Doctor Doctor Give Me the News

I’m pretty sure I have a sports hernia. Which is interesting since that implies I play sports. I am a binge workout dude. I have been known to run, play basketball and racquetball, and hit the club regularly. I have also been known to lie on the couch with my hand in my pants watching sports and drinking beer.

I had a hernia four years ago. So I know what it’s like. After exercising or being on my feet most of the day, I get sore and swollen between the abs and groinial area. Groinial doesn’t appear to be a word, but I like it so I’m going with it. For reallious. So yah, anyway, for those of you not in the know, a hernia is when there is a hole in your innards and your guts and stuff falls through it hanging in strange places. Yep, that is the medical terminology. I was totally going to go to med school before I got side-tracked into advertising.

Nobody seems to care that I have a hernia. You know who you are. I’m getting no sympathy. When I mention the hernia and severe pain I have getting off the couch to get another beer from the fridge, the conversation somehow flows to hummus or dogs eating household goods, or how many cows there are in Colorado. I don’t know how many cows are in Colorado but according to The Google, there are 96 million of them in the United States. That is a lot of nipples.

I haven’t seen a doctor in years and have needed to find a new one because the last one just gave me a yellow and black pill for whatever I had whether it was a torn ligament, the flu or a questionable mole. Yellow and black pill. I bet he wouldn’t care that I have a hernia either. He’d probably give me the yellow and black pill and then go on a rant about unions in grocery stores.

I sent all my buddies an email telling them about my major medical complication and that I’d appreciate any doctor referrals. I also need to do a physical and prostate check. I heard they could do the prostate thing via blood work instead of the finger up the wazoo. I thought it would be fun to say I’d like it old school – give me the finger. But then I realized there is nothing funny about singing Moon River with a glove up your ass, so I dropped that idea from my arsenal of things to do before I die.

None of my friends said a word about the hernia and only one responded with a doctor recommendation. They talked about sushi, lounging by the pool, and going out with friends from Wisconsin, but no mention of my worrisome condition. So I called the one recommended practice only to find out that specific doctor wasn’t taking any new patients. But Dr. Dana something or other could see me later that day. I said cool.

I checked the website and found out Dr. Dana is a chick. I immediately assumed she would be hot and worried that I’d get aroused while she was feeling me up looking for the hernia. I calculated the odds of her giving me a BJ and decided they were low, but exciting to think about just like when any man sees two female nurses; he assumes they will break into a massive make out session at any moment.

I got to the doctor’s office and was surprised when a deep voice called out my name. I looked up to see Dr. Dana waiting for me. If you remember the Pat skits from Saturday Night Live, then you know what Dr. Dana was all about. I am 75% sure she is a she. But she dressed like my dad and looked like a man with boobs. She was taller than me, probably 6’-5” and had spiky hair. She scared me just a tad.

She-he asked me the background questions and when she-he told me to drop my drawers to check on the hernia, I prayed to the baby jesus that she-he wouldn’t try to blow me. As I stood there uncomfortably, she-he manhandled my family jewels and made me cough. Then she-he pushed and prodded around my abs and groinial area before professing she-he couldn’t find anything. At first I was going to protest and say, “Hey, lady-man, whatchyootalkinabout? I’ve got lots to offer south of the border. Haven’t you noticed my big feet?” But then I realized she-he meant that she-he couldn’t find the hernia.

I haven’t been active the last couple days so of course no guts were dangling through holes in my innards. So now I have to go get an ultrasound.

I hope it’s a hot woman technician.

Hands Up!

My two best friends are guys I met in Kindergarten. I actually remember meeting them. It may be my earliest childhood memory. We were building a castle out of giant wooden blocks. These weren’t those little colorful blocks with letters on them that you put on the shelf in your baby’s room. These were the size of cinder blocks and we had walls going up to our heads. In hindsight, who the hell lets six year olds build structures of death that could easily topple and crash down on little cootie-infested girls that were marveling at our mad architectural skills and sharp shirts with zippers (remember those pullover shirts that had zippers instead of buttons)?

Lemonhead and Zippy have been my best friends ever since. They both live in Chicago so I don’t see them as much as I’d like, but we stay in close touch. Lemon comes out to Colorado to visit once or twice a year. He was just here with his girlfriend which is why we went camping a couple weeks ago. That is Lemon down there on the left.



I think we named him Lemonhead because he looks just like the head on the box of Lemonhead candies.





Hmm, the resemblance isn’t really there now. Perhaps he used to look like the Lemonheads head, but his head really hasn’t changed since Kindergarten, other than some facial hair. Maybe he ate a lot of Lemonheads? I really don’t remember how it happened. Regardless, he will always be Lemon to me and my buddies.

Lemon sent some of his pictures from the camping trip. It looks like I was either very proud of my deodorant or I was constantly airing things out because I always seemed to have my arms up in the air. There were four or five pictures of me doing this. I will share two.





I really didn’t know why I was always raising my arms. I am a curious guy, so I had to get to the bottom of this. I hooked up electrodes to where I think my brain is (to be safe, I put them on my head, heart and ass) and connected them to the motor of the beer fridge next to my desk. I then hypnotized myself through a series of Bohemian chants and cross-eyed stares at my complicated design of a shirt. Once I was under, I opened and closed the fridge causing the motor to rev up intermittently. I adjusted the temperature to lessen the electrical shocks until I suddenly found myself down the rabbit hole in a world of mystery, intrigue, and slight insanity. Yes, I had journeyed to the inner depths of my mind.

There was a lot going on in there and I really wanted to stay for tea, but I had to focus on the task hand – why was I raising my arms in every other picture during the camping trip?

Crazy colorful flashes of light bombarded me and I was astounded by the chaos in my head. I concentrated on my armpits from the photos and images with more clarity began to surface. They were like flashcards psychiatrists might use to delve into your mind. “What does this ink splotched card look like to you my patient?” “Uh, it looks like your FACE you jackass!” Oops. I adjusted the electrode on my ass and got back on track.

A postcard of Peoria, IL appeared. Hmm, Peoria is the armpit of America and I am from Illinois. But I’ve only been to Peoria twice so that can’t be it. I moved an electrode to one of my nipples and nothing happened, further mystifying me as to why men have nipples at all since they seem to have no functional purposes. I then had an epiphany! I moved a bunch of electrodes to my armpits!! The fridge cranked up power and images sped through my mind and paused in my hypnotic state like a slide show in one of those little viewfinder cameras. I think I saw the Grand Canyon, Dora the Explorer and a rocket blasting off. Puppies!!

I needed an answer and fast. So I stood up and did some hip thrusts because I like to do those for some reason (maybe that will be my next discovery experiment). Everything was still muddled so I resorted to making those fake farting sounds by cupping my hand in an armpit over the electrodes and flapping my arm like a duck on speed. It sounded like the baked beans scene of Blazing Saddles while I kept the hip thrusts going and turned the beer fridge up to eleven.

And then it struck me like a castle of falling wooden bricks. The answer was clear as the shaven armpit of a non-European woman (or non-Boulderite).

I was happy. Really really happy. I was in the fresh mountain air. My boys were having fun. My best friend came to visit me. The abundance of wildflowers reminded me of what I have to look forward to (I have been noticing beautiful flowers a lot lately). All my problems disappeared, at least temporarily.

What do people do when their team scores a touchdown? Or when they celebrate good news? Or when they accomplish something great? They raise their arms in celebration.

I like that I have trouble standing in a pose. You can see from the first picture that I can certainly sit still – I can be a really good lounger. But I can’t really stand still. I’m good with that. There is a lot to do. Good things to embrace. Life should be celebrated, even during tough times.

I ripped off the electrodes, yelled Kelly Clarkson when one of them yanked out some chest hair, and shut the fridge door. Life is short. Live in the moment. Celebrate. Even when it’s dark everywhere. The sun rises every day. I knew all of this. But it took some pictures to remind me.

Do me a favor. Next time anyone takes your picture, raise your arms in celebration or do some goofy fun pose. Post it or email me. We can celebrate together. Just make sure you have good deodorant.

I Like My Balls

Will was in the backseat of the truck when he said, “I like my balls.” Actually, I drive a Toyota 4-Runner which falls under the SUV category. Even though it’s not really a truck, it doesn’t feel like a car either. And nobody refers to their vehicle as the SUV do they? Anyway, Will said, “I like my balls.”

I said, “Really?”

He said, “Yes, in fact I love my balls. And Zoe would trade anything for my balls.”

We were coming back from dinner at Wahoo’s where the boys regularly beg to spend a quarter on a gumball machine filled with junky toys. Will has gotten colorful super balls the last two times he was allowed to blow a quarter.

“Why would Zoe want to get her hands on your balls?”

“Because they are awesome balls with lots of colors.”

“I don’t think you should let Zoe anywhere near your balls. She might grab them tightly and never let go. Girls will do that you know.”

“Zoe would trade me anything for my balls, but I think I will keep them because I love my balls.”

“Good choice. Keep your balls to yourself Will.”

Speaking of my stupid SUV; I got a flat tire yesterday. I found it flat after watching the Cubs lose to the Rockies. There was a nail in my tire. My buddy and I changed it out with the spare. We had on Cubs hats and lots of clever people walked by commenting about adding insult to injury, kicks in the pants and someone even threw out something about typical losers. I was going to smash them in the neck with my tire iron but as a Cub fan I was concerned about a swing and a miss. So we just changed the tire and went on our merry way.

As I drove my buddy to the airport this morning, I was thinking how I was gambling by driving without a spare. I haven’t gotten a flat tire in about ten years, so what are the chances of getting two in two days, right? Right! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. I’ll tell you the fucking chances! The chances are 100%!

Luckily we stopped at the Starbucks near my house and found the second flat tire before we got on the highway to the airport. I walked home to get the other car and was able to drop off my pal in plenty of time. But then I had to cancel two meetings, call AAA for a tow and drop $700 at the tire place.

By the way, buying tires is super fun. The tire guy asks you what you like. What the hell? I tell them round is good. You know, the kind that roll. So that is what I got. Round ones that roll.

I had to kill a couple hours, so I got back in the other car to find a place to hang. When the yellow light notifying me of nearly being out of gas came on, I was sure it would die in the middle of the road.

I made it to the gas station and as I filled it up, I noticed Will’s balls sitting in his booster seat. I’m sure that won’t be the last time his balls are exposed in the back seat of a car. Since he loves his balls so much, he probably should keep them neatly tucked away somewhere, don’t you think? I am going to tell him to take better care of his balls.

A guy really has to protect his balls, you know?

The Mayor

We have a great mayor in Denver. He is a good man and has done many great things for our city. He has also minimized the ugly side of politics by approaching the job as a businessman on loan for providing public service rather than a party focused politico with hidden agendas and favoritism.

I’m in a business association that periodically holds informative and/or learning events. They set up a lunch with the mayor last Friday. We ate light snacks while the mayor spoke for a half hour and then answered questions for fifteen minutes. I attended this lunch and thought it was great. He is a cool mayor and I hope he runs again when his term is up.

With all that said, I have a whacked out sense of humor and tend to have friends of the same delirium. I had a fun exchange with a buddy that morning and then while we were waiting for the mayor’s arrival (he was late). I thought it was blog worthy.

Via email Friday morning:

“I'm heading in to you know where to eat while I work on a media plan. I'm also gonna make a list of questions to ask the mayor. Like, have you ever gotten a blowjob behind a podium while giving a speech, like I have? Let me know if you have any good ones.”

Note: I tend to start my day at a coffee shop or breakfast place before work. I found myself at Einstein’s just about every morning last week. The place isn’t even that good, but they have free Internet access and I can drink a couple gallons of Diet Coke if I’m not in a chai mood. FYI, I have not actually received a blowjob behind a podium. Yet.

Her response:

“I think the mayor will like that. I also think you should ask him if he has ever worn women's underwear, eaten an endangered animal for the fun of it or parked in the handicapped space. I think he will find those insightful. I just want you to look smart!”

My response:

“I knew you'd have excellent suggestions! You never let me down. I'll also ask him if it’s possible for the city to ban blacks and hispanics from not only the pools, but also all the lakes and reservoirs. And then I'll ask him if he's ever been to Philly. And then I'll ask him if he has ever nodded off on the phone when talking to the governor.”

Note: This sounds horrible, doesn’t it? This exchange happened a few days after I saw an article in the newspaper about a country club in a wealthy suburb of Philadelphia that kicked out a summer camp group of mostly black and Hispanic children from the private pool. The country club had previously agreed to a usage sharing program for the camp on certain days, but then booted them when regular club members pulled their kids out of the pool and protested. Pretty disgusting eh? My friend doesn’t live in this suburb and in fact hadn’t heard the story until I told her. But she does live in the Philly area and was equally disgusted by it. I can’t believe people are so stupid.

Her next question suggestion:

“Also ask him if he has ever silently mouthed the words, "Shut the FUCK up," to anyone, children, wife or constituents.”

My response:

“Good one, yes, I will ask him for sure. Right after I ask him if he plays a lot of pocket pinball and what are his top three favorite porn sites.”

Her response:

“Ask him if he is an ass or tit man. Then tell him about the time you and Zippy killed the pig. Follow it up with the old "Do you know what teabagging is?" question. He might learn something new!”

I finally had to go to the event and felt extremely prepared with my list of fabulous questions. There was a mingling session before the sit-down snack time while the mayor would speak. He was running late, so I checked email and texted an update to my buddy with the great questions.

“The mayor is late. He prolly can’t decide what panties to wear.”

Her response:

“Either than or he can’t get out of the bed with his favorite prostitute.”

My response:

“Maybe he is tied up.”

Hers:

“Or he just had to make a stop to pick up some extortion money.”

The mayor finally showed up and put on a really good speech. My phone was buzzing with more helpful questions via text. I couldn’t respond, so she fired off a few more before she must have seen something shiny and moved on to something else in her busy day.

“Ask the mayor if he likes it when she puts her finger in his ass.”

“Ask him if he splits nines when gambling with government money.”

“Ask him what the most successful method of disposing bodies has been.”

That was the end of our email and text exchange.

A lot of people asked questions. The only reason I didn’t ask anything was because I thought it would be embarrassing to be laughing so hard while I attempted to ask one of the whoppers from above. I’d hate to look bad because I can’t ask a question without crying in laughter. There is no crying in Q/A with the mayor! Mayors are people too.