Archive for the ‘TMI Thursdays’ 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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Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls…

Welcome, to TMI Thursday!

LiLu has changed the world with her TMI series and today I’m playing along.
The rules: share “some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, ‘how many readers can I estrange THIS week??’ TMI story about your life” or the life of someone else you don’t mind putting on blast.
The breakdown: a blog-based, group-love brand of humiliation.

For decades, people have tried to figure out the meaning behind the lyrics of Don McLean’s “American Pie.”  Well, I’m no Don McLean.  I don’t like to keep the people guessing.  So as soon as I’m done “singing” today’s TMI Thursday story to you, I’m gonna just tell you exactly what it means.

It goes a little something like this:

A long, long time ago
I can still remember¹
how cleaning used to make me smile.
And I knew if I ruled the day
I’d clean the Danny Tanner way
and, maybe, I’d be happy for a while.

But one day a sight made me shiver
an unexpected crimson river.
Bad news on the toilet;
cleaning: I can’t enjoy it.

I can’t remember if I cried,
when I saw the red-stained menstrual side,
but I dry-heaved and groaned inside
the day my toilet died.

So “Hi, there, Miss American Pie.
I didn’t think I’d see you,
I hate being surprised.
So excuse me while I drink some whiskey and rye,
because I just died a little inside.
I just died a little inside.


I love cleaning; weird, I know.  But like Bob Saget’s character on Full House, I get a kick out of my place being as close to spotless as I can get it without OCD’ing about it and, for instance, scrubbing floors until I’ve worked my fingertips to nubs.

This used to include the bathroom, until this one day.  On this wretched, wretched day, I lifted the toilet seat to clean underneath it and noticed that a female visitor had left a surprise for me on the underside of the toilet seat.  The entire underside was coated with dried-on period blood.

Now, ladies, generally I’m a pretty understanding guy when it comes to stuff I don’t understand about your bodies.  However, I do not understand how that much tissue and fluid could be lost without you knowing it happened (read: she damn well knew what she did and didn’t care).  Also, honestly?  I thought it just, you know, fell out, sorta.  But unless she was sitting sideways and under the seat, apparently the discharge was more like a menstrual explosion in all directions.

Please forgive me while I pause and heave.

Right.  Okay.  As I was saying, gross.  I’m done.

¹Though, I won’t use real names…

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Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls…

Welcome, to TMI Thursday!

LiLu has changed the world with her TMI series and today I’m playing along.

The rules: share “some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, ‘how many readers can I estrange THIS week??’ TMI story about your life.”

The breakdown: a blog-based, group-love brand of humiliation.


P_0906sexed“The birds and the bees.”

I still don’t know why we call it that.  Which one is what I have?  But either way, it can fly — is that right?

But that’s not what I asked when my mom gave us the sex talk.

I couldn’t have been any older than ten, which means my brother couldn’t have been any older than six.  Six.  My mom was getting us started pretty early.  And this wasn’t an anomaly.  A few years later, a friend would “accidentally” order pay-per-view porn at my house.  When I called my mom as a preemptive defense, knowing she’d see it on the bill, she said in complete seriousness, “Well, watch it.  You might learn something.”

But back to the sex talk…

Mom called us down to the kitchen and the three of us gathered around our wooden easel.  It was a flip easel: on one side a dry erase board, on the other a chalkboard.  She had been drawing.  It was incredibly accurate, now that I think about it.  Some flaccidity here, a patch of hair there, an oval in the corner and a shaft approaching the oval…  There were two full-bodied, naked people, complete with facial expressions and a zoom-in view of their happy zones.

Mom started explaining that when the lady said, “Yes,”¹ we put our pee-pee in, we pulled our pee-pee out, we put our pee-pee in and we moved it all about.  She warned us, though, that if it felt dry inside it was because we were doing it wrong.

I loved learning.  And I never held back a question.  And at this point, a question was rumbling in my belly.

me: mom…
mom: yes?
me: what if we have to pee when we’re in there?
mom: …
me: can we just pee inside her?

The look on her face…  I have never seen her face that blank since that night.  You know how plain, white light is actually a blend of various colors?  Well, it was like she was thinking “horror + fear + disgust + disappointment” and it just showed blank, expressionless.

mom: make sure you go beforehand.
me: but what if, mom?
mom: then you politely say, “Excuse me,” get up and go to the bathroom.  You do not pee inside her.

She paused and waited for this to sink in for me.  At some point, I nodded and she nodded and then she went back to the talk as planned.  We’ve never brought up the question since.

I learned a valuable lesson that night, kids; one that I’ve carried with me for almost two decades: the vagina is not just some container.  You can’t just stuff things in there like it’s a hallway closet.  It has many purposes.  It just has one less than I first thought as a kid.

¹To this day, I will not put the key in the ignition without this exact keyword.

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Shhh.  Pull up a seat.  You’re just in time for…

TMI Thursday!

It’s the day dreamed, birthed and reared by LiLu.  The game?  Well, you know those “The More You Know?” commercials?  This blogoliday¹ is kind of like that.  Except if it was on TV, it could only be aired as a commercial break during It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.  But with a big thanks to Miss Bianca, my lady², without further ado…



… is Cody, Miss Bianca’s pride and joy.  Adorable, right?  Well, Cody has had a bloody stool problem.  So, last week, Cody had a colonoscopy: he’s cancer-free and smiling today like it never happened!  But how did the visit to the doctor go?  I thought I might ask, so I took pictures.

Miss Bianca rented a car in order to get Cody to the vet’s and back.  You should’ve read that as, “she rented a car to transport a dog with a leaky butthole and planned to give it back without ever telling National Rent-A-Car why she needed it.”  She why I like her?

The ride there?  Solid.  Normally, Cody only leaked when returning his food to its maker, the soil.  But when we picked Cody up after the anal probing, the doctor informed Miss Bianca that Cody had about as much control over his bowels as, say, Betty White³ and so there’d be some random leakage for about a 24 hour period. She handed us a 16″x16″ seeping-butt pad and wished us on our merry way.  We took one look at that pad and knew it could never hold what Cody could dish out. Luckily, MB thought ahead and brought an old bed sheet from home to cover the rear seats.

We thought all would be smooth-sailing.  Until, that is, we realized the drugs they had given Cody hadn’t faded completely yet.  This was obvious when we realized that Cody had completely forgotten how to pee:

img_07871He just stretched out, nearly flat on the ground, and let go.  No leg raised; didn’t even point it away from his body.  As you can tell, it took a minute for us to realize he wasn’t just humping the ground.  So now we have a dog with no control over his bowels and high.

It wasn’t a full minute after we got him in the car, though, that we knew that puddley-butt napkin and the sheet weren’t gonna cut it.  What had been in, came out, all over.  Miss Bianca acted quickly: over Route 50 and through VA, to PetSmart we go… for some adult dog diapers.  PetSmart welcomes pets in its store, so we brought Cody in with us, hoping to god he wouldn’t leave a trail from aisle to aisle.  We grabbed these:

comes with freedom straps!

"excitable urination?" me, too!

I tried to be helpful.

me: look!  they come with a hole for his penis.

MB: *…*  that would defeat the entire point.  that’s for his tail.

me: i’m smarter than this when you’re not around. promise.

The diapers came with “freedom snug tabs.”  But if you asked Cody,


"why me? why is it always me?"

they might as well have been grade-A oppression tabs.  A lot of this was my fault.  The one executive decision I made that night was to go with the medium-size ass-wraps.  Miss Bianca thought big was always better in these situations.  I, always vying to be in Cody’s good graces like an awesome uncle, insisted his ass wasn’t that big.  Well feast thine eyes on this:

img_0791That, ladies and gentleman, is a failure of execution.  It’s a dumpy disaster.  It’s not even close.  Cody had what 2 Live Crew called “too much booty in da pants.”  And so with barely enough cloth to cloak his most-prized possession, let alone solve his anal water crisis, we all got in the car and sped off, hopeful but timid.

Karma must’ve owed us one, though, because we managed to make it back to the District without any “oh-my-god” or “that-ain’t-right” moments.  Like any good Americans, we managed to squeeze in a run to Wendy’s before it was all said and done.  Even Cody seemed to be cool with it by the end.


Though if you ever plan on renting a car from National, email me.  I’ll give you the plate number on a car you might want to avoid.

¹Blog-ol-i-day: (bläg-äl-ə-dā); noun; a celebration of a themed post.
²Imagine me pronouncing it like Tim Meadows would. See? Funny.
³I kid Betty. I kid.

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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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Is… is it TMI Thursday?  Well, yes.  Yes, it is.

So let me give you the business..

You’ve come to know my body as a heat-packing district.  It’s true.  I am armed with a wanton and gratuitous appetite.

But since we* love extended synonyms here at the Change I Wish to See, for the purposes of this post, when I say “Little Shop of Horrors” —

— you say, “f.B’s body.”  Ready?  OK!

So I’m chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’ all — wait; wrong story.

Scratch that.

It’s early Wednesday afternoon.  I’m on my 3rd day at a new job, in a room with three other people (hooray collaborative work projects!), sitting at a desk that would’ve been much cooler if it looked like the plane-wing-desk below.**

The critical mistake I made that day?  Walking in the front door expecting to over-achieve.  That led to me thinking I could just keep pushing off lunch until later, like a late lunch meant more productivity rather than a reckless disregard for the super-enforced ordinances of a heat-packing district.

But the rules at the Little Shop of Horrors are not meant to be broken.  Above all?  You guessed it: please the monster (my stomach).

I’ve broken this cardinal rule before.  It hasn’t ever ended well.  I’ve broken it right before meetings, before really small classes, at plays… basically situations in which you can hear any bodily function anyone makes (including loud blinking and being alive).

How can I explain what breaking this rule is to you… hmm

I’ve got it!

Food is like water.  And what happens when water meets heat?  Right: steam.  And if you let it get hot enough, without release, it will bubble and boil.

Through trial and error, I have learned that when my, er, uh, “little teapot” feels the need to, uh, release some steam, I have three choices: 1) let it squeal, 2) eat something and thereby distract it, or 3) do neither, and confront a horrible case of the bubbles by locking the steam in.

Sometimes this only sounds like my stomach growling (which often hungry it so often does).  Other times, when I gamble, I lose and it sounds like, well, like it did this day.  It went a little something like this:

Now, this was in a relatively small room.  And there are three other people within ten feet of me.  Three people who are then convinced that the apocalypse is now.

I froze.  I sat.  I waited.  No one said anything.  I went back to work.

It didn’t smell (because it was more of a backfire than a butt blast — it was an anti-fart), and the only tread mark it left was on my sense of professionalism.  But those three coworkers don’t know that.  They probably told their friends at happy hour, and will be telling their kids when they have them, about the loudest fart they’ve ever heard by a living being that wasn’t a nervous elephant at a Six Flags safari.

So, hi, readers.  My name is “f.B.”  And I blow T-Rex decibel anti-farts at work.

Happy Thursday.



*”We?”  It sounds good but suggests at least one more personality than I actually have.

**Wing of a plane?  Know what there was a plane in?  LOST!  Love that show.

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