Smell My Finger

Larry,

What up, player? This won't be long. Just wanted to tell you about a milestone that I reached the other day. You know that I had the surgery last week, right? Well, I've been pretty sore since. I think that I might have an infection. Not sure. I'm going to the doctor tomorrow to find out for sure. Anyway, since the surgery, I haven't been able to move around very well. This has been a hindrance for going to "see the doctor". In addition, it's prevented me from showering regularly. I think that it was Monday that I was finally able to take a bath. Anna said that she'd help but then fell asleep far too early. This left me to go it alone. Mission accomplished. However, since I'd established that I was in too much pain to do it regularly, I decided to wait until yesterday to get in the tub again. Jonathan came over in the middle of the day. But by then, I was as ripe as a banana. In fact, I can remember on several occasions, while he was here, smelling myself uncontrollably. Don't get me wrong; it stank. But there's something about that smell. It's one of those smells that you can't help but smell. It was repulsive. And yet, I could not stop the constant whiffing. I really wanted Anna to smell it, simply because it was so bad. So I held off on the shower. I wanted to at least wait until she got home so that she could get a taste of this bad medicine. So, Jonathan left and she got home. I confessed to her that I was in dire need of a bath. She was tired after a long day's work. She was weak. I slid my finger into my pit-not finger to shirt but finger to actual armpit. Then I begged of her..."Please, smell this-one time". She partook. She did smell of the finger and I'll be honest, because I'm somewhat proud, she gagged. Not once, but four times. The scent did activate her gag reflex.

I shouldn't be proud of this, I know. But still. It's kinda cool. I almost made her throw up with my body odor. Makes you wonder about these French people. I mean, I hear that natural body odor is an aphrodisiac. If that were the case, I'd be getting laid all the time. And I wouldn't even need the internet.

I was stinky.

I got a shower tonight. I'm flying solo right now and there's nothing on the horizon. All is as it should be.

Take care,

Paul

Mother's Milk

Dear Larry,

Angela, from my work, had a baby recently. Four months ago, I think. A boy. She named him BJ. I told her about the pitfalls of a baby named BJ but she didn't listen. That's beside the point. She came back to work, reluctantly. However, she wanted to breast-feed so employed the pump when she was away from BJ. This, I applaud. It's just so sad that she had to be exiled to some solitary storage closet to do God's work for it is close-minded people that cannot see the beauty of breast-feeding. I don't want to get off on a rant, so I'll just stop there.

So, I get to work one Monday and realize that I have foolishly left my coffee creamer at home. If I don't have creamer then I don't have coffee and if I don't have coffee, then I am one cranky camper. I go visit Sabrina, who is good friends with Angela, and I ask her, do you think that we can steal some of Angela's cream. She keeps it refrigerated, don't you know, because it is milk. Sabrina thinks that it's possible and I keep watch while Sabrina checks the fridge to see if the package is available. Sadly, it was not. Not sure if it was a slow day, milkwise or if Angela simply chose not to milk it that day. At any rate, there was no milk to be had. I was coffeeless. A sad day, by any account.

I was excited at the prospect of having some breastmilk in my coffee for a couple of reasons:

#1. It would have been hot.

and

#2. I would have digested her DNA. I don't know why that excites me but it does. I'm not a Biology major but I think that me drinking her breast milk would have been tantamount to Jeff Goldblum and that fly being teleported to that other pod. I sort of think that after drinking that cup of coffee, I would have taken on some of Angela's qualities. In retrospect, she is a girl and to be honest, I would have hated to walk away with a vagina. So, maybe it all worked out for the best.

Still, it would have been hot.

Glad that I got that off my chest. I said "chest". Brilliant.

Take care,

Paul

Nair do Well

Dear Larry,

I had surgery last Friday. Maybe I didn't tell you about it but it's been a while since I've written so I doubt that I did. As it turns out, I had some arthritis in my AC joint. Don't worry, it's not the kind of arthritis that you'd get what with you being old. The doctor said that it was on account of some kind of trauma that occurred. I'd like to think that it was a result of me pretending that I'm a pitcher and throwing fast balls to some cocky first baseman. Anna seems to think that I've fallen out of my chair one too many times. At any rate, there was some trauma. So I had an operation to cut out the arthritis. I'm not sure what really happened. I just know that it hurt. It still hurts, in fact. But that's not the point. You know that I'm a pretty hairy guy, right? Well, I was a little apprehensive about the operation. My mom has told me stories about surgeons amputating the wrong arm or leg. I was fearful, I'll admit. So, the night before the surgery, I had Anna Nair an arrow on my back, pointing to the right (i.e. correct) shoulder. Just to make sure that the doctor cut on the right one. It worked. My right arm hurts like a sonofabitch.

I have more stories. Soon, my friend, soon.

Be well,

Paul