Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Laughter Yoga, The Joke's on Me.

It's true. I will try (almost) anything once. So, when it was suggested that I try something called "Laughter Yoga," that's right, "Laughter Yoga," I just couldn't resist.

I think it's really one of those things you have to experience to truly understand the depth of its absurdity, but to put it simply, it was crazy! Personally, I went in being completely ready to poke fun at the experience and internally mock everyone there. I figured if nothing else, it would give me something to write about, too. Well, I did poke fun; I mocked, but underneath it all, there was something in, in a way, the joke was on me.

In sum, a group of adults get together to make fools of themselves in public, with about an hour of fake (and sometimes real) laughing in a circle...and there is absolutely no yoga involved whatsoever. If you don't believe me, look here. This is real. I promise. I did this. Willingly.

What kinds of things did I do while I was there:

I had to talk in emotional gibberish to a person who I had never met before.
I played laughter bumper cars.
I had to make crazy animal sounds.
I had to take (imaginary) laughter pills that made me say "hee" or "haw."
I had to end every exercise by doing a chant of "Very good, very good, YAY!"
I had to tell people that they were amazing...and if someone told me I was amazing, I had to say "Thank you."
And throughout it all, I had to be constantly fake laughing...this was part of the deal. Always. Hee Hee. Haw Haw. The entire time.

Here's the kicker.

There were moments when this laughter wasn't fake. Even though I felt completely out of my element, even though I felt ridiculously vulnerable because I had to take the stick out of my ass and act like a five-year-old, in public, around people I didn't know..there were these moments where I...perish the thought...let go and actually was truly and honestly laughing. And probably the most I had laughed in a really long time, too.

Would I want to invite these people over to my house for dinner? HELLLLL no. But what I thought would be a complete waste of time really wasn't.

I probably won't go back. I think it's one of those situation where it isn't you, Laughter Yoga; it's me. But I'm glad I went, though...and, if only for one hour, felt what it was like to be a kid again. A crazy, psychotic kid on acid, but a kid nevertheless.

If you need a laugh, and can stand making a fool out of yourself in front of others (a natural gift of mine), I say, give it a try.

Monday, June 20, 2011

The Day I Lost My Virginity

(Please note: This blog has been slightly modified to protect the innocent [me] and to make sure that I don't get any more letters from lawyers about its veracity.)

When I was in high school, I had my first "serious" girlfriend...and I haven't spoken to her in about 15 years...But her existence has made a certain part of my life slightly...confusing.

In college, when topics turned to sex, and who had had sex and how many times this sex had been response was always a little off. I was uncertain if I was still a virgin or not. This led to many conversations about what virginity meant...and how a man loses his virginity.

Does losing your virginity mean "oral" or "vaginal" sex?

Does losing your virginity mean "inserting" your phallus into another person?


Does losing your virginity mean you have to "finish," as it were, what you started?


Today, I fulfilled my end of a bargain. I agreed, as some of you well know, to accept a dare from the person (or people) who donated the most money to my LLS fund. The dare that I ended up having to fulfill was having a colonic.

I ended going to a place I would like to deem The House of the Devil.

And from the moment I entered the doors...something didn't smell right.


You have to finish! just have to insert.

Dude, don't be an idiot. It isn't sex if you don't cum.


I was greeted with a "Hey, Bob, how are you?" by the owner and/or manager of The House of the Devil.

"I'm Mark" I astutely retorted.

"No, you're Bob." the manager replies.

And wouldn't you know it...because of my nerves, I actually had to think about if maybe she was right. Am I Bob? I briefly think. Nope...

"Sorry...I'm Mark. I'm here for my 11 AM appointment."

"Have you been here before?"


"We haven't met?"

And again...this makes me think about things I know can't possibly be true. Was I living a Fight Club-esque alter ego? Did I go by the name Bob in a subconscious stupor and get weekly colonics without even knowing it??? "No. We have never met."

"I must be looking at the wrong day on my calendar." And she leaves to go check her appointment book. The second she leaves, the office doors open behind me, and a 6'5" BEHEMOTH enters the room.

This, I think, is Bob.

Bob sits down across the room...and he won't stop looking at me....and this is getting uncomfortable. I try to ignore him.


That's all he says. He says "Wow."

WTF is going on in here? I now acknowledge that he is looking at me.

"This is the first time I have ever seen another guy in here."

Bob is clearly in his mid to late 40s, weighs about 300 lbs, and is balding. I now hate the manager. "Really?"

As I say this, the manager enters the room. "Ohhhhhhhhh, Mark, here's Bob."

Yeah, lady, I know. I have already been introduced to Andre the Giant, fuck you very much.

"Mark, thanks for making me feel normal" states Bob as he walks off to go have poop flushed from his ass. I think about his statement as I stare at a questionnaire asking how many times a day I have a bowel movement.

"No problem, Bob."

A feeling of hate starts crawling into my mind for the people who donated the most to my cause. A feeling of hate and revenge.


Is a woman still a virgin if she doesn't cum?

No...that's stupid.

So, it's different for a guy?



I didn't know much about colonics before I went into The House of the Devil. I figured it would be best if I didn't know...and I was right.

The only thing I did know I learned from the gf. She said it was all very private. There is a curtain between you and the "Poop Releaser Person" (not the official title). Also, you "insert" the "small" "device" "into" yourself.

Of all the things I learned of the most important is that I discovered the gf is a sick and twisted liar.


So, he's still a virgin.

No...he's not.


I am told to go into the bathroom, remove my clothes, and put on a green hospital-like gown. I don't know what to expect when I go into the "Poop Release Room" (again, not the official title)...but I assumed that the woman that would do the "procedure" would be old, fat, and have a strange affection for poo.

I was wrong.

I go into the "Poop Release Room" and I am greeted by a HOT and YOUNG model. This is the type of woman who, if you saw her on the street, would make you stop in your tracks. She is visually stunning. She is young, slender, and has a strange affection for poo. I really know how to call 'em!

She asks me to get up on to a table and turn to my side. She wants me to bend my legs into the fetal position so that she can insert the "device" into me.

I think back to what the gf said. "Don't I insert it myself?"

"Well, you can put your fingers on it...but I need to 'guide it in'"


"Some people find this part..." as she reaches for some KY "to be a little uncomfortable."

"You don't say."

"Once I insert it into your rectum...I need to get it past your sphincter muscle..."

Why am I having a conversation that involves the words "rectum" and "sphincter"

" really are going to have to just relax the best you can. Just breathe and relax."


"So go ahead and turn over on your side. Just breathe and relax."

And I do it. I don't know why I do it. But I did. I turned to my side. She takes her hands and separates my butt cheeks. Seriously...this drop-dead gorgeous woman is separating my butt cheeks...I should be stoked. This should be hot.

But the cold, cold KY Jelly that she fingers onto my butt hole somehow detracts from the moment for some reason.

"OK" (she sounds like she is gloating) "BREATHE"

And she put it in. It kept going and going. Luckily, already in the fetal position, my body had nowhere to go. I was helpless.

"You're a little tight. Try to relax."

Relax? Relax? It seemed like she was shoving "the device" into my butt for an hour. Did she not use enough KY? If I cough, will this thing come out of my mouth?

And just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, she says ", roll onto your back....SLOWLY."

I have been connected to "the machine."

She turns it on and it starts to drip water into my bowels. And it felt HORRIBLE. Like when you are in public, and you feel like you have to pass gas, but you train yourself to hold it in. Even worse, think about those times when it feels like you need a bathroom THAT SECOND...imagine feeling that way, constantly, for over half an hour...

"That feeling is just gas" she is beaming. "It's normal."

To make matters worse, this chick keeps rubbing my stomach to help move the water around. Constantly inches away from my penis....but...I don't find this sexual at all.

When the pressure gets too high, meaning that there is so much water inside my bowels that I feel like I am going to burst, I have her release the water through "the device" and into "the machine." At this point, you get to watch everything that is flushing out of you. The "Poop Girl" is mesmerized by "the machine." She keeps commenting on the color, density, and amount of "fecal matter" that is streaming by. Freaky. She is hot....but freaky.

She then, and I shit you not...this is true, she takes out a hand-held, vibrating massager and starts rubbing my stomach with that, too. She switches back and forth from massaging me with her hands and massaging me with this vibrator. To top this off, the vibrator does periodically keep hitting you know what.

So, let me recap: I am almost completely naked. This chick is amazingly gorgeous. She has put her hands all over my butt and stomach. And now, she is using a vibrator that is occasionally stimulating my privates.

And I was nowhere NEAR turned on. All I wanted to do was poop.


Guys...guys. Do you even know what sex is?


What was supposed to be an hour session, ended early. I couldn't take the ebb and flow of the water into and out of my colon any longer. I let her know that I wanted to finish a little early...and a glow came over her.

" problem. That is completely natural the first time. We just have to take 'the device' back out. Take a deep breath."

And my life flashed before my eyes. She kept pulling...and pulling...and I let out a YELP as "the device" finally left my body.

I went to the bathroom and "fully released" the rest of "the fluid" into a toilet, like a normal person. I got my clothes on, went back into the "Poop Release Room" and she was gone.

The woman who had taken my virginity had left. For lunch.

Nothing like a little fecal matter to really get that appetite going.


It may have taken me 32 years, but I now know for sure. It doesn't have to do with cumming. It doesn't have to do with "breaking a plane." It has to do with intent.

I lost my virginity in high school. I was simply raped today.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Poop in All the Wrong Places

Sometimes, when Maggie the Pug gets upset and/or vindictive, she poops in the house. Usually right in front of my bathroom because I am the one who disciplines her when she is being a naughty little puggy. It's ok...she's a dog and is merely expressing her feelings. It just sucks because sometimes I step in it (barefoot), and if it's been there a few hours, it can stink up an entire room. That little dog can pack quite a punch!


Two nights ago, while we were going to bed, I stopped off in my bathroom adjacent to our bedroom to wash my face. I was taken aback because our shower, which is about 3' x 3' with about a 5" lip, was completely filled with clear water.

I stuck my head out of the bathroom and said: Um, I think we have a bit of a problem, here.

T-, annoyed and tired, replies: What is it?

Me: I think there is water coming up out of our drain. Our shower is completely filled.

T-: It's probably just clogged. Don't worry about it.

Me: Hmmm...I don't know, this seems a little worse than a clog...and I just took a shower a few hours ago, and it drained fine.

T-: It's nothing. Just go to sleep.

Me: OOOOOOOkkkkk...

The next morning, the shower was empty...maybe she was right. Maybe she was...


Last night, we were BBQing. At one point, after about three glasses of water and multiple adult beverages and about a pound of carne asada, spanish rice, and beans, (you know, a dinner equating to like one gigantic laxative) I needed to excuse myself to use the facilities. I went back to our room, and it smelled like Maggie had gone to the bathroom.

That's weird, I didn't discipline her at all today...hmmm...

So I start looking around my room for her "gift," and couldn't find anything. I look in the bathroom, and notice that the shower is filled again. This time with brown water. Brown-shit-smelling water.

I run out of the bathroom, towards the front of the house, but feel like the smell has beaten me there. I peep my head in the other bathroom to find this:

T-, it appears, was wrong. And this is the nastiest, foulest smelling "I told you so" ever.


I'm relieved that Maggie is not the culprit of any of the smells eminating from the house, but a little upset that I have gallons of sewage sitting in my bathrooms. I am also a little upset because I really, really, really need to go, but we are instructed by the plumber to not use the water until he can get there (early the next morning).

That's fine, I think, I can wait until tomorrow.


We end up having to sleep in our living room because our bedroom smells like an asshole. At about 5:00 AM, Maggie wakes me up so SHE can go to the bathroom outside, and I have a terrible feeling. That special feeling. You know the feeling I'm talking about, in my stomach.

I try to tell myself to go back to sleep...but watching my dog go gives me this strange feeling of jealousy. That lucky bitch! She just trots outside and takes a dump, yet I'm stuck here holding it in...inside a house that smells like crap!

I come back in and start pacing around my living room. I really have to go and have the following options:

(1) Use my seemingly working toilets and flush even though I have been told not to.
(2) Use my seemingly working toilets and not flush. The entire house smells like poop anyway.
(3) Follow Maggie's lead and go outside.
(4) Just go in the bathtub.
(5) Hold it and try to go back to sleep.

Against every man instinct inside of me, I decide to just hold it in.


I had heard of night sweats before...but this technically was morning, and caused by not being able to go to the I guess I had morning-holding-my-poop-in-sweats. I just tossed and turned and tried to think of anything else that I could. The plumber was supposed to be coming first thing in the morning, and I felt like I could wait this out.

By 7:00, this wait was over. And I lost.

I decided to drive over to the Starbucks a couple miles from my house, buy some coffee, and use their facilities. Heck, I was a paying customer!

I go in, do my business, and, of course, there is no toilet paper. Awesome.

At this moment, I think we all have a little MacGyver inside of us, and I start scanning the room, What can I use...and are there any paperclips I can somehow involve?

I see a door, hobble over to it, it is thankfully unlocked, and find some supplies. Crisis averted!


What have I learned? A few things, I guess:

(1) When you see clear water filling up your shower, don't ignore it, even if told to do so;
(2) Don't eat tons of Mexican food and drink a lot of beer if there is even a chance your bathroom will not be working; and
(3) Sewage really doesn't smell good. At all.

Monday, June 13, 2011

The Sound of (Fart-Filled) Silence

She came into the yoga studio five minutes after the class started and looked discombobulated. She was frumpy and frizzy, and wore a gray, baggy sweatshirt that hung loosely to her body, the right side descending off her shoulder. Her black sweatpants were ratted and torn and only came down to right below her knees.

Also, as I would find out later, she liked to fart. In public.

I'm sorry, this is my first time here, she confessed to the yoga instructor, who was giving her a stern look for coming into the class late.

That's ok, just quietly find a spot. There is one. Right there.

This spot was right behind me.


During one of our first exercises, while we were on our backs, the yoga instructor told us to stretch our hands and legs out, elongating our spines. It was at this moment that I realized that the frumpy-frizzy lady not only sat behind me, but was only inches away from my mat. As I stretched my arms beyond my head, I felt her calves and noticed that her feet were bookending my ears. Regardless of the fact that there was plenty of room NOT to be in my personal space, you would think this would have made her uncomfortable.

Well. It didn't.

I quickly retracted my arms like I had just been shocked by a light socket. She didn't move. I turned and whispered Sorry; she just slightly tilted her head up and released a dry smile.

That's not normal, I thought, and I quietly (and quickly) got up and slid my yoga mat forward. While I did, I heard a loud, sticky sound, like someone was pulling some tape off a piece of construction paper. I figured my mat had managed to become cemented to the studio floor. I was wrong.


Later, we were still stretching our backs. The instructor told us to pull our right knees up to our chests, and I hear a small raspberry sound, right behind my head. I ignored it. No, it couldn't be.

We were then instructed to lower our right legs back down, and pull our left legs to our chests. I heard a small raspberry sound again. Wait. Is she???

Finally, we were told to pull both legs in, and then there was no mistaking it. The frumpy-frizzy lady, whose butt was inches away from my head, let out a gigantic, cleansing, double-butt-cheek-flapping fart. In a otherwise perfectly quiet yoga studio.

Of course, it was hard to tell where this sound came from, but being so loud, everyone in the studio looked in our direction. It took every ounce of maturity in my body not to say "Seriously, it was her!!" Instead, I just froze motionless. Both knees into my chest. Trying with all my might not to burst out laughing.


Next, we had to get onto our hands and knees, and lower and raise our spines (cat-cow). I just kept thinking about how this lady just farted on my head, and had to feign looks of exasperation on my face so the frumpy-frizzy lady wouldn't see me laughing at her in the mirror that was in front of both of us in the studio.

But I swear, during this movement, every few seconds, I would hear little gusts of air behind me, and I just started laughing. I couldn't hold it in. Clearly, neither could she!


Eventually, she ran out of gas.

The class ended, and she went up to the instructor and thanked her for running a great session. She slumped her way back out of the studio. Sweatshirt still over shoulder. Black sweatpants still old and overused. Maybe even more so now.

And I wanted to thank her...for the best laugh I had had in months.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Excuse Me Miss, You Are Violating My Underwear

You know those moments when time speeds around you, but all actions in your line of sight are moving in slow motion? I got to experience that while a fifty-year-old woman fingered my underwear.

No. I wasn't wearing them at the time.

I was sitting on a plane, on the way to Washington. I was buckled in, headphones on, my don't-even-think-about-asking-me-if-I-want-peanuts look on my face. We were going to take off in just a few minutes.

*nudge* *nudge-nudge*

I am awakened from my tunnel vision by the gf, who mouths something that I can't understand through my headphone-covered ears. It looks like she mouthed Isn't tits your bag?

While they are, I couldn't figure out for the life of me why she was bringing this I removed my headphones.

Isn't that your bag?

Wow. That made a lot more sense...but I still didn't really understand, until I followed her gaze to the woman sitting two rows ahead of me, who was pulling my suitcase down from the overhead compartment.

I didn't say anything because I was certain, CERTAIN, that she would figure her mistake out at any moment...and, embarrassed, return my bag, and go back to her seat.

I didn't take into account that she was a fucking idiot, though. My bad.

She takes my bag all the way down to her seat, and starts to unzip it. This, I think, is a little odd.

Ma'am I query...and she ignores me through her unzipping.

Ma'am I say louder, as she reaches into my bag.

MA'AM I yell as the entire plane now watches us. I don't think that is your bag.

I am just looking for my bag and she slowly starts pulling my underwear out of my suitcase.

The flight attendant now comes over and asks me if anything was wrong. Besides the fact that some lady I had never met before was thumbing through the pee hole of my boxers in the middle of a crowded, nothing was wrong.

Ma'am, can you please put my bag back? That isn't yours, I request. She looks over, underwear dangling from her fingers, a confused look on her face, and it seems to finally click: That isn't her bag.

She takes a quick whiff of my underwear, puts them back in the bag, zips it back up, and puts it back into the overhead compartment.

NOW, this is when it starts to get weird.

The flight attendant says "Sir, you might want to check your bag. She might have put something in there." And all of the sudden I see myself getting arrested for felony drug charges as I plead, "No, seriously, that isn't my heroin. The crazy underwear lady put that in my boxers!" I guess that wouldn't go over too well.

So, I get up, bring my bag back down, and open it back up right behind her. I toss my clothes around for a few seconds, don't find anything, and exclaim, Hey, where did my $10,000 go? The entire section of the plane starts laughing...except the crazy underwear lady. She starts staring at me like I am looking in HER bag and says I don't know where they put my bag. Do you have my bag?

The flight attendant has to come over and ask her if she checked her bag, where she left it, etc...and she is clearly confused. I shit you not, moments later, they make an announcement that someone left his/her bag at the front of the plane.

I put my (and this is important) BLACK AND GRAY suitcase back into the overhead compartment while she goes to retrieve what is hopefully her suitcase. It was hers. It was also red, and looked nothing like mine! Everyone in the entire section of the plane is looking at me and mouthing "What the fuck is wrong with her?" And I mouth back "Stanford grad?"

The rest of the flight goes off without a hitch, until we land, when she once AGAIN starts to go for my bag. Luckily, the flight attendant comes over, and tells her that the suitcase is not hers.

She walked away, out of my life, never to see me, or my underwear, ever again.