...from Dr.** Cory Kibler, Professional Medician***.
Q: I suffer from hemorrhoids. Last night I put a suppository in my anus, and afterwards realized that the suppository was expired. I don't think it dissolved; I think it's still in there. Should I be worried? - from Terrified
A: That's awesome! Fuck yeah, you should definitely be worried. But I can imagine a situation in which I'd want to put some stuff up there too, you know? Just to see? Find me some stuff****, and we'll talk.
*More like "suggestions" and they are definitely not professional.
**I am not a Doctor.
***This is not a real word.
****Lots of stuff. No size is too big or too small.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Rejected by McSweeney's: I guess I can't blame them.
My date with a very famous, beautiful, and talented comedienne who once acted and was the head writer for a very well-known series that generally runs on Saturdays, and who now writes and stars in a sitcom based on the idiosyncrasies and quirks of her former job (her identity shall remain anonymous).
I'll be the first to concede; I never thought I would pull this one out of my hat. The first time I met her was at a mutual friend's Halloween party in two-thousand-and-six. I'd spied her from across the room early in the evening, but was too timid to approach her, naturally. She was dressed up as one of the characters from the film Calendar Girls (I could not tell you which character she meant to portray; as I recall, the women in the film were all elderly and mostly nude. Our girl wore a frock and looked her age, about thirty-five). I myself had scrambled last-minute to construct my costume, and as such, I was an un-fully realized version of Cap'n Crunch.
After a few vodka tonics, I was able to muster up the courage to speak to her. My timing was immaculate, as she was alone in front of the cheese spread. "How do you do? I've seen your likeness multiple times in various forms of media. You're quite attractive. May I call you sometime?" Initially, she didn't hear me or at least pretended not to hear me. But I kept looking at her, engaging her, attempting to elicit a reply. She began to chew her camembert more slowly, more thoughtfully. Finally, she turned to me, and, with a look of genuine concern, asked me if I had been speaking to her, or someone else. I assured her that I had meant to address her specifically, and repeated myself. I hadn't the heart to mention the bleu cheese crumble that rested upon her bosom.
Suspiciously, she agreed to exchange information. I can only assume that she herself had enjoyed multiple cocktails, otherwise, she most likely would have spurned my advances (I wore a cluster of Crunchberries upon my sash). Because of the nature of my costume, I had an antique fountain pen at my disposal, and so I wrote down both of our numbers on a cocktail napkin, tore the napkin in half, gave her the half with my number on it, and put the other half in my wallet. The wallet was not antique; it was from Sears. After the exchange, we talked for two minutes at most and ultimately went our separate ways, she to the ladies' room, and I to the keg of malt liquor (our host had a unique sense of humor).
I kept her number crumpled in my wallet for several days before I could convince myself that meeting her for an Americano wouldn't be a total disaster. After all, she was a wildly successful woman with a lot to offer. Meanwhile, I was (and still am) a chronically tardy, out-of-shape, insufferable drug user whose entire wardrobe is worth less than two-hundred dollars. I also had (and still have) severe eczema. I have been described as "flaky" on multiple occasions.
So you can imagine my surprise when, out of the blue on a Friday afternoon, I received a telephone call from her. I was in a delicatessen on the upper-west side, trying to decide whether or not to pay for the baguette I had just eaten, when she rang. She got right to the point. I was to meet her the next morning at eleven-fifteen for brunch at a French Café in the Village. She specified that we eat outside on the patio underneath the olive-green awning, as the forecast called for light rain. I agreed, and, keeping my composure, thanked her for the telephone call and ended the conversation before I had a chance to say anything off-color (I have a tendency to unwittingly degrade the homeless). I then decided it would be best to return to my Uncle Jerold's loft in the meatpacking district, so that I could physically and mentally prepare for our impending mid-morning meal.
Instead, however, I spent all that night envisioning how our brunch would play out. She would laugh her delicious laugh, tossing her chestnut-brown curls over her left shoulder, and when her glasses became totally disheveled from all the violent, head-jerking laughter, she would push them back up onto the bridge of her nose while trying (in vain) to catch her breath. It would be a delightful date.
And, as many of my close relations might expect, I imagined the date so many times that I didn't fall asleep until four in the morning, which caused me to sleep well past our prearranged meeting time. When I called her at one-thirty to apologize and reschedule, she told me not to bother. This was just as well, since I was still technically not allowed to leave my Uncle Jerold's apartment at the firm request of the Federal Government.
I'll be the first to concede; I never thought I would pull this one out of my hat. The first time I met her was at a mutual friend's Halloween party in two-thousand-and-six. I'd spied her from across the room early in the evening, but was too timid to approach her, naturally. She was dressed up as one of the characters from the film Calendar Girls (I could not tell you which character she meant to portray; as I recall, the women in the film were all elderly and mostly nude. Our girl wore a frock and looked her age, about thirty-five). I myself had scrambled last-minute to construct my costume, and as such, I was an un-fully realized version of Cap'n Crunch.
After a few vodka tonics, I was able to muster up the courage to speak to her. My timing was immaculate, as she was alone in front of the cheese spread. "How do you do? I've seen your likeness multiple times in various forms of media. You're quite attractive. May I call you sometime?" Initially, she didn't hear me or at least pretended not to hear me. But I kept looking at her, engaging her, attempting to elicit a reply. She began to chew her camembert more slowly, more thoughtfully. Finally, she turned to me, and, with a look of genuine concern, asked me if I had been speaking to her, or someone else. I assured her that I had meant to address her specifically, and repeated myself. I hadn't the heart to mention the bleu cheese crumble that rested upon her bosom.
Suspiciously, she agreed to exchange information. I can only assume that she herself had enjoyed multiple cocktails, otherwise, she most likely would have spurned my advances (I wore a cluster of Crunchberries upon my sash). Because of the nature of my costume, I had an antique fountain pen at my disposal, and so I wrote down both of our numbers on a cocktail napkin, tore the napkin in half, gave her the half with my number on it, and put the other half in my wallet. The wallet was not antique; it was from Sears. After the exchange, we talked for two minutes at most and ultimately went our separate ways, she to the ladies' room, and I to the keg of malt liquor (our host had a unique sense of humor).
I kept her number crumpled in my wallet for several days before I could convince myself that meeting her for an Americano wouldn't be a total disaster. After all, she was a wildly successful woman with a lot to offer. Meanwhile, I was (and still am) a chronically tardy, out-of-shape, insufferable drug user whose entire wardrobe is worth less than two-hundred dollars. I also had (and still have) severe eczema. I have been described as "flaky" on multiple occasions.
So you can imagine my surprise when, out of the blue on a Friday afternoon, I received a telephone call from her. I was in a delicatessen on the upper-west side, trying to decide whether or not to pay for the baguette I had just eaten, when she rang. She got right to the point. I was to meet her the next morning at eleven-fifteen for brunch at a French Café in the Village. She specified that we eat outside on the patio underneath the olive-green awning, as the forecast called for light rain. I agreed, and, keeping my composure, thanked her for the telephone call and ended the conversation before I had a chance to say anything off-color (I have a tendency to unwittingly degrade the homeless). I then decided it would be best to return to my Uncle Jerold's loft in the meatpacking district, so that I could physically and mentally prepare for our impending mid-morning meal.
Instead, however, I spent all that night envisioning how our brunch would play out. She would laugh her delicious laugh, tossing her chestnut-brown curls over her left shoulder, and when her glasses became totally disheveled from all the violent, head-jerking laughter, she would push them back up onto the bridge of her nose while trying (in vain) to catch her breath. It would be a delightful date.
And, as many of my close relations might expect, I imagined the date so many times that I didn't fall asleep until four in the morning, which caused me to sleep well past our prearranged meeting time. When I called her at one-thirty to apologize and reschedule, she told me not to bother. This was just as well, since I was still technically not allowed to leave my Uncle Jerold's apartment at the firm request of the Federal Government.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Tornados, Hail, and Cell-Phones.
The other day, there were all sorts of tornado warnings in Nebraska. I had to go to the basement in my work. I’m still relatively new, and everyone in my department had gone home for the day, so I didn’t really know anyone. There were three groups of people talking, and then there was me, by myself. I stood around, trying to decide whether sitting down would make me look like even more of a nerd. Finally, I sat down against the wall and pretended to play games on my phone, so that I wouldn’t look stupid. I pretended to play games on my phone, so that I wouldn’t look stupid.
This is just a symptom of a larger problem, which is that I pretend to engage in urgent phone-related business when things get even slightly awkward for me. If I’m supposed to meet a friend for lunch at a restaurant, and I arrive before my friend does, I will constantly check the clock on my phone to appear busy, getting minute-updates in real time. “Oh, it’s 12:37. Wait, now it’s 12:38… 39 now. It’s 12:39 now. Oops, I spoke too soon…” I’ll also send text messages just for the sake of looking busy: “hey matt what did u have 4 dinner tues? lol” I don’t care what Matt ate for dinner on Tuesday, and I didn’t laugh out loud. I just pray that Matt isn’t busy, so that Matt can help me lie to those around me.
What would happen if I left my phone in my pocket? Is there someone who would point and say, “Look at that asshole! He’s not doing anything; he’s just sitting at a bus stop, waiting for his bus. Just sitting there!” No, I bet not. But that doesn’t stop me. I will even pull out my phone when I see someone walking down the hall towards me, so I don’t have to figure out what to do with my eyes. “This is a nice hallway. Since I have twenty seconds of free time, I’d better check and see if my Mom called. Nope! Not today.”
Somewhat ironically, it bugs the shit out of me when people talk on their phones in public places. Apparently, it’s okay if you’re miming Tetris, but if you have a quiet conversation with a friend, you’re a dick.
Going back to tornados and other various types of inclement weather: the day of the tornado warning, my friend Zach told me that in some places near Lincoln, there were grapefruit-sized pieces of hail falling from the sky, roughly 4 ¼” in diameter. While it would suck to be knocked in the head with one of these pieces of monster-hail, there’s an upside; to remedy the pain, simply trap the piece of hail to your head at the moment of impact in order to ice the injury.
“Ouch! Fuck me!
…
Ah, that’s better.”
It’s kind of like getting a paper cut on a band-aid wrapper, or slipping in a puddle Neosporin.
This is just a symptom of a larger problem, which is that I pretend to engage in urgent phone-related business when things get even slightly awkward for me. If I’m supposed to meet a friend for lunch at a restaurant, and I arrive before my friend does, I will constantly check the clock on my phone to appear busy, getting minute-updates in real time. “Oh, it’s 12:37. Wait, now it’s 12:38… 39 now. It’s 12:39 now. Oops, I spoke too soon…” I’ll also send text messages just for the sake of looking busy: “hey matt what did u have 4 dinner tues? lol” I don’t care what Matt ate for dinner on Tuesday, and I didn’t laugh out loud. I just pray that Matt isn’t busy, so that Matt can help me lie to those around me.
What would happen if I left my phone in my pocket? Is there someone who would point and say, “Look at that asshole! He’s not doing anything; he’s just sitting at a bus stop, waiting for his bus. Just sitting there!” No, I bet not. But that doesn’t stop me. I will even pull out my phone when I see someone walking down the hall towards me, so I don’t have to figure out what to do with my eyes. “This is a nice hallway. Since I have twenty seconds of free time, I’d better check and see if my Mom called. Nope! Not today.”
Somewhat ironically, it bugs the shit out of me when people talk on their phones in public places. Apparently, it’s okay if you’re miming Tetris, but if you have a quiet conversation with a friend, you’re a dick.
Going back to tornados and other various types of inclement weather: the day of the tornado warning, my friend Zach told me that in some places near Lincoln, there were grapefruit-sized pieces of hail falling from the sky, roughly 4 ¼” in diameter. While it would suck to be knocked in the head with one of these pieces of monster-hail, there’s an upside; to remedy the pain, simply trap the piece of hail to your head at the moment of impact in order to ice the injury.
“Ouch! Fuck me!
…
Ah, that’s better.”
It’s kind of like getting a paper cut on a band-aid wrapper, or slipping in a puddle Neosporin.
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