Anal Fistula.

Many of you have observed, repeatedly and vocally, that I seem to be obsessed with my own ass.

I'm not denying it. The ass (and more specifically, my ass) holds a position of great importance in my life. You could say that all philosophy comes from the brain, or that all poetry comes from the heart... I have a feeling that all comedy comes, ultimately, from the ass. And that's a great thing. So, okay, I've become known far and wide as something of an ass expert. An asspert. I'm okay with that.

I have realized, however, that those who live by the ass, die by the ass.

Karma dictates that if I was the sort of person who went around kicking people, then I would be laid up with a foot injury. Or if I used to steal lollipops from little children, I might develop tooth decay. Well I Don't generally kick people, and I never took a lollipop. What I do, is talk about the ass all day long, so of course a few years ago karma reached its long pointy finger down from the heavens and smote me with what the medical profession calls an "Anal Fistula."

Now I'm no doctor (not that I let that stop me from handing out prescriptions on the street corner), so I won't try to go into a lengthy medical description of what an anal fistula is exactly. Let's just call it a "little fucking horrible tunnel in your butthole," and leave it at that.

Here's a nice picture I stole from some fancy "Maladies of the butt" website:

Get the picture?

I know what you people are probably thinking. "He got that fistula from all the sex with monkeys." Well, I assure you that all my sexmonkeys are thoroughly screened for diseases and are 100% clean. My sexmonkeys are the healthiest monkeys on the planet, right up to the point where I shave and de-bone them, and then... Er... Re-bone them.

The fistula is just one of those things that just happen. I did not get it from rough prison sex, and I most definitely did not get it (because I know some of you are dying to rub this one in my face) from failing to wash my hands after peeing. I just got it, okay?

Let me tell you, because I can hear you squirming with intellectual curiosity, just what having a fistula is like. First of all, it's a tear in your body, so it hurts like any tear in your skin would. It stings. Like a paper-cut. On your asshole.

Secondly, take a good look at that little picture above. See the tiny brown drop coming out of the mouth of the fistula? That ain't artistic license, my friends. The fuckers leak. Yep. they dribble. I may be a generally gross human being, but I draw the line at persistent anal leaking. Not acceptable.

Okay, stop shuddering long enough for me to tell you the third, and decidedly worst, thing about having a fistula. When you fart (something I do often) 85% of the fart comes out in the normal fashion. But about 15% of your fart shoots out of that little painful tunnel. And it hurts and kind of itches. It's like having a tiny kazoo installed in your ass that delivers electric shocks when you use it. Un. Fucking. Pleasant.

So anyway, it sucked ass (no pun intended). It took me a few months to get it cleared up, and there were enemas and suppositories and check-ups and all manner of ass-centric horror. It eventually ended with some minor surgery which fixed the damn thing once and for all. In the process of dealing with the fistula, I became so unbelievably familiar with the workings of my own asshole it boggles the mind. You know, in a strange way, I think it brought me and my ass closer together.

But in truth, I didn't actually spring blogward tonight to disgust you with a detailed description of the bloody tunnel in my anus. (Disgusting you was just a nice bonus.) I actually wanted to tell you a related story.

In the process of having the whole fistula thing taken care of, I had to see a colon-rectal specialist. (Who, I discovered, have absolutely no sense of humor if you refer to your rectum as "my heiney-hole" or tell them "it itches when I toot.") One of the symptoms I had was some bleeding (remember how those fuckers leak?) and whenever you have rectal bleeding they automatically check you for cancer.

By "check you for cancer," I mean to say "drive an entire television station up your ass." The technical term is a "flexible sigmoidoscopy," which is a lot like a colonoscopy, for those of you playing along at home. It's a big old camera up your ass. It's uncomfortable, and it made me decide that under no circumstances is anything ever going up there again. If I wasn't firmly "exit-only" before, I am now.

So on the day of the sigmoidoscopy, I show up at the doctor's, and I'm understandably nervous, you know, on account of the huge camera up my ass and all. This nice older black nurse takes me to the exam room, and gives me a gown and takes my vitals, and she's being really sweet and calming, which I appreciate. As we get closer and closer to the "invasion," she suddenly looks me square in the eye and says one of the strangest things anyone has ever said to me.

"Why you have a girl face!!!" This she said in the exact tone of voice a little girl would have if she has just looked into a bird cage and exclaimed "Why what a pretty birdie!!!"

I don't remember my exact words, but they were probably something like "wha???"

"You have a girl face," she continued to joyously proclaim, "You look like a woman!!! Has anyone ever told you that you look female??? It's remarkable!!!" All of this, still in that insanely excited voice...

I am stunned. I am agog. I have no idea how to respond to this woman who is happier than a child on Christmas morning to discover that I apparently look like a girl. I, who am usually very articulate, am reduced to "sputter sputter stammer huh?"

I'm still stammering 3 minutes later when the entire Action 7 News Team drives their big white van up my ass.

A girl face?

I know I'm not the manliest guy in the world, but I ask you in all honesty... Funny lookin', sure, but:

The mind (and the ass) boggles. You'd tell me if I was the spitting image of Jane Seymour, right?

I Heart Sally.

I just wanted to say that. Not because today is Valentines Day, But because 11 years ago today Sally and I started dating.

Like any relationship, there were times when it was hard, and there were a few times it was very hard, but somehow the sum of all the pieces always adds up to "wonderful." I couldn't ask for a better partner, for a more perfect best friend, and for a funnier, smarter, more beautiful person to share my life with. And I just wanted to say that publicly once more. Because I believe you can never say it enough. I love you Sal. Thank you for these 11 years. I don't deserve you, but I'm so happy that I somehow got you.

Okay everybody, quit your barfing. We'll be back to the poop stories tomorrow, I'm sure.

Calm the fuck down and get the shovels.

It's just frozen water, folks. Let's get a grip here.

Yes, the eastern seaboard was indeed hit by what the Weather Channel calls a "Nor'easter," and what the rest of us call "snow." And as is par for the course, the sight of a little frozen precipitation is enough to throw the fine citizens of Maryland into an unbridled orgy of jackassitude.

It starts with the local newscasters, who begin 4 days before the actual snowfall by liberally sprinkling the newscast with phrases like "the end of life as we know it," "buried alive beneath tons of ice," and "most likely resort to eating our young to survive." Okay, they may not be using those exact words, but something is causing all my neighbors to beat each other to death over the last roll of TP at the Safeway.

As I've said before, the funny thing about Baltimore, is that we're far enough north that we get a decent amount of snow every year, and we're far enough south that we act like complete jackasses every time it happens.

This may not mean much to those of you who live in places like Texas (where it is generally warmer) or California (where the entire concept of weather is alien and confusing to you) but for my blog-buddies over here on the eastern seaboard I'd like to offer some help. So here we go with Wombat's handy guide to surviving the snowy apocalypse:

Tip #1: Buy your groceries like a normal human being.

Barring the kind of horrible city-burying snowstorm we only see in the movies, I sincerely doubt you will be trapped in your house for a month. Every time there is impending snow, I see people at the grocery store buying 48 gallons of water, 27 loaves of bread and 800 rolls of TP. What kind of endless siege are these people planning for? The Battle of Stalingrad? The longest I've ever been trapped in my house because of snow was a day. How much eating, drinking and shitting are you planning to do? Even if you started crapping the second the snow started falling, and stopped 5 days later, you couldn't possibly use all the TP you've bought. Believe me, I've tried.

By all means, be prepared. Buy one package of TP. Get a loaf of bread. Get some pasta sauce. You people act like the fucking Germans are rolling in with tanks.

Besides, even if it does snow for a year, if there's one thing the movies have taught us, it's that Dennis Quaid will come for you. Have a little faith.

Tip #2: You can drive in this shit.

The minute the first snowflake drops into view, most people I know become convinced that to drive in the snow is to ensure their own untimely demise, stuck waist deep in a snowbank off I-95. Listen to your buddy Wombat. You can drive in the show and not wind up a frozen corpse if you remember one simple rule: Go slower, dickface. The road is icy. I have every confidence that if you don't try to race around like the caffeinated tool you usually are, that even a clearly deficient nutsack like you can make it to work alive. Just use your fucking brain.

This is especially true for the people who fly around in giant SUVs, as if the snow is a personal challenge to their manhood. For those of you who drive big SUVs, my advice remains the same. Slow the fuck down. 4-wheel drive and traction control may make you somewhat safer, but it doesn't make you Mighty Zeus.

Tip #3: Throw a fucking snowball.

If you go outside to shovel your walk or brush off your car, and you don't at least toss one snowball, then I have no use for you. You clearly have no soul. Go inside, put on Dr. Phil and wait for death to claim you. It may take a while, because even the Grim Reaper knows to go play in the fucking snow.

The Church of Chocolate Monkey Love

Kendra and I started a church, and it is awesome. Go there henceforth and be merry.

Yes, there was significant shrinkage. But I was pretty small to begin with.

The Polar Plunge was a week ago, and I utterly failed to post about it. This is because I'm a huge jackass. I think you all were sufficiently warned about this. Anyone who has been reading this blog for more than 2 months and hasn't figured out that I'm a huge jackass, please submit yourself for the nearest gang of roving hooligans for a severe beating.

Anyway, some of you donated your hard earned money to the good cause (The Special Olympics of Maryland), and some of you were strapped at the moment, and would have donated if you'd had the cash. You're good people, and I feel like I at least owe you a little re-cap of the event.

Some of you did not dig into your pockets despite having cash to spare. Some of you clearly don't care about the special-needs children, and would probably run over someone in a wheelchair if the opportunity arose. You people are clearly the re-animated dead, having neither hearts or souls. Under no circumstances should you read about the Plunge, since you did not contribute to it. Please go here immediately, and spend 20 minutes reading about how to make valentine decorations from common household items. You've earned it.

Okay, now that we've disposed of the freeloaders... Let me start with some relevant numbers. Thanks you all of you, I raised almost 400 bucks for the Special Olympics. Sal raised Just over 400. In total, the Plunge netted a million bucks. Let me say that again, because I want you all to feel good about donating your cash. We raised a million dollars. That's a lot of dough. So feel good about yourselves.

The crew this year consisted of: (L to R) Kate, Chris, Sal, Me, Jeri (Chris' wife) and Paul.

The Paul in the picture above is not the Paul I mention so often here in the blog. He's a different Paul entirely. I know far too many Pauls. My Paul (and I mean that in an utterly platonic, "no way are we banging each other" way) would never willingly throw himself into freezing water, because he's a huge wuss. He did volunteer to come along and take the photos though, so I have to give him credit for that. Here he is, in a silly hat:

A few thousand people showed up to plunge, and the law of averages assures us that for every few hundred normal people who just want to help out, there will be a handful of total jabbering freaks who take advantage of the event to showcase their bizarre costume fetishes. Like this guy:

I'm so glad he brought his daughter with him. It's probably good that she knows that daddy is a biker ballerina early in her development. More time to plan her escape.

Oh yeah, and apropos of absolutely nothing, look who else showed up:

Yep, thank god the stormtroopers came to the Plunge. I suppose they were there to quash any signs of rebellion against the empire, because I'm sure they didn't actually get in the water dressed like that. I mean, cool outfits and all, but what exactly about the Polar Bear Plunge says "Hey guys, break the nerd costumes out!"

Anyway, there were plenty more loonies like Biker Ballerina and the Trooper Brigade, but did Paul take pictures of them? No, because Paul was too busy taking stealth pictures of all the hairy shirtless men who were not dressed like ballerinas. I won't show you those pictures, but be assured, there were a lot of them. It's a miracle we got any shots of the actual plunge at all.

Here's one good-looking dude though:

Yeah, keep your lunches down. What can I say, Paul points the camera at you and you just feel like you need to bring the sexy, you know?

How many of you did I lose with that pic? Oh, who am I kidding? If you can handle the last lengthy discussion of urine-soaked hands and bathroom germs, you can handle me and my pasty flabby man-boobs. You all are clearly gluttons for punishment.

At this point I should admit that the day of the Plunge was ungodly warm. I feel a little guilty for this, because it certainly detracts from the manly toughness aspect of the plunge. I mean, here on the east coast we're in the middle of what seems to be the warmest winter in the history of the planet. It nearly hit 60 by the time we went into the water. I'd love nothing more than to convince you that I toughed out the blistering winter in nothing but my swim trunks, but it was practically balmy. Nothing I could do about it. I blame God.

Eventually the time came to actually jump into the bay, and this where you really get your money's worth, because even though it was May up on the beach, it was freaking January in the water. Something like 35 degrees. Running straight into water like that doesn't even feel cold. It feels like "holy fucking shit something's gone horribly wrong with my life." You don't even have time to register the cold before your brain just decides you've clearly gone insane and shuts you out of the decision making process entirely. Everybody in my group were troopers though. (Not stormtroopers.) We all decided to not only get in the water, and not only completely submerge, but that it didn't count unless you actually swam. We established that you must adhere to a strict two-stroke minimum before you began your screaming, panicked, wide-eyed flight back out of the water.

That flight back up the beach is really the part of the event where the whole thing falls apart on you. Running in requires only momentum. You just point yourself at the water, step on the gas, and barrel in as far as you can go. No problem. At some point about 3 seconds later though, you become this frightened animal that just wants to get out of the frozen horror that is clearly killing you, and you spin around and suddenly realize that you have a huge problem. This is because what you see when you spin around is 2500 people all running down the beach toward you.

As you can imagine, there is some cursing and swinging of the fists. I may have trampled a 9-year-old.

Here we all are, safely out of the water. Sure, we're smiling, but I promise you, that's the stupid uncomprehending smile you make when your brain has stopped working.

Some of you may notice that in the picture above, we gained an extra person. This was apparently a friend of Chris who showed up at the last second. None of the rest of us knew that, however, and at the time, all of us were thinking "Who the fuck is this dude horning in on our picture?"

See? Check out my face in this one:

I'm going, "Holy Jesus that was cold I can't feel my - Who the hell is that???" Now look at Sally's face in this one:

Priceless. At any rate, he turned out to be a nice dude.

After we were all dried off and somewhat warm, I made the terrible error of turning to Sal and jokingly saying, "That wasn't so bad... Let's go back in!" I forgot that my wife is a certifiable nutbag. And I mean that in the most loving way possible. She grabbed my hand and said "Let's go!"

Never doubt that I love my wife with all my heart, because I followed her into that freezing death a second time. That's either proof of love or proof of brain damage. Probably both. Anyway, the water hadn't gotten any warmer in the 5 minutes between plunges. I'm pretty sure I have permanent testicle damage now. That's okay though because Sal's womb has got to be like a slushee machine after two dunks in the bay. Two people who don't have the sense to stay out of the freezing water have no business reproducing anyway.

I should wrap this up. The bottom line was that it was a lot of fun, and thanks to you wonderful people, we raised a lot of money for a good cause. I expect all of you to show up for the next one.

I'll leave you with this picture of me and Sal, just because I think she's the cutest thing in the world, despite the obvious brain damage.