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

My brother, the pimp

Dear Larry,

 

It's been a while. How have you been? Me? Oh, I've been doing ok. I'm not a huge fan of the Christmas time to be honest. More on that later. My brother told me a secret and he swore me to secrecy but I cannot keep a secret. I must tell someone. So, when I confess to him that I told Larry David, he won't be upset. Frankly, he might not even recognize your name. Nevertheless, he shouldn't be too bothered.

 

Anyway, he confided in me that he had begun a sexual relationship with a woman named Joyce. Not because he cares for her as much as she has a car that she lets him borrow frequently. In fact, I think that Joyce is (or at this point, was) quite smitten with him. If you knew him, you'd find this pretty amazing. He's a swell fellow but not much for the settling down. This wasn't the secret, though. The secret was that he had also taken up with her daughter, who's name eludes me at the moment. She's a bit on the young side. Anyway, he carried on with the two of them for a little while without them knowing about his relationship with the other. Pretty cool. That's like one of those goals that, as men, we hope to one day attain, but never really believe that it will ever happen. For instance, the menage et trois is another such goal. That one ranks a little higher than the other but I think that you get my point. Anyway, he can scratch one off of the list.

 

I'm so very proud.

 

Hope all is well.

 

Happy Chanukah!

 

ps. Don't tell anyone.

 

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Pizza Hut is Racist

Technorati Tags : pizza, hut, racist

 

Dear Larry,

 

What's happening old man? It's been too long. I wanted to write when I found out that you were going to have that special on TBS then I didn't watch it and felt guilty. I do care about the environment though. I do my part. Recycling is on my to-do list. And I want to look into getting solar panels for the house. This endeavor could potentially be a lot of work so I'm going to stick with the recycling project for the time being. Not to mention, your show conflicted with Desperate Housewives and I don't pass up any chance to see Nicolette Sheridan wearing next-to-nothing. For an old lady, she's hot. But I digress.

 

Anna and I were at home one Friday night a couple of weeks ago. We decided not to go out but instead to treat ourselves to some greasy Pizza Slut pizza. We grudgingly made this choice because neither of us wanted to get out and it seemed that Pizza Hut was our only option if we wanted delivery. We called the 362-3333 number to place our order and the operator had trouble finding our address in their system. Anna explained that it was a new development so it might not yet be in the database. They took the order anyway and told us that if they had any problems, that they would place a follow-up call to confirm the address. Five minutes later, Pizza Hut called back to tell us that they did not deliver to our area. I asked them why, naturally. I had previously checked their website to make sure that there was a store close by and found that, in fact, there was one less than two miles away. In truth, the reason that they don't deliver to our area is that our development sits on the razed remains of a development affectionately known as Hurt Village. Considered one of the most dangerous parts of the city, delivery places flat-out refused to make deliveries there lest their delivery drivers be executed, gangsta-style. I understood why they didn't deliver there in the past. However, the place has been cleaned up, new houses erected, and middle-class America has been invited to move in and set up shop. Long story short, Pizza Hut lady said that we were out of the zone. I told her that it was racist not to deliver to our neighborhood because I knew that it wasn't because we were too far away, but because they considered our neighborhood dangerous. She hung up.

 

No one is immune.

 

Talk to you later,

 

Paul

 

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Stephen Lewis, revisited

Larry,

 

Old chum. Please do not give me crap about how long it's been. I know. I've been in a funk. What kind of funk, you ask? I'm not sure. If I could properly pinpoint the source of the funk, then I would know precisely how to get out of said funk. Having said that, I'm at an impasse...and rambling apparently. I did have some things to tell you about, the first of which will require some backstory regarding my high schools days at White Station HS.

I believe that it was my senior year, which would have been 1993 if memory serves. Stephen B. Lewis and I had 6 classes together that year so we were pretty much inseparable. We devised games to play to keep us amused and entertained throughout the day. One such game was called (I believe) the T-Shirt game. The rules of the game were simple; you see someone walking down the hall wearing a T-Shirt and without making eye contact, you semi-shout whatever it is on their T-Shirt. For example, if we'd happen to see an underclassman walking down the hall wearing a Hard Rock t-shirt, we'd say, just slightly above the din, "Hard Rock, New Orleans". We wouldn't stop to converse, we wouldn't look at them. We'd just keep walking to our class, enjoying the havoc that we had just wreacked. In one instant, we'd made someone self-conscious. Often, the kids would look around, befuddled and searching for answers. Stephen and I though, we had no answers. Only smirks and chortles for those that chose to wear t-shirts without giving some thought to the consequences of their actions.

 

Another game that we liked to play...I'm not sure if we had a name for this one. But it involved, writing dirty words down, then writing them backwards, and then shouting out the word in reverse. In class. It was hilarious. Let me give you an example. A teacher would leave class momentarily to take a bathroom break or catch a smoke in the lounge and Stephen or myself would commence to playing the Saying Things Backwards Really Loudly Game. So, we'd say things like "Sinep" or "Mutorcs". That's entertainment. We were 18. Looking back, it's more than a little sad.

 

Anyway, this is the point of the story: I owed a buddy (let's call him Sequoia for the sake of anonymity) some money for our fantasy football league and because I don't see him all that often, I had to mail him the check. In the bottom left-hand corner where there's a spot for a memo, I wrote LLAB CAS. That's ball sac if you aren't the skilled reverse-reader that I am. Good stuff.

 

Talk to you soon,

 

Paul 

 

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Memphis Drivers

Larry, old boy. How was your weekend. Mine? Nice, thanks. Had some great Thai food and did some much needed yard work. But I did forget to mention the incident that happened on the way home from the Doctor's office on Friday. I was driving home, going my usual route down one of the Parkways, when out of the blue this car on my left starts to drift in my lane. I honked my horn because when people drive like shit, I want them to be aware of it. How else are they to know that they drive like shit if good samaritans like me, don't tell them. So, quickly the car moved back into it's lane and I was momentarily relieved. That is, until the car started slowing down. Was I afraid? No. Not at all. It was a big green jalopy and I knew by the make and model of the car, coupled with the speed at which this car was moving, I was dealing with an old person. Older than you, my friend. No offense. So, she's (it turns out that the driver was a woman) slowing down and we are quickly approaching a red light. She rolls her window down and I can tell that she's trying to tell me something so I oblige by rolling down my window as well. She asks me, somewhat annoyed, what's the problem. And here's where it gets frustrating because I have the opportunity to rip into her like Conan the Barbarian, fresh from the sword sharpening shop. And I say to her, "Yes, the problem is your driving". She quickly retorts, "What's the problem with my driving?" I've got her right where I want her. So I say, "Your driving is a big piece of crap!" That's the best I can do. So often, we are confronted with situations in which we are speechless. If we could only take a moment or two to really collect our thoughts, we'd possibly have something poignant or witty or acerbic to say. But most of the time, we are idiots. Dumbfounded or mute or unintelligible. At least I am. Funny side note-she apologized for her poor driving and went about her merry way. Kind of takes the fun out of it.

I have more but I'll tell you later. Nothing too exciting, I promise.

Talk to you soon,

Paul

Habla Pepsi

Larry,

What's up dog? How have you been? I've been better, to be totally honest. I've had some pain in my shoulder for the last three or four months. So, last week, I decided that it was high-time to get my butt on over to my doctor so that he could X-ray me and find out the cause of the problem. He did the X-ray and much to my surprise, he didn't find anything. He gave me a little Celebrex for the inflammation and sent me on my merry way. On the way down to the lobby, I felt very parched and as I rounded the corner on my way out the door, I noticed a Mexican family (or maybe they were Hispanic-Americans) standing in front of the Pepsi machine. I sauntered up to them very quietly and said to the father, "Daddy, can I have a Pepsi?" They looked at me a little bewildered and I can't say that I blame them. The looks on their faces was a mixture of confusion and more confusion. I thought that maybe they didn't understand why I wanted the Pepsi in the first place. I said "I'm just very parched and I don't have any money". This seemed to placate them and the dad bought me a Pepsi. A mucho nice-o gesture, I would say. Afterwards, we all kind of walked out together (they were leaving too) and I would have to say that the journey from the Pepsi machine to the front door of the building was a bit awkward. I did love that Pepsi though.

Anyway, just goes to show that there are still some nice people in the world, present company excluded.

I'll have more later.

Paul

Grim death

Larry,

What up playa? Long time, no see. I know that I haven't written in a while. What can I say. Nothing surprises me anymore. Well, almost nothing. Here's one for you.

I was outside smoking with Eric the other day. We were out by the gazebo at work. Apparently, there's this new Captain that is a former smoker and he's decreed that we all be away from the doors when we smoke. I call that pussy. Anyway, we were out by the gazebo which, by the way, is a magnet for wasps. As you know, I've never been stung. Not by anything. Well, girls are the exception. So, Mickey was out there smoking and I ducked and darted because a wasp was nearby and then she says, "If I get stung, I'll see ya'll at the hospital" or something to that effect. I, because I've read that book The Worst Case Scenario Handbook, tell her that I'd be happy to give her a tracheotomy, if she goes into anaphylactic shock. I'm cool like that. I know how to do it so I would be happy to oblige, especially to save a life and get my name in the paper, natch. She then proceeds to tell me that she'd rather die than get help from me. She tells me that all I know of medicine, I learned on ER and I should watch her die rather than save her life. I assure her that the book I read was a valid book and that the procedure is very simple. She insists. She'd rather die than to receive a tracheotomy from me. I didn't even say that she would actually need that procedure to live. But she was quite insistent and I too am intent in my resolve. Should Mickey get stung by a bee and for some reason, be without medical care, I shall refuse to help her. Really, I think at this point, I'd rather see her perish than help her. Sad, isn't it. People are pretty fucked up.

Guess what? I'd still give her the tracheotomy. I'm dying to do it. I always carry a Bic just in case.

See you in hell, Mickey.

Take care and stay cool,

Paul

X-Ray

Larry,

My man! My main man. How is it going? That's such a dumb greeting. Remind me never to say that again. I hear people say that to me sometimes and I want to tell them, "Pretty shitty, actually". Or, "Man am I horny" would be nice. In truth, most people say that and I want to punch them in their chipper faces and tell them to go fuck themselves in their asses. But mostly, I say that I'm doing ok. But if you ask me that, know that I want to hurt you.

So, I got an intern at work. Sort of. He's been hired for six weeks to help out while Angela is on maternity leave and Tim's out with a ruptured neck or something. He's just about to go off to college and he's in this for some extra money. I want him to do my job so that I have more time to surf the internet and read articles about zombie dogs. By the way, there are zombie dogs. Ask me how! So, Todd is there for the next couple of months and right off I have him cleaning out storage closets and throwing away shit that should have been thrown away ten years ago. Meanwhile, I'm sitting at my desk getting some much needed rest-from all of the delegating, you see. And I'm checking out this urban legend website because I notice that on this particular day, they are dealing with the urban legend about the girl that gets the coke bottle stuck up in her business-her lady business-and I remember that in high school, we had a story like that. I don't mean that I did, but I remember hearing about it only it was a hot dog and a glow stick. Two different stories. Both probably untrue. So I was eager to find out if the story was true. It turns out that many people have had many things stuck up their asses over the last 50 years. You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Ok, I'll tell you. This is a pretty fucking disturbing list:

A bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's syrup, an ax handle, a nine-inch zucchini, countless dildoes and vibrators including one 14-inch model complete with two D-cell batteries, a plastic spatula, a 9-1/2-inch water bottle, a deodorant bottle, a Coke bottle, a large bottle cap, numerous other bottles, a 3-1/2-inch Japanese glass float ball, an 11-inch carrot, an antenna rod, a 150-watt light bulb, a 100-watt frosted bulb, a cucumber, a screwdriver, four rubber balls, 72-1/2 jeweler's saws (all from one patient, but not all at the same time, although 29 were discovered on one occasion), a paperweight, an apple, an onion, a plastic toothbrush package, two bananas, a frozen pig's tail (it got stuck when it thawed), a ten-inch length of broomstick, an 18-inch umbrella handle and central rod, a plantain encased in a condom, two Vaseline jars, a whiskey bottle with a cord attached, a teacup, an oil can, a six-by-five-inch tool box weighing 22 ounces, a six-inch stone weighing two pounds (in the latter two cases the patients died due to intestinal obstruction), a baby powder can, a test tube, a ball-point pen, a peanut butter jar, candles, baseballs, a sand-filled bicycle inner tube, sewing needles, a flashlight, a half-filled tobacco pouch, a turnip, a pair of eyeglasses, a hard-boiled egg, a carborundum grindstone (with handle), a suitcase key, a syringe, a file, tumblers and glasses, a polyethylene waste trap from the U-bend of a sink, and much, much more.

I told you. And I just read where one guy who was feeling depressed, stuck a 6-inch paper tube into his rectum and then dropped in it a lighted fire cracker. As the kids say, he tore that ass up.

But that's all beside the point. I'm reading the story and at the end of the article, there's a link to another site on which one can find x-rays of all sorts of random shit that people have put in their asses. I'm reading this when Todd walks up behind me, ready for his next assignment. I wanted to close the window but couldn't. All I could do was smile and laugh. He had to have seen the title page. Rectal Foreign Bodies. It really stands out, doesn't it?

Todd needs a bell.

Be good. Stay out of trouble.

Paul