Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Dog Anal Sacs: I Couldn't Make This Shit Up if I Tried

Two titles in a row with "shit" in them...very mature.

Anyway...

Recently, Maggie, the famed pug, had a problem. Well, more to the point, I had a problem: Whenever my dog would sit on me while I was typing..a few minutes later an extremely foul smelling fish smell would start emanating from my lap.

Now, you may be thinking this is not unusual for me, but you would be wrong. Dead, foul smelling fish wrong.

I noticed this smell would usually start right when Maggie would fall asleep and make a long, slow, relaxed, moaning sound. Think of waking up and stretching after a really good night's sleep. ERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh. That kind of thing.

Moments later..while she would be perfectly relaxed, I would start wondering if Eva Longoria were in the room doing groin stretches (zing). I pick Maggie up, and what do I see...a huge puddle of white, goopy slime on my pants. Yes...you know EXACTLY what it looks like, don't you?

As any concerned person would do in a similarly disturbing situation, I took off my pants, went into the other room, and said the four magic words every woman wants to hear:

Tauni, smell my pants.

She did...why, I don't know. Did she think they were going to smell good? Hmmm, flowers...was that going to be a possibility? No.

When she finished gagging to the point of vurping..she kindly and gently inquired:

What in God's name is that awful fish smell?

Google, to the rescue.

We keenly put the words "Dog fish smell" and received, surprisingly, thousands of hits. Through a little research we discovered the problem:

Our dog's anal sacs needed to be...um...how do I put this...expelled. I learned this information on something actually called The Anal Sacs Page. Again, I can't make this shit up!!!

You know what this page suggested we do:

Part 1: A rag or tissue is held up to the anus and both sides of the anal area are squeezed. If the secretion is very pasty, this method may be inadequate to empty the sacs.

Part 2: A lubricated gloved finger is inserted in the anus and the sac is squeezed between thumb & forefinger into a tissue held externally. The procedure is repeated on the opposite side.

After about 1,000,000 rounds of roshambo (Ok...OK...best 200,000 out of 300,000)..we decided a vet would be our best bet. And if we ever needed something to be proud of...he let us know that our dog has, BY FAR (his words), the worst smelling anal sac fluid he has ever smelled in his life.

It's cool to be the best at something.

Friday, January 25, 2008

The World is All Mixed Up and Shit

So a few weeks ago, I talked to my boss at work about fundraising for my triathlon...and man, did I have a GREAT idea, so I thought. I asked about the possibility of me "Cross Dressing For A Cure." Meaning: if I reached my goal of raising 6K, I would go to school in drag for one day. I thought this would be kind of funny and a great incentive. Who wouldn't want to see their professor in drag?!?!?!?!

But oh no!

This might be considered offensive to some, she warns. And we have to be sensitive to the needs of others. That's fine. I get it...so I let it go.

At our department meeting yesterday, a department which includes a man who is in the middle of a sex change (he has the top of a woman now...I'm not sure about the bottom), my dean made these two slip ups while talking to this person:

See, he's nothing...I mean she's nothing but trouble. and
He's fully aware...oops, sorry, I mean she's fully aware of the situation.

Life is about experiences and what we learn from them.

I can honestly care less about what gender my co-worker is: man, woman, both, it doesn't matter to me. But I learned that I cannot cross dress for a day in hopes of raising money to cure blood cancers because I might offend someone else, but a co-worker can get a sex change and cross dress on a daily basis and it doesn't matter who he/she might be offending.

I don't want to get my panties (or manties) all in a bunch, but this just seems odd to me.

Anyway, enough of this. I gotta go because my bra is killing me...stupid underwire.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Why People Suck (Metaphorically), and Why The Living Dead Look Fiscally Responsible in 2008

I made a comment a few nights ago to Tauni:

You know, I just don't like people anymore.

She had an interesting response:

I don't like people either, but I like you!

There are many ways to interpret this revelation, but this brief interchange has been floating around my head for days now.

When someone I speak to on a daily basis tells me that she doesn't like people, but she does like me, I really have to wonder...what could I be?

I'm not a little girl, I know that. I don't own rouge, and I don't know a thing about freshness.

I'm not a teapot...I'm stout, but not short.

I'm not the walrus. I aint got no tusks.

I'm not Ironman...although I may be in one, one day.

I'm not legend...not yet at least.

I'm not Tony Parker. Thank freakin' God.

Maybe this is why I like zombie movies...the stars ultimately are not human, well, not fully. Just like me! They seem to meander around, focused, trying to obtain a common goal, which is more than I can say for their non-zombie counterparts. Yeah, so they kill a few people along the way, sometimes rather brutally. Not much worse than our foreign policy on "terrorism."

Being a zombie seems to be quite fulfilling, actually. You aren't afraid of dying...so you are extraordinarily brave. You aren't concerned about job status or keeping up with the Joneses...you really don't even care about marriage, kids, mortgage, or anything really. Your daily life, from what I can tell, involves eating other people or turning other people into zombies. How many of you wish your life were that simple?

All I'm saying is that minus the blood sucking, it really doesn't seem all that terrible. And you know the old saying: If you can't beat them...eat them.


***

Mark Manasse is a monthly contributor to Everyone and His Mother and has been on the search for what exactly he is for years now.


Sunday, January 20, 2008

Triathlon Blog #3: When Balls Disappear

We did our first ocean swim yesterday, and it didn't go well. Although I have been practicing in a pool for months now, and can easily swim 2,250 meters (that's about 1.5 miles), I struggled with feeling my nuts in my throat while I swam yesterday afternoon. Just another in a long line of proof that I am (most likely) not gay (take THAT, Darron).

In all honesty, this was not the coldest water I had ever been in. A few years ago, when I tried a smaller triathlon, I was some in some VERY cold conditions. Yesterday didn't make me feel like dying, only ripping my skin off. There is a difference there. It's small, but it's different.

Additionally, I was the only person with a sleeveless wetsuit. I'm not sure how much colder this made me...or what role this played in scaring my nether regions. I would like to think none...so that's what I will think.

So after an hour of being talked to about how to ocean swim, we get in, get our shock of reality, and start floating around. We then have to get back out, and practice running back in, even though this isn 't how our triathlon will work. That's like practicing to wear a munchkin outfit on American Idol, then really going on dressed like Eva Longoria. God, I fucking hate her.

So we swim out past some kayaks and back a few times, and I swear to God, I am hyperventilating. Months of practicing...I can swim for over an hour nonstop ...and the first chance I get to do it in the ocean...I can't breathe the second I put my face in the water. Hurray for needlessly training!

The water is supposed to get "warmer" over the next few weeks, and we are also supposed to get "acclimated" to the "near death-like temperatures" that "make your lungs" want to "shrivel up" and "die."

All-and-all, as I mentioned, it didn't go well. But I'm a glass half full kind of guy, so:

Yesterday, I swam in the ocean. I didn't die and my testicles are now safely back in their holding cell. I got to pee on myself. Eva Longoria WASN'T there. We saw dolphins. I get to go back next week and try it all again.

Neat-o.

Friday, January 11, 2008

The Weather is Gonna Getchu...if the Media Doesn't First

Anyone else tired of hearing about all the weather catastrophes recently...since when did weather become the new Taliban, killer bee, or man-eating shark. I swear, every year, the media finds something new to harp on...

When I was a kid, it was acid rain. Acid rain was going to burn all our skin off. The next major "scare" I recall were killer African Bees that were going to come up through Mexico and sting us all to death. "They are very aggressive," you see. And let's not forget the Communists...the wanted us red or dead. On and on and on. As long as I can remember, there has been something on the way to the US that was going to kill us all.

And don't forget about anything dealing with money. I remember the media predicting the dot-com bust...and stocks plummeting...and housing tanking...and it seems, they always start reporting on it BEFORE this shit happens. It's almost like a mind trick.

The Media Whispers: "Hey...don't look now...there is a recession coming" and guess what, it does. Weird. You keep telling people the economy sucks before it really does, and then we all start to believe it. I am no longer sure why things happen...because they were supposed to or because the media (Rupert Murdoch) says they were supposed to.

I wonder what would happen if the media, starting today, just reported that the housing market was turning around. For months...they just said "We were wrong. It's all good." Would things reverse themselves with this positive spin?

There's only one way to find out.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

You know Christmas is over when...

You prune and chop your Christmas tree up with your sledgehammer-axe.

I was much better at it this year. I had a system...and I didn't almost chop of my toes.

I had to laugh at the person that put his/her entire uncut and unpruned Christmas tree in our complex's dumpster.

Silly suburbanites...get an axe.