Weeping Anus

Sometimes it happens when you least suspect it.  Or, if it has happened to you numerous times, you almost expect it.  It is a highly sensitive condition known as Weeping Anus.  And it can strike at the most aggravating or uncomfortable periods of your life.

Note: Weeping Anus is not to be confused with the mixed drink, Weeping Jesus.  

Yes, Kelly, you ask, "But how does one make a Weeping Jesus?"

Here is the recipe, my friends:

First, add a base of crushed ice to your glass, add 1 part absinthe, then gently add 1 part pear or peach schnapps and finally drip in a mere splash of grenadine.  That's it.  Simple and smooth.  :)  You're welcome.

Now, in order to make Jesus weep, that is also simple.  Just be yourself.

Jesus saw that the vibrator you were using has gone unwashed for months.  He worries over your hygiene.  Please, don't disappoint Jesus again.   

Sometimes, your anus will sweat (thus weep) when you haven't wiped well enough in the bathroom because you were in a big rush to go meet someone or you are late for a big meeting.  At the point, after wiping fecal matter from your rectum, you might think you got all the feces from your asshole, but just as if a naughty elf had planted gooseberries in your pants, you are surprised to find out that you didn't catch all of it with the first half dozen wipes.  Then, wouldn't you know it... that's when your butthole begins to get itchy and sweaty due to poop residue.

Weeping Anus Condition can also occur if you haven't washed your ass for a couple of days or if you emit a burst of gas that falls somewhere in the category of fart and shit.

This can be serious business if you're stuck in a seat at the opera house and you don't wish to get up because you're afraid you'll miss something really really exciting while you're gone.  You also might be at that big meeting with someone important and here you are, squirming in your seat, trying to get into a position where it is the least uncomfortable.

anus

Being on a date with that special someone is another fine example of a time when Weeping Anus just isn't an option that you can entertain.

If you have a chance to correct or try to remedy the situation of Weeping Anus, you should try to always to  keep a maxi pad close at hand or an adult diaper, in preparation for such an event.  In a pinch, ask for somebody's handkerchief or bandanna, close by, to borrow for the rest of the day, promising to bring it back to that person, the very next time you see them.  As an option, you may wash it before returning it.

I've also heard of people suffering from this condition as having to resort to picking up stray animals, like a chipmunk or Rottweiler or even a friend's pet to quickly wipe one's poop-juicy rectum.  Desperate times call for desperate measures and I'm certainly not one to judge.  There was one incident where I happen to be at a location where I could stick a small potato up my ass. Not for kicks, mind you, but because of the much dreaded Weeping Anus Condition.  Luckily, it kept "the gravy" from coming sputtering out, only to dribble down my inner thighs, but it made for long, uncomfortable standing in one spot at my wedding during the next hour.

You can just imagine the look on my face when I sneezed, suddenly, and the potato shot out my ass, tearing a hole in my tux pants and instantly smacked into my Aunt Wanda's forehead, knocking her out in a flash in the middle of the proceedings  

Hopefully, you will have soaked up most or all of the juices emanating from your irritated anus by using any of the objects mentioned above.  Warning: If you don't resolve this condition soon, a rash will likely develop and/or your underwear will be completely soaked in the dirty brown sweat from your stanky asshole.  You want to avoid this.

WEEPING ANUS- it's serious business

ALSO: Here are some helpful links that will help you deal with this condition:

Yahoo answers, WHY DOES THE INSIDE OF MY BUTTHOLE ITCH?

And here's the other one, HOW TO REDUCE A SWEATY BUTT 

On a side topic:

Would you like to know more about The Incredible Edible Anus?  Yes, there is a chocolate candy out there that can satisfy anyone's sweet tooth or desire for decadent chocolate. Click the link, please.

Together, we can combat Weeping Anus if we really put our best butt forward.  Just remember, before you go out your door to ask yourself 3 basic questions:

#1- Did I really wipe well enough so that I don't have an itchy and sweaty poophole before going to work, church or a session of fucking the shit out of that special someone in my life?

#2- Should I use more toilet paper to efficiently and thoroughly wipe my ass?  (Perhaps your anus has gotten bigger and you are in need of more tp to handle the situation and get it under control.)  No one needs or wants an uncontrollable anus.

#3- Would installing a bidet in my bathroom help in these matters to successfully cleanse my anus?  Note: Bidets are nice because they squirt warm water along the inside crack of your ass.  Some models have a pulsating stream of water, gently massaging your rectum, leaving you refreshed and climaxed.  MMMmmmm.  Oooohhh.

So there you have it, my friends.  I'm glad I could be of some ASSistance.  Ha ho.  Little joke there.  See what I did?  Yes, that was awesomely clever of me, I know.

In conclusion, go forth, spread the word of this embarrassing condition and help those in need whatever way you can.  Give that needy person a thick piece of bread (white or wheat, preferably) to soak up the sweat coming from their anus!  Sneakily take off your shirt and hand it to your suffering friend or complete stranger on the street and encourage them to push your shirt down into the back of their pants to absorb the butt sweat!  You could also sing a prayer to Jesus!  But don't mention the part where you broke that overused, hair-smothered dildo.  He might just facepalm and go on to help someone with a deadly disease.

And really, he can't be bothered to waste time with a deadly disease when he can end the deep emotional and physical suffering of Weeping Anus.

My Spouse's Heroism

I had many surprises, mostly good and a few that were unfortunate, happen to me and those close to me during the summer. One such event, that had dramatic elements of bad and good, occurred about two months ago and it's one I'll never forget. And it's one that made me take a better, more appreciative look at the woman I married.

The scene: My father, who has dementia and is extremely verbally abusive, is found at a McDonald's restaurant inside the local Wal Mart store. It was one of those times, out of several over the summer, where he went somewhere and I and another family member had to go searching for him. Those are all long stories that I can't/won't go into for the moment. Suffice it to say, he's a big pain in the ass and after trying to get him put in a nursing home for months, we keep hitting a brick wall. No one will help us. He threatens. He shakes his fist while ranting and insulting those around him. He's unfocused. He gets dizzy spells and the list goes on and on. Still, the lawyers and a few doctors out of a majority of doctors say he has just enough marbles to fight against being put in a nursing home against his will- which is what it would take.

Please... don't ask any questions about the "Dad Dilemma." As I said, there are too many details to go into with this ongoing, depressing part in my family's lives and I would be sitting here, writing for hours, if I started to explain it all.

So I won't.

Anyway, we finally find the crazy, abusive bastard at a table at McDonald's. Dad is eating his french fries, muttering and ranting about whatever while my wife and I calmly listen and wait for him to shut up long enough where we can ask him if we can take him home- which will inevitably lead to a heated argument. Then next thing we hear, over Dad's ramblings, is a horrendous scream. At first, at least to me, it sounded like a coworker in the food preparation area of McDonald's had suddenly surprised another coworker. Like a prank scenario. And then everyone in the small dining area hears a loud "thunk" on the floor from the back. My wife, a young guy that's a Wal Mart employee and I go rushing to the open back door to the kitchen.

Sprawled out on the linoleum floor of the kitchen (or whatever they call it) is a woman who has a big gash in her head. Blood is gushing out of her wound and she is moaning and breathing erratically. I stand there, frozen. I can't move. My anxiety disorder kicks in and debilitates my ability to do anything positive.

Ever since my mom's death years ago, the vision of her in my mind of the way she looked when I saw her, in death, I don't respond well or not at all in intense or stressful situations. I have all the usefulness as a lump of fungus. In surprise situations, like the one that night, it's even worse.

I'm not trying to make an excuse. That's just how I am now.

My wife turns back and gently pushes me away from the doorway. The Wal Mart employee shouts, "I'm going to get help." He runs off. My wife takes the cell phone out of the holster on my belt and calls 911. Meanwhile, in a daze, I shuffle back to the table where Dad is sitting. He's still eating french fries, oblivious to whatever is going on around him. The only thing I can think about is all the blood on the floor in the back room.

The only other McDonald's employee is a nervous, crying young woman. She's as useless as me at the moment. She's wringing her hands and looking around, waiting for someone to do something for her fellow coworker, the victim on the floor. She kinda walks around in the dining area, fidgeting and looking afraid. I look at her and wish she would help the woman in the back kitchen area but then I wish I would do the same.

My wife, on the other hand, with a tone of controlled urgency, explains to the 911 dispatcher what has happened, as far as she knows, and where the accident has taken place. I watch her until it finally dawns on me of what's going on. Then several people walk up to the counter and begin to become agitated because they can't place an order. I become agitated because it is starting to become apparent that there is a real emergency situation afoot and these dumb fuckers are worrying about getting their next Quarter Pounder with cheese.

While customers are grumbling about being waited on, my wife goes into the kitchen and kneels by the poor woman's side. The woman was getting paler by the minute, according to my wife. A pool of blood was forming all around the woman and running into the crevices of the floor. Still, the woman was mumbling and trying to raise her head off the floor. My wife told her to lie still and not move. My wife likely helped save her life, just doing that part. Not to mention calling the emergency telephone number. I think she helped keep the woman alive several ways that night.

Minutes passed until a Wal Mart manager finally shows up. The manager was accompanied by two other employees. Instead of helping the woman on the floor, they ask my wife how the woman is. My wife tells them her breathing is erratic and she's lost a lot of blood. My wife is shaking now, at this point, afraid the woman is going to die. Still, she stays by the woman's side, crouched down, saying words of comfort near her ear. The Wal Mart employees at the door tell my wife to keep doing what she's doing. In my mind, they're being useless in the situation, as well.

The manager does do one thing. She grabs a towel and throws it to my wife, who she apparently believes is the only one who can do anything (even though my wife has zero medical training) and tells my wife, "You should put that over the cut in her head and apply pressure."

Fearing the woman is going to die, my wife takes the towel and applies pressure over the gash. Eventually, a couple emergency first responders show up and come into McDonald's. I point to the kitchen area and say, "Back there."

Dad stops eating french fries long enough to ask what's going on. When I tell him about the situation, he says, "Ah... I've seen people bleed before. It's no big deal. Who is it? Anyone I know? Why are you looking like that? You're acting stupid." I tell him, "I don't know what her name is. I didn't ask the woman her name or look at her name tag as all the blood was gushing from her head."

One of the customers, pissed off, said, "The service is really bad in here. I tried to get some Chicken McNuggets up front and no one would come up and take my order." I find this statement disgusting and for a second, oddly humorous. But then I become annoyed at this redneck's stupidity to the point where I walk over to his table, turn around and cut a silent but pungent fart, directly in his face.

Of course, since we were at a McDonald's, he probably couldn't distinguish the aroma of anything on the menu and my turd fog.

Worried about my wife's emotional welfare, I went to the kitchen and motioned for my wife to rise up and come out into the dining room area. She had done enough and it was time for the first responders to do their job. After coaxing her with gentle words and hand gestures, she finally leaves the woman's side and joins me. Around this time, the EMT's come to the back and do what they're trained to do.

I tell my wife how brave and kind I thought she was for doing what she did for the victim. I tell her how impressed I was that she took action whereas I and everyone else didn't do enough or anything at all.

My Dad sees my wife and asks, "What's that woman's name back there?"

My wife said, "I don't know. I think her name tag said Sarah."

And then my wife grabbed me and started crying into my chest. I rubbed her back and told her she did everything that could be expected of her and more and that everything might turn out okay. She was shaking and crying. I tried comforting her as best I could.

Meanwhile, people were grumbling and taking their sweet time in getting the hell out of the way after being told to move for the victim who was being taken out of the store on a gurney. At this point, I was telling them to move out of the way, as well and that it wasn't a sideshow act taking place. I was finally starting to return to my normal state of mind. Actually, when I farted in Mr. Chicken McNugget's face, earlier, I may have been getting back into my normal groove, my normal state of mind. Who knows?

Everyone reacts differently in extreme emergency situations, for certain. I'm just glad my wife took appropriate action when others didn't. In my mind, my wife had an important hand in saving the woman's life. There aren't enough words to describe how impressed I am of her and how much I think of her as a hero. Whenever I bring up the story to other people, it bothers her because of all the memories of the blood on the floor and the woman, in pain, come into her mind. I feel bad that it causes her this distress but I can't help telling the story because of how proud I am of her.

We found out later that Sarah, the woman who fell to the floor and almost lost her life, turned out to come out of the accident, alive. We were also told Sarah had a history of seizures, before. That night, she had had the most devastating seizure of them all. Sarah was released from the hospital two days later. I was surprised at that, considering how much blood she lost that night. She was likely released in only two days because the health insurance company didn't want to pay for her to stay at the hospital any longer. I've heard that with a lot of head wounds, people have a tendency to bleed profusely but the amount of blood I saw looked like something out of a horror movie.

In conclusion, I would say my wife is a better person than I, when it comes to helping people. She's certainly more generous with her time, when it comes to listening or taking action. I know she helps take care of me everyday and I try to do the same for her but I feel like I don't do enough at times. But that's my hang up. When I look back on that night and all of the varied ways she gives of herself, I feel blessed that I married a woman like that.

Oops... He Lost His Hat

LilPixi's latest post inspired me to post this video clip. Check out her hilarious post and this video for pure entertainment.

Crashing Into An Old Folk's Home

Well, I was going to write another post about our Caribbean Adventure that my wife and I had about a week or so ago. I still might, after writing about this recent fiasco.

To begin with, when we came back from our trip, I found out my Dad had pretty much sold the house I grew up in for so many years. All I wanted to do, when we got back from our cruise, was rest, put our 266 cruise pictures in our photo album, give everyone their souvenirs we brought back and catch up on blogging.

But no, while the house has been on sale for nearly two fuckin' years, it wasn't until when we got back from our wonderful, yet exhausting trip, that the house gets sold and now we, only a few us us, have 30 days to get Dad's ungodly amount of crap moved to God only knows where. The options are pitifully slim. I have zero room in my apartment. My sister has only a little more room than I do. And my Dad, has hardly any space at all.

We are trying extremely hard to get him to agree about putting most of it in a storage unit but he gets angry over that idea because he doesn't want to pay a $41 renting fee for a month. And talking to him in a reasonable fashion (about anything) is incredibly difficult due to his vascular dementia, severe continuous anger, verbal abuse, confusion and him wanting to still control everything.

This business of moving means a whole lotta trouble for my sister and I and everyone involved, but mostly my sister and I. This means lots of moving of massive amounts of stuff my mother and father collected over 50 years. They would frequent antique malls over the years and buy copious quantities of crap that would be placed in every room of their substantially sized house. And this is on top of the normal furniture and normal everyday stuff.

Anyway, last night, after my sister, brother-in-law and I pack up just a fraction of his stuff in my truck, we go to the assisted living place, where my Dad lives at, to dump off his old heavy watchmaker's desk to be put in his small one bedroom apartment. As I'm backing my huge Dodge Ram pick up truck toward the secondary entrance down below, I crash into one of the assisted living place's flimsy ass roof columns. I hear the crunch, fear the worst and get out to see that my fear is not misplaced. One side of the arched roof is slanted slightly, with the right hand column totally set back a few feet, still crookedly attached at the top.

Dad, of course, goes into a screaming fit at the sight, yelling at me and so forth. My sister and her husband, after reaching the area below in their van just stand there and look, wanting to help.

Meanwhile, as with any situation that is horrible and unexpected that happens in my life, I go into shock. I can't talk, blink, jerk off or shit my pants.

Not that it would matter.

After Dad calms down from his hysteria, thanks to my sister (who is better at that than I am), my Dad and I go upstairs to explain the situation to the only nurse working there at the time. My sister creates a sign so no old people try going out the door below and are possibly crushed by the roof hovering above on one column. I give out my car insurance information after mumbling what I can out of my mouth.

In closing, I called the woman in charge of the assisted living place today to better explain things and ask if she needed any questions answered. She was nice enough about it. I know our car insurance is going to go up again. Hell, we might even get dropped after this incident. Why? Because we've ran into deer on two different occasions in the last two years in this heavily wooded area we live in. Plus, my wife had a driving accident two years ago due to lack of sleep from working two jobs.

Another thing that also gets to me is that the columns used to hold up this small arched roof is made of a hard plastic material. It's not that sturdy. According to the nurse on duty last night, a couple other people on different occasions have crashed into these columns, too,because of where they're positioned. And they're kind of hard to see because they're so freaking narrow.

At least that's my excuse.

When I got home last night, my wife knew there was something wrong by the look on my face. I wanted to talk to her later about it but she persisted until I told her and she, like my father, previously, flipped out and yelled at me. This morning, after waking up to go to work, she said she forgave me but I still feel like a major dumb ass.

If I didn't have bad luck, I wouldn't have any luck at all, folks. Suddenly, the category 4 hurricane I was facing down during the cruise doesn't seem all that big a deal right now.

Zippity Fuckin' Doo Da!