Right now, I'm sitting on my back porch swing, sipping a beer. Sitting only inches from the jasmine, and I cna still smell fragrant garden incense burning, citronella candles, and "...ain't got no woooories, 'cuz I ain't in no hurry..." is playing through the sreen door.

Every once in a while I hear a heavy buzzing, but it's not a bumble bee. It's a hummingbird coming to feed. Me, I wish it was a bee, because it would be pollinating the zucchini and cucumber plants growing in the garden. Don't get me wrong, I totally see the benefits of city life. I can walk to my local grocer and some million-dollar homes in the same outing; but I crave something quieter.

One day, I'm going to have enough dough saved up that I'll be able to buy a small farmhouse on two or so acres in northern Georgia or Arkansas - yeah, the middle of nowhere. And I'll be able to sip a beer on my back porch, listening to a few rows of zucchini, some cukes, 'maters, push sprouts through the black wet dirt. Fuck this working for a living bullshit. I've never understood it, and I never will. Work sucks. I dare you to try and argue the point.

Posted by: shank at 06:49 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Ladies and Gentlemen,

I am happy to report that the state of my prostate is excellent and should be far into the future, barring something like, well, cancer. However, the way this conclusion was reached was less than perfect, I am sorry to say. Before I tell you about the actual exam, I have a simple question? Why is my prostate in my ass? Isn't it for peeing and jizz-shooting? Shouldn't it be in my penis? I don't profess to know what a prostate is or what it really does or what it looks like or even what it feels like, thank God, but I figure a prostate is like real estate - it's all about location, location, location and I think mine is in a very bad neighborhood. Who thought it was a great idea to put it in my ass. I mean really.

That being said, when I went in for my annual checkup, the doctor asked me if a medical student could observe the exam. I, being a man of science and learning, agreed. Because I'm an idiot. I figured he'd send her out of the room when butt-probing time rolled around. Oh no. Not only was she watching when he greased me up and jammed his gloved hand up there, he explained everything he was doing. What he was feeling around for, what he was touching. Everything. I was half expecting him to ask her to grab a glove and join in. "Hey sweetcheeks, wanna give 'er a poke?" And then came the best part - he removed his finger from my ass and told me I could wipe. Spectacular. Have you ever wiped goo out of your ass while two strangers watched? No? Oh, you haven't lived. Good times!

But he did give me a lollipop, so I got that going for me.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:36 AM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
Post contains 320 words, total size 2 kb.

Did I ever tell you about the time I almost got my right nut bit off in a freakish dog encounter? It was Friday the 13th about 30 years ago (cue ominous pipe organ music). The sky was black and the winds howled. Actually, it was a pretty sunny afternoon in picturesque Newark, New Jersey. I was playing football with a few friends. Claude, who we used to call Matt, because that was his name, threw me a long pass...

Interesting Aside

Matt (Claude) is the drummer for Ween, not to name drop. I taught him how to drum. Really. Impressed? Why I'm not a famous rock musician, I'll never know. You think he sends me a check every now and then in appreciation for all I did for him? Hell no. He won't even return my calls, the prick. That bastard wouldn't know a drum set if it bit off his right nut if it wasn't for me. Do I get free tickets to his concerts? No. When I try to sneak backstage because "I know the drummer", do I get free food and booze? No, I get kicked in the nads and tossed into the street by one of the Ween goons.

Also, Ween Goons is an excellent name for a rock band.

End Interesting Aside

So the rotten prick throws me a long pass and I make this spectacular, over-the-shoulder catch, keeping both feet barely in bounds. Very Lynn Swann. Maybe we weren't playing football. I don't really remember. What I do remember is dog fangs ripping through my underwear and into my flesh. Okay, I don't really remember that either. But I do remember standing in my neighbors front lawn with my pants in shreds. Then I remember running home in my underwear crying because there was blood all over them. I get home and my mother lays me down, takes off my underwear and does a nut check. Both were there but about a half inch from my right one are teeth marks and ripped flesh. Enough to warrant stitches, which I'd never had before.

My Dad takes me to the doctor who proceeds to give me 4 stitches. Under the watchful eyes of a nurse, who thought that my 8 year old, inch and a half penis was hilarious. As a matter of fact, everyone had a good laugh - the doctor, the nurse and my Dad all thought the whole thing was hilarious. Me and my tiny penis just laid there and endured the laughter and humilation.

Now, every Friday the 13th at about 6pm, I do two shots of tequila while I gently rub my right testicle and sob quietly to myself.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:33 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 468 words, total size 3 kb.