Throwing Poo

Today I'm scheduled for the ultrasound my doctor ordered just make sure I don't have cancer or that Kuato hasn't found a new home my fruit drawer.  This means that more people I don't know will be poking and proding my junk.  Lest you think this sounds like fun - and, knowing you, you do - here is what I have to look forward to according to WebMD:

How It Is Done
A testicular ultrasound is usually done by an ultrasound technologist. It is done in an ultrasound room in a doctor's office or hospital.

You will need to remove all your clothes from the waist down and put on a gown before the test. You will be asked to lie on your back on a padded examination table. Folded towels will be used to cover the penis and lift the scrotum.

Beach towels in my case.

A gel (such as K-Y Jelly) will be spread on your scrotum for the transducer. The transducer is pressed against your skin and moved across your scrotum many times. 

Many times?!  Oh, no.  This could be bad. Quick! Think Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day!  Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day!

You will need to lie very still during the ultrasound scan. You may be asked to take a breath and hold it for several seconds during the scanning. Testicular ultrasound takes about 20 minutes. 

That's twenty fucking minutes while some glorified checkout girl crushes my nuts with a gooey barcode scanner.

When the test is finished, the gel is removed from your skin. You may be asked to wait until the radiologist has reviewed the information. The radiologist may want to do additional ultrasound views.

Check that. Twenty minutes if I'm lucky.

How It Feels
The gel may feel cold when it is applied to your scrotum unless it is first warmed to body temperature. You will feel light pressure from the transducer as it passes over your scrotum. If the ultrasound test is being done to determine the extent of damage from a recent injury or to investigate testicular pain, the slight pressure of the transducer may be somewhat painful. You will not hear the sound waves.  

...over your screams of agony.

Stupid genitals.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

The back of my hand is familiar, but there is nothing I know better than my junk.  I examine it, play with it, encourage it, share it with others, and let it make decisions for me.

A few weeks ago while I was performing a self-examination - I like to call it "playing doctor" - I noticed a lump.  Before you rush off to buy sympathy cards, send flowers or hatch an evil plan to woo the Widow Squirrel, Esq, it appears that the twins are fine.  You won't even have to feel weird about discussing Lance Armstrong, chewing Doublemint gum, or listening to "Two for Tuesday" when I'm around.

Still, it was a stressful few weeks.  Not that I was worried about the Big Casino so much, but because I knew that I was going to have to offer up my unit for inspection, starting with my general practitioner.  Starting with her.

I want to be the kind of man who doesn't care about things like having a female doctor analyzing the hanging fruit of his loins.  But leading up to my appointment, I began getting very anxious.  I felt like an old gunslinger who had long ago walked away from the quick-draw life.  Now, trouble had come-a-callin' and he was forced to dig up the pearl-handled six shooters that were buried in the ground.

OK, maybe that's a bit of a stretch.  I guess it's just that, since I've been married, the thought of having to get naked in front of another woman hasn't really occurred to me.  Even though this woman is my doctor - and, I think, a very good one - the idea of presenting my potentially damaged goods to her felt really weird. 

You know how people always want to take a good picture?  Whether snapped by a photographer from the local newspaper or an annoying aunt who will probably just stuff it in a shoebox in her musty basement, people want to show their best side.  That's how I felt.  Not that I expected her to marvel at its beauty and call in all her nurses to chime "coochy coo" and tickle my bag like a baby's chin.  I just wanted to make a good impression.

So, right before my appointment, I took a really long, hot shower, put on clean underwear and wore heavy sweatpants to minimize shrinkage due to the cold weather.  Arriving for my exam, my doctor was her typical friendly and professional self.  She apologized for making me wait a few minutes and explained that it had been a particularly frantic day.  At that moment it hit me: here is someone who sees, touches and smells all manner of horrible human condition every day in order to try to help them.  And I am a totally vain piece of shit.

The time came and went for her to Tune in Tokyo (the male version), and I felt like a complete tool for having been so anxious.  Explaining that everything was fine and suggesting precautionary measures, my doctor removed her rubber gloves and began washing her hands.  She continued talking and washing for what seemed to me like an excessive amount of time.   

For some reason, that kind of hurt my feelings.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Cherry Picker Garcia
Mook Chocolate
Chunky Porch Monkey
Fudge Packer
Squawberry Cheesecake
Carmel Jockey
Vanilla Beanie-Wearing Jew
Chocolate Moosefucker

Did you notice in the title how I passively shifted the blame for the horrible things I was about to say? It's not me presenting these awful, racist slurs, it is what Don Imus would do.  

Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. did not want me to post this because she thought it was beneath me.  While certainly not hilarious, I thought it was kind of amusing.  But is does bring up a few questions.

Is it possible for humor to be dark and edgy without being generally and essentially offensive?  I don't consider myself a rude or mean person, but I love anything that is dark and/or shocking. 

If not, is being "edgy" simply a way to be mean and ugly under the cowardly guise of being funny?

I don't have any answers.  It's Monday, I'm on the road and a giant, pulsating zit is growing on my forehead.  I can't do everything.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Sorry I haven't posted in a few days, but Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. has been out of town on business all week.  You're probably thinking that I'm writing this from my office-turned-den-of-iniquity as I slovenly snort cocaine off a hooker's ass and feast on the flesh on human babies while that two-headed girl from the Discovery Channel fans my naked, sweaty body.

Not so.

The extent of my debauchery during this self-proclaimed and highly-anticipated Bachelor Week has been to obsess about fiber intake and fixate on home improvement.   While I did willfully and successfully cruise and bring home a streetwalker one night, it was so that she (?) could hold an awkward length of molding as I measured twice and cut once.

Now that Bachelor Week is almost over, I hope the ill effects of my behavior aren't misinterpreted.  My right arm is fatigued, but it's from jerking the starting pull on my obstinate lawnmower.  The fogginess in my head is from too much sleep, not too much ecstasy and alcohol.   The house is spotless because I crave neatness (and N.S. is a total slob), not because a Cleaner was called in to remove all traces of the missing cheerleaders.

That's the thing about responsibility, I suppose. As much as we adults might complain about responsibilities, having them allows us to create and maintain an idea of what we could do/be if we didn't.  Once the obstruction of responsibility is removed, we're forced to recognize how ordinary and timid we really are.

Hurry home, honey.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Trading Steam Grates

Foreclose That Mortgage!

Property Chutes & Ladders

While You Were Out, The Bank Repossessed All Your Stuff.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

If you read the news last week...wait.  Sorry.  Let me rephrase that.

If, while fervently surfing for reruns of "Zena: Warrior Princess" last week, the batteries in your remote control died, leaving your television stuck on a cable news network, you probably saw that radio icon Don Imus was fired for calling the Rutger's women's basketball team "nappy-headed hos."  Among other things, the DJ's comment has refueled the intense debate over racism, sexism and First Amendment rights in our country.  It's just a good thing he didn't make fun of Rutger's team of retarded, midget abortionists.

Even though Imus has the right to make these kinds of jokes - we all do - I'm not going to get into whether or not he should've been fired.  It was a business decision, and, as we know, all business decisions are based on the value of the Yen, pork belly futures and whether or not Bill Gates got laid that day.  Any further discussion would be entirely superfluous.

My interest is this issue is merely that of a pasty, Protestant Caucasian who enjoys being entertained by black people. Oops, that didn't come out right.  What I mean is that black people are funny.  No, wait.  They are very musical?  Damn it, that's not right either.  Good dancers?  Jive talkers?  Clean and articulate?  Shit.

Wait, I've got it!  I love Spike Lee.  He makes great movies...for a black guy.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that I'm a fan of popular culture, which includes of a lot of black influences.  I enjoy creative comedians, musicians, writers, actors and directors, regardless of their race, culture or creed.  (Chris Rock is not one of the greatest black comedians of our time; he is one of the greatest comedians of our time who just happens to be black.)  And, being completely vain and deluded, I will steal or imitate anything that makes me appear hipper, cooler or younger.  Here is where the problem begins for me.

Some black leaders and entertainers are arguing that white people do not have the right to use the same language as they do. (The slur "nigger/nigga" is obviously at the forefront of the argument.  Personally, I have no use for the word.  However, I desperately want the right to say, "Nigger, please!"  As far as I know, there is no other phrase that so succinctly calls out someone else's bullshit and/or stupidity.  And while some might argue you could just as easily use "Honky, please!," I think the substitution only serves to highlight the chicken-shit distancing of yourself from the original.)  Assuming that is the case, then how can I consume "black entertainment" without putting myself at serious risk of imitating what I see and hear?  It's impossible.  We are all products of our environment. The only answer is to intentionally isolate myself from, and therefore not support, black culture.  And isolation only leads to ignorance, fear and, ultimately, oppression. 

I don't presume to have any answers for the problem of racism.  However, having separate sets of rules for people means that people will always be separate.  And only by being united will we ever fight off the impending albino menace that seeks to plague our great nation.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Thank you for participating in my Anniversary Week Special.  We're all a little tired (I haven't publicly jerked off this much since summer camp), so let's end this week with a final Q& A session.  A special thanks goes out to all those fine folks who submitted questions.

Q: What's your favorite restroom at Hopkins for those emergency dumps? Posted by: DaMonkeyCode. 
A:  "Emergency dumps?" You make it sound so unpleasant.  A savvy traveler builds time into his/her itinerary to leisurely perform this most personal of activities.  That said, the "D" Concourse, north end.  Not in the restroom, but behind the Continental Service Counter.  It's a little hectic and the screaming can be distracting, but overall it is extremely gratifying.

Q:  Which Great Lakes Brewery beer gives you the worst gas? Mine is Burning River, suprisingly. Posted by: DaMonkeyCode. 
A:  Elliot Ness Ale.  It gives me the kind of farts that can kill a small child.  Elliot's revenge, I suppose, for drinking beer named after the man who risked his life fighting bootleggers during prohibition.

Q: Why doesn't Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. correct your grammar anymore? Or mine for that matter.
Posted by: DaMonkeyCode. 
A:   I can no longer afford her rates.  Fortunately for me, though, she can't bill for anything under five minutes, so the sex is still free.

Q:  When are you visiting Texas again so that I can prove to everyone that you aren't my "imaginary friend"? Posted by: buckkel
A:  I've never been to Texas in my life.  And please, I'm begging you, leave me and my family alone.

Q:  And how many more years will pass before you take a year-long sabbatical and write full-time just to see what the hell might come of it? (Yes, you will have to do all the cooking and cleaning because Nerdy Squirrel will be busting her ass so that you can live the dream.)
Posted by: buckkel
A:  I hope to have an answer for this question in the next couple of weeks.  Regarding the second part, I already do all the cooking, cleaning, laundry, yard work and home maintenance.  Stupid me, I blew my wad by taking on all the domestic chores when N.S. went back to school - two weeks after our honeymoon.  After three and a half years, she now thinks this is the natural order of things.  I've got nothing left to trade unless I take one of the cats hostage. 

Q:   I made my own birthday cake once. Have you ever done anything equally pathetic?
Posted by: Robin
A:   I think that is just being practical.  Now, if you lit the candles, sang "Happy Birthday To Me," blew them out while clapping your hands, grabbed a fork and started eating directly from the cake plate, washed it down with Wild Turkey, did some drunken dialing, and passed out on the couch with frosting all over your hands and mouth (and the phone), then it might be considered pathetic. 
 
Back to your question.  At the risk of sending Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. on a weekend-long guilt trip, I had to plan, prepare and host my own 40th birthday party all by my sad little lonesome. 

Also, since you were kind enough to share, allow me to throw in a little doozy that I've never told anyone.

During sixth grade, I was growing very anxious over the fact that I hadn't bloomed yet.  At one point, I decided to begin stuffing wadded paper into my pants in order to expand my horizon.  I guess I thought it was the equivalent of a girl stuffing her bra, which was the big joke at that age. 

Anyway, I only did it for a few weeks, probably because it was physically very uncomfortable (the mental discomfort came later and lasted much longer).  What's worse is that, at the time, it never occurred to me how my sudden inflation might be perceived, not to mention all the fidgety adjusting that followed. 

It has, however, occurred to me every day since. 

Q:  Are Cleveland Steamers really the top export of your region? Posted by: tfg
A:  Indeed.  You might want to catch our segment on "Dirty Jobs" with Mike Rowe. The processing is easy, but the packaging gets a little tricky.  And, during the holidays, quality control can be a bit of an issue.  Fruitcakes and whatnot.

It really should be the name of a minor league baseball team, though, you know?

"Now batting for the Cleveland Steamers, number 2, Pinch Aloafoff." 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Today I'm going to commemorate my anniversary by taking the day off from posting.  Honestly, I can't think of a better way to celebrate a year of writing this drivel.  I mean, do you make the birthday girl bake her own cake?  Is Jesus expected to color his own Easter eggs?  Does the bachelorette have to bring her own penis hat to the party?  The answers, of course, are no, no and no. 

So why should I be the only one who gets stuck working, like the lone goyim at a deli on Passover?

Instead, it's time for you contribute a little something to the war effort.  Put on your thinking caps and come up with a question for me.  It can be about me, you or anything else (preferably me, though).  I will answer every question on Friday's post.

Now, get to work.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

As part of our weeklong celebration, today we're going to step into the Throwing Poo time machine and go all the way back to the beginning.  Our narrator is James Earl Jones.  Or maybe it is Colin Powell.  I always get those two mixed up.

The year was 2006.  The Iraq War was still raging and, on the home front, iPods were all the rage.  The ignorant masses believed in giant, white polar bears, while our beloved Supreme Leader spent these youthful days showing off her cootch to the paparazzi.

In Cleveland, Ohio (now the bottom of Lake Michiganeriehuron) an aspiring young, uh, young-ish writer with more gumption than gift decided it was time for the world to hear his voice.  His name was Crunchy Blue Commando.  What a tool.

In his very first post, we can see the flicker of genius that would define his future career as a pre-eminent writer of catchy menu-item descriptions for Appleby's (this is a time when Appleby's was merely a chain of restaurants, long before it became history's bloodiest suicide cult).  You'll note that along with the bold text from that first post, we've included the original handwritten comments by his long-time editor and lawyer, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. in italics (the two were also married for a brief period several years before CBC discovered his true sexuality and ultimately wed a porpoise named Fred.)

Please enjoy this rare glimpse into the past.

OPINING REMARKS
(I get it.  It's like Opening Remarks, only it is about opinions.  Isn't that just pun-tastic!)

opinion n. 1. A belief held often without positive knowledge or proof. 
(A dictionary entry? Holy pretentiousness alert!)

Often. Not sometimes or occasionally, but often.  So according to my American Heritage Dictionary, technically speaking, most opinions are just individually conjured whimsy.  (OK, so you have a well-thumbed thesaurus, but how about a little fucking grammar?)  Maybe I'm completely naive, but reading this was like learning that there isn't actually gold in Fort Knox that was backing up the cash in my wallet - all six bucks of it.   (Wow. That last sentence is total shit)  It is just paper that has value because we collectively decide to believe that it does. 
 
I always liked the phrase, "Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one," but it only struck me as an indictment of the sheer number, not the quality.  If a person has inherent value, I thought, so must their opinions.  I'm beginning to think I was wrong on both counts.  (Is he retarded? What the fuck is he talking about?)
 
I suppose it is also the indirect result of our social structure.  In our relentless and utterly futile pursuit of individuality, we're made to feel as if we should have an opinion on matters of all sorts, regardless of our interest, knowledge or experience with that particular topic. 
(OK, that is somewhat redeeming)
 
"What's your opinion? Certainly, you must have some opinion on this most important of issues? "  (Alright. We get it, already.)
 
From Supreme Court nominees to the best pizza in town (Pepper's, by the way), it seems to have become our duty as Americans to have an opinion.  With everybody expecting us to have them and asking us about them, it's only natural that we would eventually begin considering them vitally important.
(The syntax is clunky, but maybe he is kind of smart after all)
 
Over the course of time, people have added weight to the general idea of opinion by referring to their own with misleading statements such as "I think...," "The way I understand it is.." and "My theory is ..." when in fact there is very little thinking, understanding or theorizing going on. 
 
Maybe I'm making too much of this.  Maybe it is simply a matter of semantics.  Maybe if the same word didn't describe both what I seek from a thoroughly trained, board-licensed physician (or a second one if the first one's is chlamydia) and every piece of intellectually dishonest, out-of-context bullshit that spills out of Rush Limbaugh's fat head every day, then it might not bother me so much. 
(Nope, I was wrong.  He is retarded)
 
So that's it then.  I need a new phrase that both accurately describe the assertion of beliefs without positive knowledge or proof and warns any unsuspecting readers, listeners or innocent bystanders of the composition of what's coming their way.   (Christ, I'm gonna need a machete to cut through that last sentence.)

"Throwing Poo" is the best thing I have come up with.  Besides, who doesn't like a good fart joke?

That said, here's the windup and the pitch...
(*wretch*)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Dear Friends,

It has been exactly one year since we began our celebrated journey together.  Over the past 364 days, we have been united in our pursuit and celebration of a daring literary idea (or, dare I say, ideal):  marrying shithouse wall scratchings with the insight of a flaming germophobe with appalling grammar.  This was like creating the literary equivalent of a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, except here the milk chocolate is actually crap and the peanut butter is a lighter-colored crap.

At first, things got off to a slow start, but soon Throwing Poo took on a life of its own and became something derivative, redundant and altogether incomprehensible.  In other words, mission accomplished. 

And what a ride it has been.  We've laughed, cried, loved and lost, contracted hepatitis, buried a dead a hooker under the neighbor kid's sandbox, and maybe even made a friend or two along the way.  The important thing is that we've done it together.  Some people might say we are accomplices.  Seriously.  You should probably contact your lawyer.

What does the future hold for Throwing Poo?  First, let me say that I do not plan to rest on my laurels...or my Hardy's.  (See?  I just made that last bit up, right off the top of my head.  I didn't need to add it.  I mean, if you've already read this far, you're pot-committed.  I had you.  But instead of simply singing my own praises, I threw in some humor, a nice little joke that you, no doubt, will awkwardly crowbar into some inane water cooler conversation tomorrow.)  Other than that, I don't want to spoil the surprises, but you can bet it will be chock full of sophomoric philosophy, scatological humor, mediocre vocabulary and, of course, the appalling grammar you've come to know and love.  And probably a membership fee. 

As for the impact Throwing Poo has on world cultures, well, I'll leave that for conquering robot army to decide.  It won't be long now.  I know.   I read it on the internet.

Stay Crunchy,

I Like Monkeys a.k.a. Crunchy Blue Commando

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

They live among us; soulless creatures of craving.  Transformed from mortal man, they are a new brood of high-tech ghoul.  Daywalkers.  And their hunger for sustenance is relentless. 

How long they have been here is unknowable; their human form is flawless.  Except for the eyes.  Look closely and you will see the fiendish thirst in the blacks of their eyes. 

To be told true, I am not a believer in such things.  Not until one late evening at LAX.  

In a quiet corner, under the flicker of fluorescent light and awash in the stale smell of the popcorn and perspiration, I was suddenly awakened to their presence.  First one, then two, then ten.  They were everywhere, fangs outstretched, protruding from their bodies in the form of two-pronged plugs, black veins connecting their sources of purpose and power.

Stunned by the realization, I could only watch as the frenzied hunt for the source of their lifeblood unfolded.  Two fiends across the aisle clashed over an outlet while another stabbed a socket and then slumped in ecstasy as it sucked and sucked.  The euphoria of predator meeting prey was unmistakable. 

It was a new species.  One part human, another part laptop, iPod, cell phone and Blackberry.  It was all connected. 

At that moment, I looked down and noticed the outlet below my feet.  Two cords snaked across the floor and into my carry-on bag. 

Had I chosen this seat on purpose?  Suddenly, a sense of clarity warmed me like a fully- charged battery and I knew what I was.  When or how it happened is unclear.  It doesn't matter.

For I know the thirst and partake of the feast.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

"Does this look infected?"

The answering machine pick-up while family is visiting and Blockbuster's automated voice attendant announcing that Showgirls and Basic Instinct are overdue.
 
"Think outside the box." (Unless used as a mantra in the nymphomaniac support group for heterosexual men)
 
"Don't worry, honey.  It happens to everyone."

Another old white guy rapping
(I only wish the MC in MC Rove stood for Massive Coronary.  Now THAT would've been funny.)

"Hi, I'm Chris Hansen."

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Next Monday, April 9th will mark the one-year anniversary of Throwing Poo.   To celebrate this occasion, I will be re-posting some of my favorite entries over the past 12 months.  If that isn't masterbatory enough for you - and, knowing you, it isn't - I'll also be adding some comments.  In other words, me talking about what I like about me in third person format, complete with all the continuity problems and horrible grammar that you've come to expect.  Arrive early to ensure a good seat. 

After nearly 210 posts, I find myself becoming more and more comfortable with the process of blogging.  For the first few months, I agonized over every single word, forcing Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. to read, edit and re-read every post.  Now, I hardly give it a second thought (and I can no longer afford her hourly rate.  Parasite.)

For me, the problem with getting comfortable is that my filtering process gets coarser.  I begin to think everything I write is interesting.  Take the last paragraph, for example.  I mean, who really gives a fuck about how I'm feeling when I vomit up this half-digested bile in chewy, acidic chunks? 

This has spilled over into my everyday life as well.  I used to be very reserved and stoic in social situations - you know, deep waters run quiet and all that horseshit.  Now, whenever I'm commingling at group therapy or in a high school girl's locker room, I can't shut the fuck up.  I'm a regular Chatty Patty.

The other problem is that I have no new stories to tell.  Because I will whore anything remotely interesting in my life for the sake of this blog, my friends and family know all my bits.  My jokes and amusing anecdotes have been used up, and they weren't that good to begin with.

So, to summarize, my return for a year's worth of effort and agony is that I've become a babbling, self-important dullard who repeats stories like a grandparent with Alzheimer's.  At this rate, by April 2008, I'll be a viable presidential candidate.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

During the late spring and summer of my high school years, my friends and I would spend our weekends hanging out at the Mentor Twin Drive-In.  We'd load up my buddy's custom van, "The Midnight Voyager, " with lawn chairs and 3.2 beer, then spend the evening getting bombed as we bathed in the gore and raunch that filled the screen.  Some of the more memorable flicks that come to mind from those nights are Mad Max, Motel Hell, Porky's and Death Race 2000.

We also made a habit of sneaking someone in every time we went.  One night we went so far as to hide four people in the Voyager, leaving only the driver to buy a ticket.  It took the owner about 30 seconds minutes to figure out our cleverly-devised ruse and toss us out. 

Damn we were dumb.

Anyway, since seeing the preview over the weekend, I am counting the minutes until Grindhouse is released on Friday.  The trailer alone is so fucking cool that I wasted the entire morning watching it and giggling like a schoolgirl.  I can barely contain myself.   My only regret is that there isn't a drive-in theater nearby...and that my friends are all married with children...and my alcohol tolerance is pathetic...and I'll probably have to pay for my ticket. 

I think I'll take a sick day so I can be first in line.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)