Archive for the ‘southern exposure’ Category

At some point yesterday, there was a playful APB put out on my balls.

Let me assure you, they will not be on display on this blog. Frankly, they are not fans of sunlight. Additionally, there’s always the risk of moisture out in the open and we all know what that would mean.

So rather than write about how they do serve their purpose — despite being attached to a guy who likes a Taylor Swift song — and pretend like I didn’t laugh when I read the DC Blogs teaser, I thought I’d just share a story about a time when the boys were in grave, grave danger of literal extinction.

That’s right. Back on the TMI Thursday train! Chicka-chicka-woo-woo!¹

With that…

Too Close for Comfort

It’s dark; so I turn on the light. It gets brighter.

I’m in the bathroom at “someone else’s” house.² I’d needed to use the bathroom, so… I’d gone into the bathroom.

This house — this house of “someone else” — has a rodent problem. Correction: mice have been so bold as to just chill on the sofa next to you while watching TV. At first, as an invited guest, I had offered my rodent-elimination skills (read: a baseball bat and a floor covered with saran wrap for easy clean-up)³. Eventually, I just gave up trying and looked out for self.

On this fateful night I enter the bathroom, I am not alone. I learn this frightful fact too late.

I am standing over the thing where the stuff you don’t want anymore goes to die, with my pants… ajar. Just about finished, I notice a sound behind the thing that takes the stuff you’re no longer interested in carrying around on the inside.

I freeze. I am surprised. I wonder why I have never heard this sound from the thing that collects organic leftovers before.

I see a mouse poke its head out from behind the machine that collects unwanted donations.ª

(Note. If you’re so sure you’d have gathered yourself immediately and zipped up as quick as gravity and your motor skills allow, trust this: you are full of stuff the machine I’ve been talking about figuratively collects.)

I stay frozen. And then it happens.

The mouse freaks out and leaps. into. the. air.

Did you know mice can jump two feet straight up into the air? I didn’t.

I do now.

Do you know how high two feet is on a man who’s somewhere between 5’11” and 6′? High enough to have everything his sexual life has been and everything it could be flash by.º

I jump back in utter horror against the wall and swing my left foot at that little piece of Satan. I miss, but I get close enough to let it know that if life is like a chocolate bar, this is not one of those “sometimes you feel like a nut” moments.

It continues to freak out. I continue to freak out. It makes its way for the door and squeezes through a crack. I thank the great baby jebus. I walk out tattered and broken but alive and in full possession of what really matters in life.


¹C’mon ride the train, and ride it. C’mon ride the train, it’s the choo-choo…

²To protect the lives of others, I won’t even use fake blog names.

³Just so you know, I love animals. But I have a rule: if it is in the house, and it doesn’t leave when asked nicely, there are few rules. I’m sorry, rodents and insects, I know we’ve built our homes in your habitat, but we’re not going back to caves so deal and respect the boundaries.

ªWordPress.com has run out of numerical footnotes. But just in case I’ve lost you, I am talking about the toilet.

ºStick that measurement in your metric system.


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bathroom B&W

It got weird when he walked out with his draws around his ankles.

Oh, right: you weren’t there. I’ll explain.

It’s the middle of the workday. We’re on-site at a client’s offices, trying to meet our quotas. I decide I have to, er, let the river run through it. So I head to the bathroom.

I’m TCOBing — at the end of the urinal line because I respect Man Law — trying to remain conscious while someone opens his crypt and unleashes the degurgitated funk of 40,000 years in a stall behind me. Ecstatic to have survived despite both lungs probably looking like those pictures of lungs they’d show us in D.A.R.E. classes to fail at discouraging us from smoking, I start to pack it up as the still-faceless dude exits a door to my left.

And that’s when it got weird. He walked out — actually, I guess he shuffled like some sort of pantsless Charlie Chaplin — with his pants and his draws around his ankles.

It got super weird when he started tucking stuff in front of the mirror while I was trying — (read: pleading with any deity that would hear my cry) — to just wash my hands and avoid eye contact with the mirror. I think he was trying to tuck his undershirt into his underwear before he tucked his shirt into his pants; I’m guessing.

But the sounds — oh god, the sounds — of an old dude rustling and rearranging junk so old it could’ve been archived as Neolithic remnants are sounds I a) didn’t know existed and b) would pay to never hear again.

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Ladies and gentlemen, this…

is TMI Thursday!

If you’re new around here, this is what TMI Thursday has meant to me.  I thought about writing a short composition to explain, but I’m not 11 and it’s not 1956, so I skipped the composition idea and went with that nifty link.  TMI Thursday is code for “remember that time you [insert gross, horrible occurrence] and how you vowed either never to speak of it again or laughed hysterically?  Well, on TMIT, inspired by LiLu, we break those vows and share that laughter.

Today’s TMIT is different, though.  It’s less of a story and more of a public service announcement, brought to you by the good people at the DANGLE Initiative.  No, not this Dangle –

dangle911(though his mere appearance qualifies as TMI) – but the DANGLE Initiative: Dudes Against Netherly Grazing Leftover Excretions.  It is a crack team organized to alert the world to one of its silent and oft-overlooked dangers: the dangle.

What’s the dangle?  Let’s start from the beginning.

This is a Norwegian public toilet:

_38727573_looWhy did I pick a Norwegian public toilet picture?  Because as we all know, the average American public toilet is a steaming disaster filled with post-mudbutt remainders.  And despite it being TMIT, I just wasn’t going to post an image of that first thing in the morning.

Forever, women have been professing the horror of having to sit on the seats of one of these public toilets, claiming to risk life and literally limb as their quads feel the burn of squatting at odd angles to avoid contact.

Ladies, we have it worse. We dangle. What you fear is outside the heart of the great American porcelain beast. That stuff on the seat? Arguably accidental. Sure, some people are just all sorts of stupid nasty. But what you face is mostly lazily inaccurate excretion.

We face excretion where it’s meant to be, and we face it head-on.

Size doesn’t matter here. After decades of research, DANGLE can guarantee that every male has sat on at least dozens of toilets while fearing the centerpiece of his nethers dangling and thereby grazing the INSIDE of the toilet. The INSIDE.

The process goes a little something like this:  We sit.  Where does the netherstick go?  We remember that there’s a no-tuck rule, especially when a tuck in this situation virtually guarantees the soil on your part would be your own.  We consider sitting our now nervous buddy on top of the seat, maybe even on a bed of TP.  But no; then there’s a risk of spraying your jeans with stuff that was still left in the tank.  So you point it down, begging it not to touch that stain of butt-fudge and what-looks-like-a-raisin on the front inner-rim.  Sometimes you walk away victorious.  Other times you almost make it out alive until you flush too early and get a soggy netherstick.  And worst-case scenario…  we here at the DANGLE Initiative are here to prevent the worst-case scenario.

Now an obvious suggested resolution is that men should start to squat above the seat.  But men only hover when in a hovercraft. Not even the strong risk of having our netherstick graze the lining of an uncleaned public toilet can overwhelm our stubbornness and respect for a challenge.

Therefore, here at DANGLE, we are working hard on a solution.  And we want you to help us.  There’s a DANGLE suggestion box below and we’d love to hear your ideas.

Save a netherstick, save the world.

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It’s TMI Thursday!

I don’t do this often, but when I have done it, you may have noticed a certain recurring “character.”  No, he does not have a name.  Actually, maybe he’s less of a character and more of a prop.

Anyway, if I had to convert this story to a picture, it would probably go a little something like this:

redneck-on-toilet-794579But since I know how to use my words…

I live on one of the busiest streets in the District.  It might even be the busiest.  There was this one time when a car exploded…  And this other time when there was a 40-yard long, 1 mph car chase…  And then there’s the traffic.  It’s like M St. in Georgetown in the summer or when there’s a pre-popped-collar, pastel polo sale nearby.  And as one of the major roads in and out of the city, it’s like this almost without exception.  So cars are always outside our house, creeping by, their passengers staring into our windows because, well, what else are they gonna do at 5 mph?

For this reason, the blinds in our front bathroom are usually closed.  Our front bathroom faces this busy street and the bottom of the window stands only about two feet high.*  Perfect storm?  Yeah: the toilet is positioned such that standing in front of it means your whole left profile, from head to knee, is directly in the center of the window.

In a rush one day, in broad daylight, I forgot the basics.  I ignored the open blinds, unbuttoned – because the “through the fly” approach to living frightens me as unnecessary risk-taking – and dropped pant.  I let a river run through it and was about to re-button when I caught a stranger’s glance from the street outside and knew it was too late.**

And so if that was you – though please, please, god: let it not have actually been you – you apparently know me better than I think.

And this would be yet another story I’ve told you about exposing my prop or using it in public.

*Architectural misstep? I’d say so.
**It was kind of like that episode of 30 Rock… Where Liz pleads with that Dr. guy not to open the kitchen window. But he does. And then the air creates a vacuum that opens up her bathroom door while she’s deep in squat…

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Welcomes, welcomes.  It is Thursday.  And thanks to LiLu, who has singlehandedly altered the modern calendar, it is TMI Thursdays.  Last week, I lassoed the hitch on that bandwagon and pulled myself onboard with a puddled tale from my adolescent past.  Today, you get another story that shares a couple of those key elements: a normally clothed tool and how it played a critical role in my childhood.*

Our story starts at the YMCA.  Yes that YMCA –

– but no, not this era:

(not that there was anything wrong with that).

Though I was just a young boy, in need of a place to go.  And since I was barely pre-pubescent, short on dough, there was really only one place to stay and be sure I’d find many ways to have a good time.

But I reminisce…

Mikey was my best friend back then.  He had a doberman pincher that scared the curdled goo out of me and that always seemed to be bleeding from the ass.  Mikey also had a mom.  I don’t really remember anything about her, so for the rest of this story (and your life) just imagine her role in this as

One spring-like, Pennsylvania summer day, my then still-married parents dropped me off at Mikey’s in an effort that then seemed like a favor to me, but am now sure was so that for one day their lives could go on as originally planned.  Mikey struggled convincing his mom that she should take us swimming.  He won her over when she caught Mikey attempting to induce his dog’s bleedy bunghole to do our bidding and leave us a trail we could then play around: the hop-a-spot-from-Spot-or-go-lie-down-on-the-cot game.***  I was an agile youth, and was prepared to relegate Mikey to that cot in his basement, but c’mon: swimming.

Mikey’s mom dropped us off and left.****  I had never been to a YMCA before.  I guess I’ve also never been back.  In that sense, the YMCA is a lot like Ruby Tuesday’s for me: once, mortified and done.  Anyway, you were just supposed to leave your non-swimming clothes in a locker.  And since they offered no locks, and Mikey apparently never brought one, it was an honor system – which is odd, because if you ever went to a YMCA in the 80s, the character of the frequents was less that of King Arthur’s roundtable than that of a disbanded gaggle of roaming thieves.

So yet another kudos to Gertrude Stein: a place that looks like a place where robbery is achieved is what it is.  While we were in the pool with middle-aged men with enough matted, wet hair to shame a monsooned Chewbacca and bellies that overwhelmed their wastes and bikinis, someone stole my vitals.

My.  Vitals.

This is important.  Not my pants.  Not my shoes.  Not my shirt.  My underwear and my belt.  A pair of Superman underoos and a nylon belt.

I tried to roll with the underoos-stealing-punches.  I put on everything left to my name and we headed out to meet Mikey’s mom.  It was a dangerous game.  The only way to keep my pants up was with a hand in each pocket.  And so what happens next is my parents’ fault for raising a flawless gentleman.

Mikey’s mom had to stop at the store on the way home.  At some point, we got out of the car and dutifully followed her towards a storefront of some strip mall.  Without hesitation, I pulled my hands from their lawfully-mandated position and opened the door for her.  The image?

Yeah, sorta like that.

And it happened in front of a crowded parking lot and within feet of a toddler.  There was a little girl sitting in a shopping cart outside the A&P next door.  She pointed.  Her pointing was loud.  Because she screamed.

“Mommy!  Look!” she yelped, at the top of her developed-enough-to-catch-the-attention-of-dozens lungs.  She followed up her scream with a “Pee pee!” – displaying her unfortunately impressive object association skills.

Her mommy looked.  Mikey’s mommy looked.  People looked through storefront windows.  People looked from their cars.  And as if it was a puddle of my own urine, I just waited, again, for way too many seconds.  And surprisingly, no one rushed to my aid.  I was standing pantsless on a strip mall sidewalk on a Saturday afternoon in daylight in a major metropolitan city.

And yes: I wasn’t yet 10.  But all that means is that I was too young to be cited for indecent exposure.  I like to think I aged a lot that day.  I have a mature appreciation for this thing called “body.”  How many times have your goods been on display in broad daylight for more than 30 people?  That shamery you haven’t felt?  Yeah, that’s called experience.  And I’ve got plenty.

*Yes, the childhood.  I’m new at this, and telling humiliating stories from yesteryear is a lot like making fun of a person none of us ever met (not even me).  Keep coming back and I promise the revelations will be modernized.**

**And I have to say thanks to a certain lacochran’s bloggery.  I’ve used the asterisk approach a few times now, after being inspired by its usefulness on her blog.  Someone should give her a “Leader in Industry” award.

***I have great fact-checking abilities.  Be careful before you insist you never made child’s play out of a mongrel’s leaky hide.

****Now that I think about it: wtf?

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