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.

How are the hand jobs at Presbyterian Hospital - Plano?

I can’t believe it.  I just spent a week in the hospital for an outbreak of MRSA Pneumonia.  Where’d it come from?  No, idea.  The doctors remain befuddled.

One of the really fun tests I got to do was called an endoscopy.  No, it’s not a festive sex toy.  Unless you happen to swing in a really weird way.  They take a tube, shove it down your nose and then take little snips of lung out.  Definitely 1 flag of fun.

The strangest part was, for me, the recovery.  They used a drug call Ativan to keep me from remembering  the whole procedure (did nor work) and make you very compliant with the doctor (what can I say, they threatened to strap me down.

When I had come through I found myself in the recovery rule awaiting the number one rule before returning to your room.  You had to pee on your own voluntary method.  Now mind you, walking is not possible at this time.  But, they can brace you up, let you use the urinal and if you pee, you get to go up.

I wanted to go back to my room and I figured I could handle it.  So I asked for the damn urinal.  I was also supplied with Assistant Operational Specialist named Mike Handle.  I kid you not.

While I tried to prop myself up, Mr. Handle did something I did not expect.  He took the urinal and placed, ever so gently, my penis in the urinal.  I was not expecting to go handle and Handle.  And, yes, I jumped. 

Now, my handle knew what it was supposed to do, but Mr. Handle did not have a good hold.  So, my handle escaped and began to share with the world.  For about 20 seconds my handle was enjoying sweet freedom and yes, it could pass.  It passed on the gurney, gown on a nurse and a physician who happened to walk by.

Mr. Handle was in a panic to get the handle back into the urinal and so he grabbed it firmly catching the tip of my handle on the urinal.  I howled with pain and surprise.  A elderly gent passing through saw a 6’2” hospital employee with his hand under my gown.  He shook his head.   This homo stuff was getting out of control. 

As handle was finally forced into submission it had only a few drops.  I could see on  bottle we were still several dots below Minimum Fill.  But, Mr. Handle was not wanting to continue with the excitement.

Moral of story:  If you get personal massage at Plano Presbyterian, expect brush boy no to granting Happy Ending.

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.