familiar, the ab-ripper workout is a fifteen minute series of movements that are designed to forcibly shove all of your inner workings, from your small intestine all the way through to your colon, out through your rectum.  You do the workout three days a week.  The day after an ab-ripper workout it hurts to blink, and that’s assuming you can muster the strength to lift you’re yourself up from the bed in the morning.  It IS totally worth it though, because as you look at yourself in the mirror after the workout, YOU STILL HAVE A HUGE BELLY!

  On the second day, you feel somewhat better, but there remains a lingering reminder of the atrocity that occurred two days earlier.  And then…

YOU DO IT AGAIN!!!  Fuckin’ Horton.

In any case, I started to notice a pain in my tailbone on Thursday last week.  It hurt to sit, it hurt to cough, and it hurt to even speak loudly.  Over the next few days, it started to worsen.  I called the advice nurse at our HMO and she said that with most tailbone injuries it is best to ride it out, as there is usually nothing you can do.  Therefore, I began popping 800mg Ibuprofen like candy, and hoped it would only be a couple of days.  On Tuesday morning, I woke up covered in hives. 

            “Wait, what?  I thought this was about the tailbone?”

So did I.  They were on my pelvic area, (thankfully not on my weener) my legs, arms, and under my man boobs.  So now in addition to my new Brett Favre diet of painkillers, I was taking Benadryl also…lots.  It appeared a visit to the doctor was in order.  I made that visit yesterday morning.  Yesterday morning was particularly awesome, because my face had swelled up as well, and the hives had spread to my belly, my back, and my legs.  I was convinced I was succumbing to some biblical plague.  Especially considering what I thought was a tailbone injury began oozing some sort of clear liquid.  Perhaps, this is the source of my weird hives.

  Our family practitioner is particularly cool; she has a good sense of humor and comes across as really compassionate.  An excerpt from our actual conversation follows:

Her: “You look miserable!”

Me: (see description of my symptoms above)

Her: “Yeah, your face looks terrible.”

Me: “Thanks”

Her: “Bend over, and let’s have a look. (I assume at this point she puts on 4 layers of latex gloves.)  “Eww, its oozing.”

Me: “Yeah, I know.  It hurts.”

Her: “You my friend, have a cyst.  It’s not related to the hives.”

Me: “Let me get this straight, I have a cyst in my butt crack. (At the time I did not know the medical term for buttcrack is Gluteal cleft, otherwise I would have used it.)”

Her: “Yes, that is in fact, the technical term we use….butt crack cyst. (She was lying, IT’S GLUTEAL CLEFT!)”

The conversation would go on to explain what was wrong with me.  It appears this condition is fairly common.  It is called a pilonidal cyst.  Google has some photos if you're into that kind of thing.  If you’re squeamish, don’t look.  It’s kind of like “Red Asphalt,” just with butt cracks.  The most terrifying thing about this is it could reoccur!  The way to keep that from happening is to have it surgically removed.  I have to have a consultation with a surgeon a week from Monday to determine if surgery would be necessary in this case.  I know what you are thinking.  I know, I also was amazed to find out there was such a profession as butt crack surgeon.     

As for the hives, I am awaiting blood test results to determine the cause.  The doctor suggests it could be a food allergy, and the most likely culprit is either the kiwi, mango, or pineapple I ate on Monday night.  So much for incorporating more fruit into the diet….

I’ve actually grown to crave fruit and veggies, so this situation could potentially be REALLY annoying.   

As you can see, working out has proven to be a wee bit difficult this week.  I only got in the Chest and Back workout on Monday.  After that, the swelling at the tip of my butt crack became a bit too much to bear.  At least now, it’s draining which means the pain has started to subside; but NOW IT’S DRAINING WHICH IS REALLY FUCKING GROSS!  I have to dress it with gauze, several times a day.  This is fine, I don’t mind taking time to do that, but removing the gauze from the now open wound is pure fucking anguish.  The other thing I’m supposed to do is soak in a hot bath to soften the wound and get it to drain more freely.  About that…

The last thing I want to do is sit my fat abscessed butt on the hard porcelain of our bathtub.  Actually, that’s second to last.  The VERY last thing I want to do is sit in a steaming hot bath that is slowly being diluted with the weird slime draining from that very same abscessed gluteal cleft.  I imagine if I sit there long enough I would eventually be sitting in a clear goo somewhat resembling the primordial ooze from the Ninja Turtles.  Yuck.  My solution to this conundrum?  Use the detachable showerhead and give that sucker a proper spray-down.  The normal “rain setting” wasn’t precise enough to create the proper amount of soakage.  I switched to the more precise “massage” setting.  For those of you still using hand cranked water wells like Little House on the Prairie, this is a higher-pressure setting that comes out of the center of the showerhead.  How was I supposed to know that a high pressure blast of water designed to massage muscles hitting an OPEN OOZING WOUND would be so painful?  The first blast of water hit the little bastard straight on and I dropped the showerhead and fell to my knees like General Zod at the end of Superman II.  It was like being sodomized by a million cross-eyed killer Mexican bees! 

I am an idiot.     

You’ll be happy to know the pain is getting better, so I will be back on the workout wagon next week!  On to the 5 things!

5 THINGS I LEARNED THIS WEEK

1)     I have a hairy ass.  Actually, I didn’t just learn this.  I’ve always known.  However, I DID learn that a pilodinal cyst could be caused by ingrown butt hairs.  Awesome.  Over the past few days, the wife and I have been struggling with the crucial life decision of whether or not I should become a butt-shaver. 

2)     A proper outbreak of hives don’t just itch, they sting for a good long while after you scratch them, the stinging makes them itch, but then scratching makes them sting, but then stinging makes them itch but then scratching makes them sting….

3)    There is no greater litmus test for true love in your marriage than the question, “Hey, babe come here and take a look at my butt crack.  Is there something oozing out of there?”

4)    Your dog does not care if you are having any kind of pain.  Especially, as she comes back in from leaving a midnight treat in the backyard.  You can bet the ranch that as she hunkers back down into the bed she is going to shove a paw right in the middle of whatever pain you are having that night.  I almost kicked that dog of off a bridge in San Diego…. 

5)     Speaking of litmus tests (see #3), I suppose there is no greater litmus test for the hardiness of one’s readership than going completely off track from your normal subject matter and writing about something that is likely to induce vomiting. 

Hope you guys, enjoyed.  Have a great weekend!