How to Get a Swollen Prostate

I like to learn things.  I think, as humans, it's just something we all like to do.  We're curious...and given the proper amount/balance of self-motivation, time, desire, effort, aptitude, self-efficacy, and guidance, we can probably do or learn just about anything.

For example, I recently learned how to make my prostate swell up so large it felt like I really, really, really had to pee at THAT moment (or my world was going to end).  The fun part about learning this...in reality, I really only had about five drops of pee to share with the world.

That's not a lot of pee.

In case you are curious, let me teach you how to be (or not be) like me.

How to Make Your Prostate Enlarge To the Point of Wanting to Piss Yourself

Step 1:  Get a really bad head cold that lingers and won't go away.  Make sure you lose your voice, cough frequently, and have a pounding headache.  If possible, make sure you have these symptoms for over a week...and whatever you do, DON'T GO TO A DOCTOR.  They will probably only help you get better...

Step 2: Have something REALLY important to do, perhaps attending a once-in-a-lifetime event, that requires public speaking and a jovial attitude.  For me, it was leading a toast at a wedding.

Step 3: Consume alcohol.  Now, probably not as much as you wanted to or planned to...but just enough so that you can create a pseudo-jovial attitude that is needed at said event from Step 2.

Step 4: Take MASSIVE amounts of cold medication and decongestants for days leading up to the event...and maybe double your intake the day of.  If you can manage to actual take some of this cold medication WITH a glass of Jack on the rocks...you are well on your way.

If you dutifully follow these steps, and you have a prostate (sorry ladies), I can almost guarantee that you'll have to say this about ten times over the course of a few hours:

"Ha.  Yes.  I love hearing stories about you and your family members' childhoods, especially since I just met you an hour ago and I will probably never see again.  Will you excuse me for a moment...I feel like I could put out a forest fire with the amount of urine that is currently collecting in my bladder."

Then off you'll run-walk (hips swaying, arms pumping, because you can't really run to the bathroom, or you'll make a complete fool of yourself) to the bathroom, nervously fumble with your zipper, and then magic time...AHHHHHHHHHH...Wait...What?  That was like three drops of pee? 

You won't notice a pattern yet...mostly because you are an idiot.

Later that night, hopefully around 3 or 4 in the morning, though, when you are woken up for the fifth time to run to the bathroom, you might think to yourself: "Self, I don't normally feel like I have to pee only not to pee but it still feels like I have to pee.  Oh shit.  I have prostate cancer!"

And for like ten minutes, you'll relive your life...and think about how you had a good run.  "Well, I did manage to trick somebody into marrying me...that's something.  And I didn't kill anyone.  That's not bad, either."

Luckily...if you're like me...you'll then go to the internet and read about how many cold medicines/decongestants have side-effects such a "enlarging the prostate and making it difficult to pee in some men."

Hey...I'm a man...that could relate to me!

So...I know I learned a valuable, valuable lesson here.  I'm not sure what it is...but I know I learned it.  Like I said...I just love learning.

Connections -- A Speech Dedicated to Stacey Ricardo-Macabuhay

 Good evening (you know how it’s said). 

My name is Mark.  And for those of you who don’t know me…here is a little example of who you are about to hear a speech from.

Figgify This.

True story.  Last night I had a dream that starred Eddie Murphy as the priest for Chris and Stacey’s wedding.  Yes.  That Eddie Murphy, who, in my opinion, hasn’t really starred in anything of note since 2007’s Shrek the Halls, where his portrayal of donkey reached new depths with such immoral lines as “Shrek, why haven’t you figgified your pudding yet?”  A true Oscar-worthy performance.

Anyway, in my dream, I somehow lost my suit jacket and was running all over the place trying to find it…until I ended up borrowing one that, of course, said Foster Farms on the back.  And when it was my turn to walk down the aisle after Chris, Eddie Murphy stopped me and asked me to turn around so he could read my suit jacket.  He then wanted to know who put a banana in my tailpipe.

Bananas and Weddings are OK!

So…when deciding what is true and not true about the speech I’m about to give…remember it was given by that Foster Farms Suit Guy With a Banana in his Tailpipe who likes to dream about Eddie Murphy.

I also wanted to warn you that I will be using the “S” word during one of my stories.  If that offends you, please stop F-ing listening.

****

Stacey, when I think of the qualities of a potential husband, which is something I think about quite often (sorry, Tauni), there are certain things that come to mind:

Thoughtful. Protective.  A sense of humility.  Educated. Potential good father. Dependable.

Stacey, Chris has all of these things qualities, and I have the examples to prove it, so let me explain.

First of all, Chris is very thoughtful.

I have raised money a number of times for the Leukemia and Lymphoma society and have had donating contests while doing so.  I let the person who donates the most money challenge me to do something crazy.  Chris has won this contest both times I have done it…demonstrating great care for his fellow man by donating thousands of dollars to this worthy cause.  That’s very thoughtful, man.  Thank you. 

Or maybe, just maybe, Chris spent thousands of dollars simply to mess with me.  The first time he won, he made me get a colonic…in which I ended up being sexually assaulted by the poop-release specialist (I won’t be getting into that story today.  It’s still too soon. Too soon.).  And the second time, he made me go skydiving, when I told him that was absolute the only thing I didn’t want to do. 

While I was writing this speech today, believe me, I was keeping Chris’s deep-level of “thoughtfulness” in mind.

Chris is Protective.

Stacey, the first day I met Chris was in the summer before ninth grade in 1990, and I really had no idea we would become life-long friends.  I mean…who would guess that that one moment would lead to a series of other connected moments adding up to over twenty years of friendship culminating in being the best man at your wedding.  Especially in this case because Chris was a complete and utter dickhead to me the first day I met him.   

My friend Darron and I arrived at basketball camp early that summer in 1990, and the only other person there was this guy shooting by himself with a basketball that said “Chris M.” on it.  So Darron and I walked over to Chris and asked if we could shoot around with him while we waited for everybody else to show up.  Chris, of course, did what any of us would do in this situation, he instantly pointed to where he had written his name on the basketball and asked Darron and me what it said.  We replied, it says “Chris M.”  “That’s right.” He said  “So, no, you can’t shoot around with me.  This is my ball.” And he walked over to a different court.

If you would have asked me at that moment if I would be standing here today, I probably would have said no…but I can only imagine how protective Chris will be of you, his new wife, if he was that overly protective of his Chris M ball.

Another quality Chris contains is a sense of humility.

Like I said, we don’t know how one moment will connect to the next in life…and just a few months later after the Chris M. Basketball incident, while our basketball team was eating lunch in our quad with hundreds of other students at school…a bird took a HUGE poop on Chris’s head and it landed with a gigantic BOOM.  We all stopped what we were doing – there was a few moments of silence as we all took in what had just happened – and then we all pointed and laughed hysterically at Chris.  As he pathetically ran to the bathroom, checking and double-checking that there was indeed bird poop on his head – that was now also running down his face – a chant started.  First one person.  Then two.  Then ten. Then a hundred.  To this day, no one is certain who started that chant…but the chant itself will live on forever: Shit-head…Shit-head…Shit-head.  Hands were waving.  People were laughing.  And poor Chris got a new nickname.

Wait a second.  You know what?  My bad.  This isn’t an example of Chris showing a sense of humility.  This is simply a story of Chris being humiliated.  Wow.  My mistake.  Let’s just move on to other qualities I know he has.

Stacey, I feel like it’s important for a husband to be educated.  And you clearly hit the jackpot with Chris.

After that bird pooped on Chris’s head, and the years moved on, Shithead and I became closer friends and ended spending a lot of time with each other in high school, playing Stratego (both the electronic and non-electronic versions) and chess at his house.  We clearly were the cool kids at school.  Clearly.

Anyway, we would also sit around and do our reading homework together.  Spending hours talking about the metaphors and social ramifications of such stories as The Scarlet Letter and To Kill a Mockingbird.  Something else we would do with these great stories from some of the greatest authors the world has ever known…is highlight random words on a page to create, what we felt, were hilarious news stories within the stories.  Writers such as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Mark Twain really had no idea how deep their epic tales were.  Here are just a few examples from the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I have kept this book since 11^th grade (read from actual book).  Keep in mind, we were 16/17 years old:

Page 131: Juliet, spread-eagle, had done Jim’s thing.

Page 132-133: The preacher spread it open and went on groaning and crying at Pokeville camp.

In a word: brilliant.  In more than one word: to death do you part, you lucky, lucky woman!

Stacey, Chris has demonstrated father-like qualities for years.

And many moments connected one to another until one Thanksgiving in our early twenties, Darron, Chris, and I decided on a whim to drive to Las Vegas.  We, of course, didn’t make this decision until we had all had huge Thanksgiving dinners at my mom’s house…and didn’t decide to start this drive until about 10:00 PM at night.  But, off we went, with Daddy-Chris driving, and like most drives to Vegas, it started off rather pleasant.  Vegas, Baby.  Vegas.  And while he drove, Chris regaled us with his vast Las Vegas experience…teaching us the ins and outs of drinking and gambling, like a father to his sons.  He decreed that we were going to get there and win lots of money…and he repeatedly brought up his uncanny ability to drink and drink and drink and NEVER throw up.  Ever. 

About three hours into the drive, in the middle of a cold, November, Nevada desert, Chris was getting a little sleepy while driving.  It was past his bedtime.  He decided to roll down the windows to wake himself up…which would have been a great idea…except it was about 30 degrees outside. 

After a few minutes, Darron and I politely asked him to roll the windows up…and in fatherly fashion, he ignored us.  A few minutes later, we asked a little stronger, and he just said “no” and stared straight ahead.  After about five more minutes, we begged him, “Chris….PLEASE put the windows up.  It’s so cold.  So, very cold.  Please.  For the love of God…roll the windows up.”  He just sped up, mumbled “Vegas” and kept driving.  If you look over at Darron now, and ask politely, he may just show you what’s left of his frost-bitten toes that he lost that night.

When we got to Vegas, freezing, but alive, we had an awesome time.  We kept winning and drinking and drinking and winning…we won so much money, we actually went into bars and BOUGHT drinks inside the casinos instead of just drinking the free stuff.  We ended up getting a huge suite with our winnings, and after a long night of eating, driving, gambling, and drinking…we eventually, went to bed…until we were woken up with Chris puking, and puking, and puking some more in the bathroom.  While I lay snug under my warm blankets and thought back to the freezing night before, I thought to myself, “Serves you right, asshole.” 

What was odd about this moment, beyond the fact that Chris NEVER throws up.  Ever.  Was that he managed to throw up everywhere in the bathroom but the toilet.  It was on the floor.  The walls.  The mirrors.  Some on the ceiling.  But the toilet was perfectly clean and white.  Chris may not always throw up.  But when he does, he projectile vomits.  Everywhere. But the toilet.

Stacey, all joking aside, in my opinion, life is all about connections, as I said. 

That’s it.  Connections.  Paulo Coelho states in my favorite book, The Alchemist, that there is a language in the world that everyone understands, a language…used throughout time…a language of enthusiasm, of things accomplished with love and purpose, and as part of a search for something believed in and desired.

Connections.  In words.  And unspoken thoughts.

Chris and I have been best friends for years because of an unspoken connection that we have.  A language that is unheard of.  That is uncanny.  We just understand each other.

When I picked up and moved to the Czech Republic by myself, it was Chris who sent me a care package with food and music to remind me of home when I was feeling my most homesick. 

When he came to visit me in Europe, and we were supposed to meet in Germany, and I got lost, it was Chris who found me.  He just knew where to look.

We can look at each other and just know what the other is thinking.  We finish each other’s sentences.

Chris truly is one of the most intelligent, thoughtful, and dependable people I have ever met, and why I know you two make such a great pair is because I see this same unspoken connection between you two as well.  Maybe I have known Chris “Shithead” M. longer than you, but I’ve never seen him happier. 

You two are connected.   In word.  And unspoken thought. 

I can’t wait to see you two grow old together. 

And, Stacey, I can’t wait for you to put a banana in his tailpipe.

Connections.

Cheers to Chris and Stacey. 

Japan -- Day 3: Stay off the Escalators.

In Tokyo, here is what I learned about escalators:

You should (or shouldn't?) smoke your last cigarette and poop a brick before you get on one...

...because while the escalators look harmless and safe for women and children, they truly have only one mission:

...to play pat-a-cake with your kids before the escalator pushes your child off the edge to an untimely death.

Japan -- Day 2: I Saw the Sign(s) and They Opened Up My Mind(s)

Some thoughts about signs I saw in Kyoto.

Did I figure out how to use the Hollywood Squares bathroom?  Circle gets the square!

Mushroom-headed-plasticman-dads, please hold on to all insects with legs.

Only YOU can prevent forest fires and simultaneously feed your dog.

Do I really have to pick up rocks, or can I just pretend to before I pretend throw them at the monkey?

If your cigarette starts thinking when you are going to the bathroom, please ride away on your bike.

If you grow a third leg or your bike attacks you, you have had too many of the special mushrooms with your sushi.

When the rain stops you from burning a child, just take your bike and run over him.

Japan -- Day 1

Some things I have noticed about Japan. 

You know what it says on that sign I circled in red? "Welcome to Nijo Castle."
I learn other languages VERY fast.

Your squid desires can be satiated with multiple options...that of dried and with cheese OR smoked and with black pepper. I'm in SQUID EATING HEAVEN! Finish that up with some beef tongue jerky...and you have all the necessary food groups.

The toilets have a powerful deodorizer option...
and a Y gets to be next to a W...that never happens in our alphabet.

At the Kyoto National Park, the leashes and poop unite together to attack dogs. BEWARE!

Spider Spider Bang Bang

It was quiet at first as I waited to be shot by a crazy man’s rifle outside Coronado High School.  I guess as good a place as any (the city, the body).  Whatever.  I had watched enough news the past few years.  I had seen the carnage.   I knew how easy it was to become one of the nameless victims.   A fly in a web. 

So I decided to eat a granola bar.  It was something to do.

When I was a kid, I didn’t know any Russians.  But I remember, to this day, the bomb drills we did – and the pointlessness of them all – as I waited for them to come and nuke me, whatever that meant.  I just wanted to play freeze tag.  But when the bells rang – those awful repeating bells – we slammed ourselves under our desks.  And then waited.  For more bells.   

I grew to fear the bells more than the Russians. 

But it was quiet this day near the intersection of D Ave and 6^th St. as a policeman walked over to me.  He had just asked to look in my swim bag.  He had just asked me to stay where I was.  Hand near his gun. 

There’s been a report of a man with a rifle.  The schools are on lockdown.

And then I noticed.  Like I had just woken up.  Coronado was still.  There were no children’s screams.  There were no cars.  I was alone, except for the policeman and a dutiful crossing guard who hadn’t left his post, his stop sign dangling by his feet.  As the policeman walked away, I turned and tried to fill the silence: Does this happen all the time here? 

No.  First time. 

***

What are you doing here?  That is what the policeman asked me.  What was I doing there, with my bag full of stuff, I suppose is what he meant.   But I didn’t have a gun, and as soon as it was established that the most dangerous thing I had in my bag were my swim goggles, he walked away.  And I was alone. Awake.  Waiting.  So, I bent over to grab a granola bar out of my rifle-free swim bag.

I listened to the crackle of granola in my mouth.  Chomping on the grain, echoing what seemed like blocks.  Echoing into the schools where the children waited for the man with the gun.  Echoing in my head.  Reminding me of wood and pencils and cold metal legs and chewed gum.

They are going to get us.  To bomb us.  To kill us.  And earthquakes.  Those might get us, too.  We have to be prepared from the evil stalking us, like a spider circling it’s prey.

Today, we apparently don’t fear Russians across the world nuking us.  We don’t fear Mother Nature crushing us.  We fear each other.  We fear men with guns.  That guy from next door who has had a bad life.  Or maybe just a bad day.  And that fear is crushing.  That fear is enveloping.  It’s quiet.  It’s draining.  It’s sucking the life out of us.

Like a spider in the night.

I try to ignore that he is there. 

Until my alarm goes off…

…and I hope he isn’t there in the morning.

I Was No. 9: A Mostly True Account of My Jury Duty Service

As I sat in chair #44, and watched in amazement as juror #39 drew veiny penises in her notebook, I felt like I was in the middle of some sort of Candid Camera practical joke.  I would look at the head of one phallus and then up at the ceiling.  Back down at the shaft of another, and then to the corner of the courtroom.

This can't be real,  I thought.  There HAS to be a camera on me somewhere.  But this IS pretty good commentary about our judicial system.

In between my glances at the quite humbling dicks springing up in front of me, juror #45 would let out loud sighs.  He was a large man, with more girth (in his midsection) than anything in my sightline.  I felt like I was in the middle seat of a Southwest airlines flight, pushed to my right by the overflowing midsection to my left.

I'll shoot myself if I have to come back here tomorrow, he divulged to me after I gave him a smiling nod of recognition to his bored-out-of-his-mind sighs.

You see, while I was called into the courtroom as a potential juror -- ready, willing, and able to perform my civic duty -- I had little hope of actually being picked, which made the endeavor all that much more excruciating.  Those of us who were lucky enough to be jurors #36 to #50 were not directly talked to, not directly asked questions, and were told that IF the court needed our services, that IF the first 35 people were not enough, that IF by the end of the day they needed to interview us, they would.  Until that time, we should sit still and take notes (and draw penises).

***

Those Aren't Spikes on Batman's Head

On the way to the courthouse, I was getting myself pumped up.  I hadn't been called to jury duty since moving to San Diego, and was looking forward to being selected.  After I parked my car downtown, and walked south on Union St. toward the Hall of Justice, I was confronted by an extremely odd man, just a block or so from a rather large collection of sheriffs, judges, and attorneys. This man taught me a valuable lesson, though.  I had NO idea what it means to get pumped up.

He looked to be about 45 years old, balding, had an unkempt and scraggly beard...and was the proud owner of what appeared to be a 1970s-something Plymouth station wagon.  Now, I'm assuming he was proud of it for a number of reasons, which are definitely arguable:

1. Keeping in mind that is was 7:30 AM, he had all four doors AND the trunk/hatch open while BLASTING...and I mean BLASTING Muse's Survival.
2. He owned AND was wearing a full length, black trench coat (in San Diego) with the collar stylishly PUSHED UP, and I believe the coat purposely matched the color of his station wagon.  If I had to guess, it had to be a two-for-one deal.  Hey man...buy the trench coat; I'll throw in the station wagon!
3. He was circling his prized vehicle and singing Survival, as loud as he could.  Now, I wouldn't claim he was a good dancer...in fact, I might classify him as a scary dancer, but if you could imagine, he was doing his damn best to rock out to this extremely inspirational song, with FULL head bobs and white man's overbite.
4. As I walked by him, we of course made eye contact because how was I NOT going to watch this Vegas-like show, FOR FREE, at 7:30 AM?  He smirked at me, and his eyes said it all: he had it going on, and he knew it.

I thought of the station wagon guy while I was being squished in my seat by the fat and flesh of juror #45 and bombarded by the penises of juror #39.


I choose to survive, 
Whatever it takes.

I had never really thought of the lyrics of this song before -- in fact, I don't think I had ever really even thought of this song before at all -- until a guy in a trench coat was blasting it out of his station wagon while f'ing me with his eyes.  Those kind of experiences have a way of burning a song into your memory.

***

By the time juror #39 was on to drawing penis ten or so, it was around 3:30.  We had an hour to go, and I was barely surviving.  Jurors 41 and 42 had become fast friends and were outwardly mocking some of the answers they were hearing.  It's hard to blame them, seeing as how we were only half-participating.

Just answer the question, lady, #41 would say.
What the F is wrong with her, #42 would add.

Giggle, giggle, in unison to my right.

SIGH, to my left.

A short, stubby one in front of me.

It was then that one of the attorneys asked an interesting question to the 35 other jurors (while completely ignoring us, of course).  He asked how many of them had been blackout drunk before. This question put the penises and sighs and giggles on hold.  The 15 of us on the non-important side of the room looked on in astonishment as almost every single person who mattered raised his/her hand.

We listened on as questions about how often, how recent, and how important the other 35 thought this was...while the 15 of us just got to sit, and listen, and...judge...what we heard.  Just like I presume the 12 people selected would do to the one person on trial.  Now, I have no idea what the case is really about, and if I did, I of course would not be able to say anything about it, but it was an interesting moment.  Just like when one of the attorneys asked:

How many of you think about how INNOCENT someone is when you see them pulled over on the side of the road by a policeman?

We think we know so much...based on how people look...how they dress...the situations we see them in...the station wagons they own...the dicks they draw.  But we don't.  We don't know anything.

***

At about 4:25, I learned my fate.  Twelve lucky people were selected to be on the jury.  I, unfortunately, was not one of them.  There was a problem, though.  Only one person was left from the original 35 to be an alternate...and they needed two.  The judge met quickly with the attorneys...and they decided to bring the first eight of us on the non-important side of the room back the following day to choose an alternate juror from.  That would be jurors #36 through #43.  I missed the cut.  By one.

Juror #45 let out his biggest sigh of the day.  Jurors #41 and #42 stopped giggling for a moment.  Juror #39 probably had some sort of reaction...but I couldn't see it...because as I was looking to see what she would do, the judge had everyone, including the defendant, stand up...and I saw the person on trial more clearly than I had the entire day.

Tired.  Worn.  Stressed.  He looked like he hadn't slept.  Ever.  In his life.  And I felt for him.  He played a part in selecting 12 people that would decide his fate...based off of brief answers and how they looked.  Judging them as quietly and quickly as they him.

And those Muse lyrics struck me...as I walked out the door, most likely never to see him again:


I choose to survive, 
Whatever it takes.  
You won't pull ahead
I'll keep the pace
And I'll reveal my strength
To the whole human race
Yes, I'm gonna win.

My Precious

I don't know what it is, but no matter what I do, random strangers LOVE to talk to me.

I also don't know why I always engage them back. Fully.

Today, I'm glad I did.

I was walking out of a deli and had just purchased a GIANT chocolate chip cookie (CCC).  If you don't know me, I LOVE CCCs. They are my guilty pleasure, and I would probably eat them morning, noon, and night if I didn't care about weighing more than 300 lbs...

A Picture of Darron When stanFUrd Loses.

To add to my normal CCC desire...I recently have just come off a fairly restrictive cleanse (which should be another blog in itself).  And by "recently," I mean I came off of it TODAY.  And I shit you not, as I was paying for my CCC, I literally thought to myself in a Gollum voice as the cashier STUPIDLY asked if I needed a bag before I devoured the thing: My PRECIOUSSSSSSSS.  How I've missed you. Yessssssssss. My PRECIOUSSSSSSSS. 


So, um yeah.  I was looking forward to eating this cookie.

Anyway, as I started to rip off my first delicious morsel in weeks, but before I could get a chunk ripped off and into my gluttonous mouth, a homeless man walks up to me and asks for money.  He was filthy and smelled like toxic garbage.  His deep, dark skin was cracked, and his eyes didn't have whites.  They were stressed, and they were red.  But they were still kind.

I didn't have anything smaller than a $20 in my pocket (middle class, first world problem) so I said:  "I don't have any that I can give you...but..." and I can't believe I was about to give up my precious, "...do you want my cookie?"

And while I waited for him to take it out of my hand, he glances at it and then looks back up at me and says, "Man, I can't take your cookie."

I figure this might be the end of most conversations with a homeless person...but I couldn't believe he didn't want it!  I mean, who wouldn't want a CCC!!??!!

So...I thought I would offer again, "No really.  You can have it."

Again, he refuses, "I won't take your cookie."

He wasn't being rude.  He wasn't doing the "Give me money or nothing" routine.  I could tell...something about him was being VERY polite.  And he kept glancing at the CCC.

So I tried a different tactic, "Do you want half?"

"Sure.  That sounds good.  I'll split it with you."

And as I broke it in two, and handed over part of my first chocolate chip cookie in weeks, we shared a moment as we both bit into the CCC and silently chewed.

We made eye contact..nodded our heads...and both continued walking on our ways.

I had no idea how precious CCCs could actually be.

Of Dog Days and Tea Bags

Maggie, Morrie, and Morrie's Tongue

A few years ago, I wrote about Morrie the Pug, describing some of his more...unique...qualities.  He has odd conversations with TVs, and he screams bloody murder on the way to the park.  Not to mention, his tongue is longer than Shaq's...well, you get the picture.  But what he did the other night, without question, makes his previous exploits seem juvenile.  Our (fixed) little man is all grown up, and he is starting to explore his sexual side, sans testicles.




***

San Diego rarely experiences what the rest of the world has to deal with throughout the entire summer.  A few nonconsecutive days in August here and perhaps a couple more in September there, the heat becomes invasive.  You become aware of the weather and you feel what San Diegans call humidity, especially the farther away from the coast that you go.

And that's one of the many reasons why I even moved here: typically, you don't even notice we have weather.  While I read about heat waves or snow storms or hurricanes from other parts of the world...not many horrible things happen here, as long as we steer clear of fires and earthquakes.  And Kardashians.  We say things like "It's cold today" when it's 68, or "There were reports of Kim being as far south as South Orange County, everyone get your emergency kits ready."  We just don't have much to worry about.

But it's these few days, these Dog Days of Summer, that San Diego does experience when I am reminded about something important: I don't have air conditioning. And this fucking sucks.

***

When the Dog Days of Summer get especially sultry, and we have already opened every possible door and window, and removed every piece of nonessential clothing (apparently, it is "gross" to sit on the couch without underwear) and all the fans are at LUDICROUS speed, and it still feels like we are being lightly fried in olive oil over a low heat (with just a touch of sea salt), drastic measures have to be taken.  No one...NO ONE...can sleep under these conditions.  Not even our dogs.   So we ALL venture to the guest room, where by some architectural anomaly, it happens to be a degree or two cooler than the rest of the house.  We ALL jump into bed.  And we ALL pant ourselves to sweaty, sweaty sleep.

It's a Who Can Be More Pugthetic in the Heat contest.  I think Maggie won.

***

Maggie, as it turns out, is a very good bedmate.  She curls up as small as possible, typically at the foot of the bed, and goes to sleep right away.  She doesn't make a lot of noise, and, although hot, makes it clear that she is pretty happy to be in bed with us.

Then there is her brother, Morrie.  This foot-or-so-long, twenty-pound dog, is a BEAST.  He takes up more room than the rest of us combined, and when he does go to sleep, rests with his arms and legs outstretched, kicking the shit out of anything in his way.  But before that, he paces around the entire bed (and on top of us) for ten-to-twenty minutes, making loud sounds, which I can only equate to what an Ewok would sound like when it was dying, cumming, or dying while cumming.  He also licks and licks and licks and licks and licks anything he can get his gargantuan tongue on (within reason): our feet, our faces, our hands, his paws, his junk.  So, all we get to hear in between our MORRIE, SHUT THE FUCK UPs, is LICK, LICK, LICK or ROAWAHHHHH...ROAWAHHHHH (that's the cumming, dying Ewok sound, FYI).  Also, as an added bonus, he doesn't like to sleep at the end of the bed like his sister.  Nope.  He will do EVERYTHING in his power to squeeze right between me and Tauni.  He, needless to say, is a piece of work.

***

A few nights ago, after watching the Olympics, we hit one of the Dog Days of Summer, and our house was on FIRE.  We agreed we would sleep in the guest room, realizing we would then have to deal with at least ten minutes of pacing, Ewoking, licking, nudging, and/or ball crushing.

But as luck would have it, for the first time EVER, Morrie didn't do this!!!  We all jumped into bed.  Maggie went to the foot. And Morrie just quietly went to sleep (between us).  I was amazed.  And happy.  It made me not even mind the heat.  It was a Dog Days of Summer miracle!

***

This pleasure lasted for what must have been a few hours...because at about 2:30 AM, I was awoken by a pressure.  On my forehead.  I thought, at the time, maybe a pillow had ended up on my face...but as I was slowly brought back into reality...sadly, this was not the case.

My ears were the next sense to reawaken, and I could hear panting.  Very close to me...but as I tried to open my eyes...I realized I couldn't.  I couldn't see anything.

Now fully awake, I moved both of hands toward my face, to remove what was on my forehead and covering my eyes.   If you can imagine, my hands started exploring/patting what was on me.  First, I felt fur.  And then a head.  Then a LICK.  And it was then I realized that Morrie was awake.  And sitting on my face.  Panting.  Tea bagging me with a tea-less bag, his pug butt on my forehead.

I instantly pulled him off of me with a familiar sound, but now it was me making it instead of hearing it: ROAWAHHHHH.  I was completely grossed out by my freak-ass dog who perhaps was finding some coolness from my breath, or perhaps just found sick humor in slowly suffocating me with his crotch.  And I swear...I swear...I swear on the gods of Summer Dog Days themselves, I even heard him laugh.

Regardless, I was so irritated I was up for an hour in the heat and the humidity, and wondering how long he was sitting there BEFORE I woke up AND what possible diseases could be transmitted from a pug's ass through the pores on my face.  I only came up with two.

***

The Dog Days of Summer have taken on a new meaning for me...and although I live without fear of relentless extreme heat for months on end...I do now live in fear that my dog is trying to kill me and/or pleasure himself. With his junk on my face while I sleep.

   

Skydiving from 18,000 Feet

There is much I could say about skydiving.  How stupid it is.  How crazy.  How I can't believe I did something like that...but because Chris donated the most to my Leukemia and Lymphoma Society fundraising...I had no choice.  He had won my fundraising contest and requested that I skydive with him.

The last time I had a fundraising contest...Chris won that time, too.  He had me get a colonic...and I (unfortunately) didn't get video of that.  Sorry, ladies (and Darron).

This time I did get video...and, of course, I had to mention my testicles at least once.  Enjoy!

Post Jump Laugh at Chris for
Failing to Kill me.