Posts Tagged With: humor

VisionQuests and Rabid Ferrets

desert 2 insideJewish boys have their bar mitzva. Native Americans have their vision quest. Hell, even Jesus had 40 days in the desert. As a middle-aged man, I thought I was done with rites of passage. Boy was I wrong.

It’s called a colonoscopy, and it’s a rite of passage from the carefree days of family life into post-50, get-off-my-lawn phase of curmudgeonhood.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure of having your innards viewed via a GoPro on a hose, let me take you on this fantastic voyage.

ferret-teet-and-dental-care-for-ferrets-thinkstock-177817907-253x203The modern colonoscopy is actually a revival of a torture technique first employed by the ancient Assyrians. When the Assyrian army would capture a Summarian spy, Assyrian wise guys with crooked noses and names like Abdhul the Rat would tie the spy to a stone altar and run rabid ferrets up his anus until the spy would reveal the secrets of the ziggurat. Though barbaric. It was highly effective.

The practice was eventually banned when stone carvings of prisoners with undergarments on their heads surfaced in the Assyrian media. This sparked outrage in the liberal faction of the government and led to the end of all forms of torture.

The practice briefly resurfaced during the Spanish Inquisition. Tomas de Torquemada replaced the rabid ferret with oversized rosary beads and inadvertently invented ben-wah balls.

Today, the procedure itself pales in comparison to the preparation for the procedure. First, one must refrain from eating for 36 hours. But that will be the least of your worries as you undertake this rite of passage.

About 20 hours before your doctor lubes you up, he will ask you to drink a “cleansing” concoction. It smells like concentrated cherry syrup. It tastes like concentrated ball sweat. You may want to drink this in the bathroom. It acts quickly.

bookcover-warandpeace__130218130207-200x266And bring something to read. I suggest something like War and Peace, otherwise you risk running out of reading material before your insides are “clean.” I sat so long that my elbows rubbed my thighs raw. Oh, and before starting, you may want to line your walls with plastic wrap a la a Dexter kill room or risk ruining your paint job.

My first journey into the loo lasted more than an hour, and I made many similar trips over the next six hours. Just as I thought my innards were returning to normal, I was reminded I had another course of that vile concoction to swallow. By the end of the 36 hours, I was crapping something that looked like lemonade and smelled like mildewed socks soaked in fish heads.

I crapped more than 4.5 pounds.

By the time you hit your surgeon’s table, you will be tired, dehydrated, and your starfish will glow like Rudolph’s red nose. But alas, your misery is about to come to an end. Your anesthesiologist is about to hook you up. It’s called Propofol, and if it’s good enough to kill the King of Pop, it’s sure to put your ass under.

After that, there aint much vision left in your quest. What the doctor puts where, and what jokes the attending staff make at your naked back door’s expense will be the last thing on your mind. You’ll awaken about an hour later none the wiser and with an insatiable urge for food, booze, and an ice bucket challenge for your bum.

In the end (and that’s where you get it), it’s not an unbearable experience. And if you’re lucky, you’ll only have to do it once every five years until you die. . . which is still better than a rabid ferret.

Categories: Fun, Life Or Something Like It | Tags: , , , , | 1 Comment


316675--600What do hookers do on vacation? Do hookers even get vacations? And if they do, where do they go?

That’s what news guys discuss in the break room over caffeine and honey buns.

What, at first blush, may sound like a crass joke could be a serious problem.

Hookers were arguably the original working girls. And workers here in the good ole U.S. of A have come to expect a few things when it comes to their employer: Health, Dental, and the paid vacation sitting near the top of the list. So I find it hard to believe that any pimp worth his backhand would not offer his stable at least a little time for self-enrichment. And if he didn’t, I’m sure Local 69 of the International Floozie Sisterhood would hire some muscle to convince him otherwise.

polls_ProstitutionND_3852_520564_poll_xlargeSo, Jezebel, you’ve sold your wares for six months. Now, your loving flesh-peddler has given you five days to let your hair grow . . . or whatever a pimp tells his harlots when he gives them a few days off. Where would you go?

It would have to be somewhere cheap. The going rate for, ahem, “personal favors” in Vegas around $50. (Don’t ask me how I know, and if my wife dumps my browser history, I swear it was just research.) You’re not rich by any stretch. And with all those wanton millionaires dragging you to museums, operas, and polo matches, (Yes, all I know about hookers I learned from Pretty Woman.) you’d probably be ready for something a little less sophisticated.

So you take a bus to Palookaville, USA, and check into a hotel. Now what?

prostitute+legWhen normal people check into a hotel, the first thing they do is have sex, but you’re a hooker on vacation. Sex would be work!

Maybe you could go to the bar for a drink. No, wait that’s work, too. Dinner at a nice restaurant? Work. Lay out by the pool? Really? Like skimpy clothes aren’t your uniform.

You’re a street-walker, so a walk in the park is out. The zoo? Probably not. All those animals mating is too much like research.

Go fishing? Really? You had to bring up fish?

About the only thing left for a hooker to do on vacation that isn’t work, is sleep. And why not? After all those late hours, you deserve a nap.

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He Is Risen

DSC_0167He is risen.

And by he, I mean the octogenarian who sits quietly in the second pew every Sunday. He stood to give his seat to the obese woman in the two-size-too-small dress dragging four impeccably dressed hellions behind her. The oldest — he can’t be older than 6 — swings his sister’s stuffed bunny by the ears, as his younger sister bleats like a gored sheep. The third child has already slipped from his seersucker jacket and is choking himself trying to shed his tie. The baby pukes down his mother’s back.

When the father returns from circling the parking lot looking for a place to stable the mini-van, they cram themselves into the old man’s seat and watch as he and his walking cane shuffle to the back to stand.

Across the aisle, two kids hopped up on Peeps trample the toes of everyone in the pew as they run from end to end, their parents either oblivious to their behavior, or so enraptured by the Holy Ghost as to be blind to the commotion surrounding them.

Two pews back an eight-year-old girl had decided her shoes fit better on her hands, and is clopping them down the pew, while her mother looks on adoringly, and her father scratches at his new polyester blend. And so it goes throughout all the way to the back of the sanctuary where all the regulars gaze in wonder . . . standing, waiting for the Mass to begin.

This is Easter Sunday in every Catholic church in the country, and that’s why I quit going.

Jesus-Crucified-On-Cross-Picture-WallpaperI know what you’re thinking. But Rick, it’s the holiest of holy days. I get that. But I’m not showing up three hours early to get a seat only to give it up, to a single mom carrying twins ten minutes before the service begins, as a true Christian does.

About now your thinking, But Rick, standing through a little noise sounds like a small price to pay for someone who had railroad spikes driven through his flesh and died a torturous death for you. Correct again. Then again, I’m not the Son of Man. And I don’t go to church for the forgiveness of mankind. I go to pray.

I haven’t quit all together, mind you. Most Sundays you can find me and the missus, our heads bowed and our butts firmly planted on the hardwood. But not Easter. Or Christmas for that matter. We leave those masses to the amateurs.

Who, but a rookie, would take children wired on sugar, caffeine, and visions of the latest toys waiting at home, into a foreign ceremony where they have to sit in reverent silence for sixty minutes? It’s hard enough for kids who go every weekend. Why would one reasonably expect a child used to running amok in his natural environment to enter a sacred place an hour before the service to get a good seat, and sit, quit as an angel, for 60 minutes while waiting for the Mass to begin, and another 60 minutes for the service itself?

Parents make almost as much noise shushing as the cherubs themselves.

I’m not saying these people don’t belong in church. They do. Hell, there’s room for everyone in God’s house. It would be nice if we saw more of them. But what is it these parents think they’re teaching their children about their faith by only showing up in church two days a year, and constantly fussing at them while they’re there?

Perhaps it is because it is such an onerous experience that it should only be practiced two hours per annum.

DCIM100GOPROThey’re ruining the experience for themselves, their children, and everyone within viewing distance of Little Johnny as he performs the latest WWE moves on that stuffed bunny.

So, please forgive my family’s absence from this Sunday’s holiest of Liturgies. On days like this we prefer to reflect and honor our God in more peaceful surroundings, like a rock concert, NASCAR race, or riot.

We’ll be back next week when the church is, once again, empty.

Categories: Life Or Something Like It | Tags: , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Your Warranty Has Expired

images-3Who knew the human body had a warranty?

We all know there’s and expiration date — a date when, like a jug of expired milk, our loved ones will unceremoniously pour our vital fluids down a mortician’s drain and toss our shell to the curb — but a warranty?

Mine expired the day I turned 49.

Until then, by body seemed to take care of itself. Dings mended. Squeaky wheels greased themselves. My engine refueled itself overnight. And I never left an oil stain on the garage floor.

That warranty ran out last month. Since then, my engine can never seem to catch up. My thermostat is either too high or too low. Dings now require a trip to the body shop, and my wife says I’ve developed a gas leak. I wouldn’t know because my ears are now defective and hair follicles clog my air intake valve.

At one year short of half-a-century, my feet smell and my nose runs. If I fill up with anything but high-octane fuel, I belch foul-tasting fumes for hours.

My joints squeak. My hoses leak. My muscles are weak.

Locomotion is a chore. When I rise, I grunt almost as much as when I fall. My springs quiver. And I list to one side when I walk.


I have to warm up the engine in the morning. I start slower, and take longer to accelerate. I rattle at high speed, and I must coast to a stop, but like my old tuck outside — the one my wife wants me to sell — there’s still a little fire in the old spark plug.

And as with that old truck, trips to the mechanic are more frequent and more costly. So today, I’m headed to the shop to have my valves checked, my engine tuned, my joints greased. I just hope the mechanic trims his nails before he checks my oil.

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Drinking When I Should Have Been Writing

grocery-store-What the hell happened to the grocery store?

I’ll admit it’s been a while since I pushed a buggy through the aisles of the local fil-a-sack, but could it really have changed that much?

I didn’t venture into the bowels of Hell of my own volition. My wife usually does the shopping. (Before you get your panties in a feminist wad, it’s because she gets off work four hours before I do.) But when I opened the fridge yesterday to pitcher with a half-inch of Kool-Aid in the bottom and an expired bottle of ketchup, it was evident that if I wanted to eat, I would have to shop for myself.

I knew things had changed when I walked through the door. When, exactly, did management feel it necessary to post a greeter at the front door? Sure, purchasing a box of Ding-Dongs and tampons is close to a religious experience, but this is not a church.

If the woman who greeted me upon my arrival had toned down the makeup a tad, she could have found employment with Barnum and Bailey. The shrill voice that bleated “Marrrrr-ning!” as I grabbed my cart forced a trickle of blood out of my right ear.

grocerygirl_wide-0acc5356c16636f6aa0c42016632ee61d4b11765-s6-c30I remember grocery shopping with my mother when I was young. Begging for the artificially flavored, sugar-coated Sugar Flake Cereal with the cheap piece of plastic inside  all the while hanging off the buggy with it’s one wobbly wheel was a weekend ritual that ranked right up there with Saturday morning cartoons.

My buggy on this day had no fewer than three misaligned wheels. Together, we clopped and shimmied down aisle after aisle to the beat of our own rhythmically-challenged drummer. It was all I could do to steer clear of the roving hoards shopping with me.

More accurately, they were more akin to geriatric gangs — tribes of blue-haired women revving their electric shopping carts and throwing gang signs like the Crips of the Canned Goods. They laughed. They gossiped. They compared coupons. And they shot me the stink-eye more than once as I muscled my between their carts and the cake mix display.

I felt bad for the single worker in the deli. It was obvious to the half-dozen of us assembled for specially sliced meat that the man was ill. The iron in his blood had plainly turned to lead in his ass. Glaciers shuffled south across North America more quickly than he crossed the meat counter. And please, don’t confuse the man with an odd request, like honey-baked ham. It induces a head-scratching mumble-fest.

collegehumor.ba293faea4965d6ca58fb97345f74fc5Basket full, I trundled my way to the checkout. Somehow, the Crips had passed me. They perused the magazine rack at the only open register and whispered to each other about their favorite of the 113 sex tips in this month’s Cosmo. I grabbed a Snickers, because I’m not my usual jovial self when I grocery shop.

On the way home, I stopped at the Shop-and-Rob for a case of beer. And THAT is why I didn’t write yesterday.

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