Proctologists: Medical Mythomaniacs

I've been told by many people that my pain brings them pleasure.  If you're one of those people, first off, you're welcome and secondly, today is going to be a wonderful day for you.  I just went to the proctologist.

The Baron of Booty.
The Highness of Hiney.
The Tycoon of Tushy.

You get the point.  It's the guy that looks in your butt.

Don't trust that smile.  He's plotting.

The doctor visit starts off like any other.  I sit in a waiting room with warm, neutral colors until they call me back to the other waiting room--the one where things get serious.  The one where the nice nurse takes you back and speaks to you in a calm, smooth (almost seductive) voice and asks you about your medical history.  She then smiles at you, says the doctor will be with you shortly, and walks out.

Leaving you alone.  With only your thoughts.  Well, your thoughts and this thing sitting on the table next to you:

I don't know what this is, but I know what it's capable of.  I just did a Google Image Search for "Good God Don't Ever Let That Happen To My Butt Again" and it popped up.  #1 result. 

It's like those fun Star Trek water guns you used to have as a child, except instead of squirting water and making children laugh, it's rammed up your butt-hole and makes you cry. 

So now I'm alone in the exam room with only my thoughts and this torture device from the dark ages.  It's here that I would like to comment on the amazing capacity that the human brain has to be optimistic in the face of fear.  It may be a defect, but I'll take it.  

I tell myself:  How do I know that gun is meant for me?  Maybe they just leave it sitting out on the table until it's needed.  You know...like Kleenex or tongue depressers.  Just because there's a bottle of lube sitting next to it doesn't mean he's going use it on me right?  Right?

Before I could delude myself any further, the doctor walks in.  He introduces himself, we shake hands and I sit down.  Then some other dude walks in and he introduces him as his intern or his shadow or his cousin, I don't know who it was.  I didn't hear him because I was thinking, "Wait a second, who the hell invited this guy?  Did he leave something in here from earlier?  Oh, he's staying?  I got it.  Great."

Should we high-five and get on with it then?

The poor guy can barely look me in the eyes as we shake hands.  I take this to mean that he knows what's about to happen and he's sorry.  Very, very sorry. The doctor asks to look at my belly.  He touches and pushes and asks if it hurts.  "Not a bit doctor, is that all?" I stand up thinking that wasn't so bad.  I'll just grab my hoodie and be on my way.

Then I hear the noise.  Gears grinding.  Belts moving.  An exam table being lowered.

(le sigh)

The doctor assures me he'll be gentle, but there will be some slight discomfort.  "If it hurts, tell me and I'll stop", he said.  "Some people can't make it through the exam".

Wait. What did you just say? Some people can't make it through the exam?  What's going on here?  He tells me to take my time to undress and prepare.  Then he got very philosophical on me and talked about how humans were the only species to worry about things that "might" happen before they happen.  He actually told me to go to a "happy place" and try not to think about what was happening.  Just some "slight" discomfort.

He starts the exam (i.e., let's hide the Star Trek gun) and initiates small talk.  He asks me what I do for a living.  No doctor, how about we talk about what you do for a living?  Is your wife cool with this?  Does your family know what you do at work all day?  Because this is not cool doc, not cool at all.  How do you sleep at night?

I tell him it hurts.  I don't actually say "It hurts", but I assume the language coming out of my mouth is sign enough.

He continues.

Then I actually say "It hurts".

He continues.

He says he wants to check one more thing.  I say "It hurts".  He says just one more thing...again.  I say "It hurts."  One more thing he says.  At this point, Three Dog Night starts playing in my head.  It must be the theme song to my happy place.

It's also the most painful number.

Here's one more thing doctor: Proctologists are lying liars that lie about being gentle and stopping when you say it hurts.  When he said, "I'll stop if it hurts", he should have said, "If it hurts, LULZ, GFY."  They're also bad with numbers because the first time he said "just one more thing" he should have said, "just three more things".

The whole time this is going on he's explaining to his cousin or best friend or whatever about what he's doing and his cousin keeps asking questions.  "I'm really glad that you both are enjoying yourselves but can we hurry this up?"

After a half hour (or five minutes, whatever), he finishes up.  He tells me that the two of them will leave the room and let me get dressed and "collect" myself.  "No way Doc.  You don't get to just do that to me and then leave me be.  Let's finish this up like men."

I forget exactly what happened next, I was light-headed and felt the need to puke.  We talked about the exam, shared some laughs, and agreed to do it again in two months.  Good times.

PPR is Ruining America

Baseball season is in full swing and I'm tired of pretending to care.  Living so close to the home of the St. Louis Cardinals means you're either a huge baseball fan or the demon seed of Davy Jones, or worse still---a Cubs fan. 

Baseball is boring.  There, I said it.  It ranks right down at the bottom of the sports list, just above tennis, golf, and soccer.  I don't mind playing any of those sports, but I don't understand how people can watch them on t.v. or even cough up their hard-earned money to purchase a game ticket.

Thankfully, God invented football.

And Sundays.  Also, Mondays.  Oh, and Thursdays too.

And then man invented fantasy football, because he was fat, lazy, and past his prime.  While the rest of St. Louis tries to involve me in conversation about who's pitching tonight's game, why they lost last night's game, and how they'll improve for tomorrow's game (there are too many games in baseball), I'm thinking about mini-camps, draft strategy, and what it'd be like to party with Johnny Manziel.

Don't pretend like you don't want to be there.

I'm also thinking why would anybody want to play in a PPR League.  I've played in one for a couple years now, and I hate it.  It's everything that's wrong with America.  It's anti-capitalism.  It takes from the rich and gives to the poor.  It's like handing out trophies to all the kids.

For those that don't know (Hi Mom!), PPR stands for "Point Per Reception".  It gives a player a point every time he catches the ball.  It doesn't matter how many yards he gets.  All he has to do is catch the stupid pigskin.  Your player caught the ball in the backfield for a loss of two?  No problem, have a point. 

It makes crappy players worth more while devaluing superstars.  It makes the quarterback one of the lower scoring positions.  It boosts the managers confidence in his decision to draft a work-horse tight end or flat-catching running back in the first round.

I don't want to play in a league that considers Darren Sproles a top five running back.  There's no way you should get five points for your quintet of no-yard-gaining check-downs, while Calvin Johnson has to catch a 40-yard pass for the same amount of points.

That's one small step for Darren Sproles, one giant point for the idiot that drafted him.

Meanwhile, 40 yards down field and ten feet in the air, another point is awarded.

I will give PPR props for making the draft more interesting.  Rather than the standard rush on running backs in the first round, managers are all over the place picking up second-rate wide receivers, third-rate running backs and even tight ends (gasp).  But that's the only upside I found for playing PPR.

I actually took the time to researche pros and cons for PPR Leagues.  I'm not a busy guy.  The main reason I found people like to play that format can be reduced to this:  It makes bad players better.

In other words, people that suck at fantasy football, i.e. the other people in my league, got tired of having crap teams every year and decided that if they padded the stats in their players' favor, they might have a fighting chance.

It rewards mediocrity by boosting points---shortening the gap between greatness and not-so-greatness. 

PPR does not reflect reality.  Games are won by yardage, not by desperation plays in the backfield for a loss of yards.  Sorry Darren*.




Mr. Sproles, if you're reading this (I know you are), I want you to know that I kid.  You're an amazing football player.  You're also a prime example of the type of player that PPR benefits.  

Boo at the Zoo

My wife and I try to plan fun things for the kids to do.  We always fail.  No matter how much we think the kids will like this thing or that, it always ends in us being grumpy--either at each other or the kids--for example:  Our zoo trips.

Our zoo is awesome.  If you've never been to the St. Louis Zoo, you're missing out.  First off, it's free.  What other all-day event can you do with your kids that's free?  A picnic at the park?  No thanks, you can keep your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while I down a 1/2 pound of charbroiled meat next to the Conservation Carousel.

Your kids can ride a cow while you eat one.

Secondly, it's one of the highest-rated zoos in the country.  I don't have time to back that up with any links.  Google it.  I have stuff to type and my kids get off the bus in ten minutes.  With everything the zoo has going for it we have a miserable experience every time we go.

When we finally make it over to the zoo, the first thing we see is not the penguins or the camels or even the turtles.  It's the bland, beige, booger-bespeckled wall of the North Entrance Restroom.  In and out with speed that would make a pit crew chief proud and we're on our way.  Then five minutes later, coming out of the Penguin House, we stop at another bathroom, because our oldest daughter hasn't figured out that you can go poop and pee in the same bathroom trip.

Maybe the fish smell triggers something.

Halfway through our day (and a couple more stops at bathrooms), our son hasn't seen a single animal yet--despite the 45-minute drive to the zoo in which he discussed all the animals he was going to see.   His Aspergian obsession with maps keeps his head down and his nose buried.   While he can tell you exactly where the lions are located at on the map, to this day, I don't think he's actually ever seen one.

Drawn from his memory.

And then there's the zoo train--an awesome idea in theory, but a horrible idea when you have a double stroller, a diaper bag, a snack bag, a 6-foot 4-inch body-frame and three kids that have almost every Thomas the Train video that's ever been peddled.  I swear that some times we don't go to the zoo for the animals. We go for the train ride.

And then, at some point in the trip, the baby (yes, I know she's 3 now) breaks down.  Our first two kids never had public meltdowns or temper-tantrums.  Libby is making up for it.  We try to lay her down in the stroller, give her a sippy, and let her nap.  It doesn't work.  EVER.  The one kid in the group that actually looks at the animals, points at animals, and makes animal noises, is done for the day.  Clock her out, she's going home.  And so are we. 

How We Roll

The wife and I have a few things in common:  we both like The Walking Dead,  we're both Caucasian, and we both think I'm a great kisser.  Beyond that, we're totally different.  It's like she's from Venus and I'm from Mars.  I think somebody wrote a book about this topic.  No, wait, it was a movie--Total Recall.

 

Not only are we different, but we do things differently.  For example, I like to leave my wife loving and encouraging messages on our bathroom mirror:  "Whaddup SEXY!  Yeah, you.  I'm talking to you.  Looking good."

She likes to leave me messages too, although they are less loving, less punctuated, and less encouraging:  "scoop litterbox"

To be fair, she is encouraging me to scoop the litterbox.

Our parenting styles differ quite a bit as well.  A while back, I made a short video showcasing just a few of these differences:




The truth is we complement each other nicely.  I just tend to compliment her more.

Naked at the Doctor's Office

I felt so naked at the Doctor's office today and it's not just because my pants were around my ankles while the doctor asked me personal questions.  It's because for the first time in 8 years, I was childless in the waiting room.

No diaper bag.
No second bag full of toys.
No list of all the weird things that my child's body is doing.
No yelling at my son to stop pacing.
No yelling at the girl to stop crawling around the disgusting floor and making cat noises.
No yelling at the baby to stop ripping those lobby magazines.
(I yell a lot)

Just me, a good book, and my thoughts.  "Please doctor, take your time.  I'll just be sitting here peacefully in the waiting room reading.  Yep, I got here 15 minutes early to enjoy a little down time. And now, let's start reading."

"Louis."

"Wait.  Did the nurse just call my name?  No way.  My appointment isn't for another 10 minutes."

"Louis."

"There it is again.  Let's look around the room.  There are a bunch of old people here.  Maybe one of them is named Louis."

"Louis."

"Well crap."

And on this day, a new record was set.  A 5 minute wait time before being called back.  When all was said and done and my pants in their original upright position, I was rewarded with an appointment for an X-ray and a colonoscopy.  A small price to pay for 5 minutes of peace.

Seriously?  None of you people are named Louis?

What Mama Said

One of dem days.