August 19, 2004
A Blip on the Horizon
I don't mind birthdays, especially if the errant soul remembers it, and buys me something, like shots of tequila, or a smocked pinafore. What I do mind is the inexorable creep towards 50, that beastly age when you cross that Rubicon of Innocence, and must submit to the butter bullet, followed immediately by the All-Seeing Eye, aka a television camera skewered up the keister.
I can take paying taxes once a year, or renewing my annual subscriptions to National Review and Blackhead Ass magazines, but the idea of an ongoing relationship with a sadistic assmaster searching for polyp farms is disconcerting.
I've had two bad experiences with my doppleganger, Mr. P, in my lifetime. The first was when I was in eleventh grade. I woke up one Saturday morning after an evening of huffing Miller ponies and pissed a jet of blood. "Not good," I surmised, and woke my dad.
"Ever pee blood, Dad?" I asked. He got that look.
"Who wants to know, boy?"
After a bit of communication (the longest conversation I think I ever had with him, clocked in at 4 or 5 minutes, excluding hand signs) he seemed relieved, in a way, and took me to the doctor for a stiff round of Keflex. Prostate infection. Problem solved.
The second time was a year later. I had to have a physical before my Academy appointment. First I drove over to Parris Island to see a Marine psychiatrist, who would determine if I had any Issues.
"Do you hate your mother?" he asked. "No," said I.
"Do you masturbate?" he asked. "Yes," said I.
He gave me an A+++ and sent me on my way. There were three Marine recruits in the waiting room, all with twitches, spasms, and jerks. I gave them the thumbs up, and a big smile. I think they wanted to kill me.
I then drove over to the Naval Air Station hospital in Beaufort. A doctor who looked exactly like Harry Reems looked in my ears and eyes, listened to my chest, and then slipped on a glove and rammed a knockwurst-sized forefinger up my hidey-hole. Get my attention? You betcha. Especially when he did a sort of pinball flipper torque thing. You youngsters may not know what a pinball flipper move is; you older guys will understand. Okay: it was like a desperation foos-ball shot. Felt like that.
Afterward he tossed me a paper towel and suggested I clean myself up. Which I did, because that was good advice, and I felt like a greased pig had just bolted from my bummy. Then the bastard walked out whistling. Whistling. That bastard. He enjoyed that.
Since that day I have protected my Whitaker Street (one-way) with something akin to fervor. It's a mutual thing. The one time I tried to use a suppository it was ejected like a paintball shot. Me and Whitaker are of a mind.
So I have a few years to go until my doc Vickie tells me it's Time. She won't do it. I've asked. I'll have to go to Mayo. Mayo. How appropriate.
Here endeth my epistle. Sleep tight, kiddies.