Top Ten List of Signs We May Be in a Gay Recision

10.  Summer trip goes from Auckland Cruise to Habanna Inn, Oklahoma City.  Relax, you’ll have just as much fun.

9.  You find yourself passing on the CVS gift card aisle despite the perfect card for Aunt Sherry is staring straight at you!

8.  You enter a Wal-Mart and don’t burst into flames.

7.  Your new house wine is Strawberry Hill.

6.  You’ve traded in your little yippie dog for a lot less yippee BF.

5.  Lesbians are not waiting to second date to move in with each other, but plan it someone time after the “Hi, my name is Pam” and “We’ll have the shrimp appetizers”.

4.  You cruise the IHOP rather than the bars.

3.  You pretend to be an alcoholic so you have someplace to be on Friday night.

2.  You’re not afraid to be seen holding hands in Macon, Georgia.  It replaces gym fees.

And the number One Sign You May Be in a Gay Recession....

One....   You’ve cut down on mani/pedi until your BF refuses to play “Push My Buttons”... at least the fun kind, anyway.

Ms. Muhacca Hussein, RN

Three AM found me in the darkness of my hospital room pushing my Nurse Button while shouting “Sweet Holy Jesus, Somebody Get Me Something for Pain.”  I’ve been at it a while.  According to the clock it has just been five minutes but I know they slow down the damn clock when it gets close to the time for some small bit of relief.  

I’m here, in the dark, betwixt antibiotics flowing into my body because a doctor decided I needed to have a lung biopsy.

“It’s a very common procedure with very little pain,” the Doctor had said.  Well, if The Doctor said it, it must be true.  The Doctor also felt the biopsy was a grand idea.  He would, no doubt, deliver immediate insight and results.  The Doctor is your friend, don’t you know.

It’s time for another scream because the pain has moved from Hurting Badly to Just Shoot Me, Dumbass.  Somewhere on the second use of the “bitch” word, a word interchangeable with the little Pakistani nurse, she opens the door.  Finally, I am out of the dark. 

“Mr. Manley, what is wrong with you? Such cursing I have never heard,” she sounds like Apu from the Simpsons.  Except female.  I think.

“Well, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me", Nurse Ratchet-Hussein, "it seems that yesterday they poked four nice sized holes in my side.  They inserted a little pair of scissors and snipped and pulled out healthy lung tissue.  Then, they left a tube they could be used for farm irrigation coming out of my side to drain off fluids.  Said tube is now flowing like a river and believe it or not, there is a tad of pain.”

“You use too much pain medicine I think is the problem, Mr. Manley.  It is not good to use so much.”

“Look you little Nurse Ghandi Nightingale, you will bring me my medication or I will scream rape at the top of my lungs.  Now, how would you like to explain that accusation.”

“I think you are crazy patient.  But here is pain medication.  Are you sure you need such a dose as ordered by your doctor.  Your doctor left too much, I think.”

If it was up to Nurse Ghandi , Tylenol would be a controlled substance. She checks my armband and sees if I really am who I seem to be.  She thinks, perhaps, I snuck in, killed off Reece Manley, hid his body under the bed all for 3mg of Dilaudid.

 

After delaying the action of administering the damn shot as much as she could, she slams the full amount.  My body almost immediately puts the pain reliever to work on the bandage as quickly as it can.  However, it cannot not post it up to the right nerves quite as quickly as the drug is coming in.  I sit up with my tongue wagging happily out of my mouth, “Why, or why, do we always hurt the ones we love, truly”, I say, overcome by a strange warmth I’d missed so.  “Oh, Mahaca Hussein, you cute little nurse, I loves you.”

Mahaca pauses in fear.  Finally she decides to protest.  “No no, no.  Mr. Manley I am asking you to sit down.  No, Mr. Manley you must get back in bed.  Yes, yes.  Back in bed.”

Oh, she’s tricky.  She dodges left, then right.  That’s okay, I’ve got poppy joy for another few moments today.  “Damn it, with your no, no, no.  My heart cries yes, yes, yes!  Come here and let me hug all 4’ 2” on your squat little happy haji frame!”

“Back in bed, back in bed, Mr. Manley.”  Finally getting a break between me and the door, Mahaca makes for the exit and freedom.  I finally give a final shout, loud enough to be heard by the wing. “Nursre Mahaca will break your heart!”

Ladies who Lactate are Lovely Ladies Indeed!

I now understand the fun of lactation.  Oh, that special ability to feed life with the essence of self distilled and collected and finally bestowed by Demeter or St. Giles depending on your set of gods and goddesses.  I am not afraid to say, I am a man.  I have lactated.
It all began with a simple surgical procedure to do a lung biopsy.  I'd been hospitalized by different medical facilities on the rate of about one a year.  It was a matter of trying to diffuse this pattern of behavior.  I mean, New Year's Eve in a hospital with a tube in your pee pee so you don't have to bother the nice orderly to make the trip on your own.  If you're lucky, you sneaked in a 20 bag so you can at least mess with the minds of the cardiac monitors!  Oh, now THAT'S fun!

This year, I was determined to find out what went wrong with my lungs every year and to do that, it required a biopsy of the surgical type.  They explained it to me.  Four small incisions under my left arm.  So tiny as to be nearly impossible to feel.  Why, la-de-la might be out the same day!

The surgeon should be executed and the doctor should be shot.  The first didn't put in the tiny slits he described. No, instead there were tunnels and a fourth excavation cave.  I  think they had a hoover hooked up to me at some point.  And, a blender, a slicer, a dicer and perhaps even a Lean Mean Suckitout Machine! by George Foreman.

The next day, the miracle bestowed itself upon me.  Like I said, I do not know if it was Demeter or St. Giles, but whichever of the gender benders waved her wand and I brought forth milk.  And, not just a little milk.  I gave like a spigot.  A milked out like an old jersey cow forgotten in the fields while the Duleys were at the reunion dontcha know.  I called the nurse.  I lifted up the lactating titty and said "Help!"  She fixed her deep brown eyes and old scaggled face bearing the mark of the faithful in center forehead, took a deep breath, and said, "No, no, no, no.  No play with that!  Move your hand.  No touch."

I felt dirty.  As if I'd shown her a peep show rather than a valid nursing concern.  "Is this normal?"  She, "Is what normal, I am very busy, but patient comes first, no more pain medication, it will clear in five days.  Goodnight.  Lay back down.  No play with ... chest."  I was sure she was going to say "Thank You and Come Again ala Apu of the Simpsons."  But, she just exited the room her heart held up to the devoted God of the Dot at the idiocy of the white man in 517.

That was four days ago.  I'm still flowing but I've decided not to bottle it as the best cure for gout since 1901. But if you really hurry, you can get in on the milking action on your own.  Just bring a jar - a big jar.  Oh, and a lot of patience.  It happens in its own time.  Apparently I'm titty shy.

This blog brought to you by All Gays Go to Heaven by Reece Manley and published by Varsity Prints.  Pre-order at All Gays Go to Heaven (http://www.aggth.com).  Visit Today!

Boys in Prison Make Me Pensive

One of the things that keep me from getting all of my writing done is a pensive need for self-retribution.  That one you’ll need my shrink for.  However, another one is the network msNBC.  msNBC carries a number of things, slices of life, that are fascinating.  The number one is the Locked Up series.  Yep, boys in prisons.  What’s the attraction?

I’m watching this and these guys are hot.  Oh, sure, they’ve eaten their parents brains or gutted and filleted their brother-in-law.  Well, the mild ones have.  But, they are hot.  And, get this.  You know where they are at all times.  Within a few feet at 2 PM you don’t have to worry if they’ve taken a late lunch with Don from accounting or if they are in the exercise yard.

Now, the main thing I don’t like are the tattoos.  Tacky, tacky, tacky.  I can just imagine Christmas.  Did you hear the writer has a boyfriend this year??  Oh, my!  Really! Where is he?  Oh, he’s in prison!  Oh, thank God! A prisoner! How’d he do that well!?!  Let’s see photos!  Eeep! Tattoos on his tilly!  Oh, my!  Aunt Pam and Aunt Nina would converse strongly over the fashion statement of the 666 versus the whole SS motif.  Granted I could go brown and have a choice of a large Chevy with something called Kings Kross.  Or black with some intricate 9 scrolling.  Quite a beautiful piece of work.

My only problem with the idea of having a prisoner for a husband is that one day the little son of a bitch might make parole one day.  Now, what do you do with that?  They might let them OUT one day?  Now that is a bitch of a cinch in the plan, isn’t it?  What happens when I want to go play Planko at the Persuwitz Club on Friday’s?  Would he be there for my morning swim a la natural?  I already swore anyone witnessing to blindness.  And, now, honey, this released boy might really bother one thing I have that  I love.  MSNBC Lock Up.

But, still.  Yep.  Boys in prison.

Vaginal Cream Blues

You never know what Momma will bring home from Wal-Mart.  She makes a little journey almost every day.  It's her and Roxie's outing so it's a required event most days.  Who needs out more, I really can't say.

I had a small assignment for Momma.  Having had weight loss surgery, a have a few thousand skin folds hanging about my body.  From time to time, these folds will need some, um, special attention because fungi like to breed like Baptists in the dark, warm areas.  I know what you're thinking.  Too much information.  Oh, honey, we haven't started.

Anyway, I gave Momma the assignment to fetch something from the Wal-Mart that would take care of the problem and really didn't think another thing about it.  I assumed some Tinactin would appear and take care of it.  I almost missed the completely innocent looking blue tube when I used the lavatory later that day.

As usual, Momma had deposited requested items in logical places.  Toothpaste, check.  Soap, check.  Razors, check.  Vaginal cream, che....what the hell?  I reread the bottle.  MONISTAT.  Oh, lord, Momma had bought hoo hoo ointment.  I knew she'd always wanted a daughter.  Had we had some great confusion?  After all, her mind is aging?  Perhaps, she had thought the boys in and out of my life didn't mean I was gay, but rather a troop of suitors for her daughter.

MONISTAT.  The little blue tube screamed at me.  My, my.  Hoo hoo cream.  Now what was I supposed to put that on.

As a man, I'm delightfully free of anything resembling a vagina.  I mean, I'm sure they are perfectly lovely things to own.  At least most of the time.  After all, the very existence of MONISTAT bespoke the little problems one can have in owning a hoo hoo.  However, of all the problems I would have in my life, what to do with vagina cream was not one I had been expecting.  Being at heart, a big dumb male, a decided to pick the box up at arm's length.  "Um, Momma," the images being conjured up were not pleasant, "I believe you left one of your personal items in my bathroom."

Then, just as sweet as Southern sun came Momma's reply, "No, honey, that's for you."  I waited for more information to come forth.  Surely, some nugget of wisdom.  But, that was all Momma had to say on the subject.

Now, having been a nurse for 20 years, Momma knew antifungal was antifungal was antifungal.  Being a man for 40 years, I  knew a truth, too.  MONISTAT was for hoo-hoos.  Not for, well, for male anatomy.

I followed Momma into the next room.  "Momma, I don't know how to break this to you, but I haven't a hoo hoo on me and you see this is MONISTAT . "  She replied, "It's antfungal.  Just put it on your area you're having problems with."

So, here I am with hoo hoo cream under my arm.  Yes, 40 years of proud masculinity and I'm wearing vagina cure ointment.  And the sad thing, it's working.

Damn it, Momma really is never wrong.  Even when it comes to pussy cream.