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I work with an a-hole. Some of you may take offense to this statement. Mainly you a-holes. If so, please feel free to stop reading.

I don't tend to pigeon-hole or pre-judge, so you should know, up front, my conclusion that this guy is an a-hole was not hastily drawn. It was immediate. I'm no proctologist, but I know an a-hole when I see one. I swear, his name should be Perry Neal. And for those of you who insist there's no such thing as a perfect a-hole, this one is proof positive that at least one exists. If ever you decide to enter colo-rectal competition, this is the guy you'll want on your team. Most everything he does is half-azzed, which is undoubtedly the norm for a complete a-hole.



Dealing with this a-hole on a day-to-day basis got me to pondering their beginnings. I'm sure many of you have heard (or even asked) the question, "Are you naturally an a-hole, or do you practice?" Good question. I believe that many come by their a-hole tendencies naturally. Like they are predestined by genetics. Perhaps it is in the person's DNA chain. "Look, Professor! I've discovered a-hole pyrimidines and purines cross-linked in the schema!"



We can also look to the constellations. After all, astrology is but one letter away from complete comfirmation. Perhaps it's in the positioning of the stars. Then again, something tells me it's more likely to be the positioning of Uranus.

However, I believe that most a-holes actually do, in fact, practice until they become masters of their craft. Most probably don't know they are practicing. After all, the "Sixth Sense" theorem states "they don't even know they're a-holes". Of those who do know, their practice is along the lines of providing daily proof that they haven't lost their gift. Almost like method acting. "What's my motivation? Oh, yeah. I'm an a-hole."

Back now, to our a-hole in residence. I began to wonder what we'd do to fill the (ahem) void during his upcoming vacation time. Then I remembered my friend who works for the Post Office, and is what is known as a floater. He's not permanently assigned to any one territory, but fills in wherever he's needed. "Eureka!" (or "Dyson!" for those who can afford one) We need to find a floating a-hole! That tears it. Tomorrow I'm calling Manpower and Kelly Temp Services to see what they have to offer in floating a-holes. It's probably best if I figure out some politically correct phrasing beforehand...

Long ago, my former significant other came into the room and pointed to her nekkid nether region.

fso: "Hey Mark, check it out. What does this look like to you?"

me: "Uh... Don King?"

fso: "No, silly. This thing right here. I think it's a growth of some sort, but I can't see it that well. Kinda looks like a blueberry, don't you think?"

me: "Well, yeah, I guess. Maybe a bit more purple, though. And besides, the cherry ship has long sailed."

fso: "All right, funny man..."

me: "Actually, I think it's a tick. And it looks like it's got a liplock on your, uh..."

fso: "You sure it's a tick? I mean, it's not a crab or anything like that, is it?"

me: "Uh, no... Unless it's one of those Alaskan King Crabs. Anyway, how and where would you have gotten crabs?"

fso: "Oh, I was worried I might have gotten something from the bathroom at the mall. I mean, I hovered and everything, but still, you never know."

me: "I'm fairly certain it's a tick. Looks like it's been feeding on you for awhile."

fso: "Do you think it's one of those, what are they called, uh, Lyme ticks?"

me: "Probably not. Doesn't smell like citrus. Those Lyme ticks are tiny, too. Much smaller than this one. It appears to be a common wood tick."

fso: "How do think I got it? I mean, why did it pick me? You know I'm clean. Now I feel dirty."

me: "Well, you were watering out in the garden. It probably crawled up your leg. Or, if you squatted down, it could have gotten on your shorts, then made its way to the promised land."

fso: "Why didn't I feel it?"

me: "Probably because he only stuck the head in... Thing is, we've got to get it off you. Let me get some tweezers and a match."

fso: "You've done this kind of thing before? With whom? Where did you learn how to remove ticks from private parts?"

me: "No great mystery, here. I've had cats and dogs. They get ticks from time to time. I've been removing ticks from pets for years. I figure this won't be much different from a, uh, cat..."

fso: "You said tweezers. You're gonna pull it straight out? Won't that hurt?"

me: No, the tweezers are for hair removal in his immediate area. I'll use the match to heat the top of his head, and he'll back out on his own."

fso: "Hair removal? The Hell, you say!"

me: "OK, but I won't be responsible for the brush fire."

fso: "Tell me this won't hurt."

me: "It's either me or the Emergency Room. I'm going out on a limb here in thinking you'll be a lot more comfortable at home with me doing it, with much less embarrassment than having it done by some stranger wearing blue scrubs and a mask. It's probably not covered under health insurance, either. At least, I don't recall a pubic tick rider on our policy."

fso: "I see your points. Just try not to hurt me, OK?"

me: "I'll do my best. I'll be very careful. This could affect my future too, you know."

fso: "Oh, and you're not gonna tell anyone about this, are you?"

me: "Who, me?"

© 2009 meh

Sherry Miller. I met Sherry in Kindergarten. We sat next to each other at the big table, as there were no individual desks in our classroom. We helped each other to hold those Lincoln Log size pencils and crayons, shared our snacks, and laid our mats next to each other during nap time. She was smart beyond her years, knowing how to write both her first and last names, while I was struggling to make a legible "M". But I was class toy mechanic, having torn apart and rebuilt all four Tonka trucks, and thus earned Sherry's undying affection. I think I fell in love with her during our Christmas Pageant that year. She played lead triangle. The spotlight twinkling off the glitter in the frames of her glasses only added to her allure. She was a goddess.

The following summer we spent most of the days playing together. She loved playing "road construction" with me, and the ideal setting was beneath the steps leading to my back porch. The dirt was the perfect consistency for building roads with our collection of trucks and earthmovers. Just moist enough to be cooling in the summer heat, with very few stones to get in the way. So here we were, squatting down, inches from each other in the cool refreshing shade of the porch. I had just completed a main road and Sherry was molding curbs and drains. We both happened to look up at the same instant, and caught each other's eye. She smiled and from nowhere I made an subconscious move to bring our relationship to the next level. I farted. It raised our eyebrows, and more than a little dust.

Now this was not your run-of-the-mill rip. No, this was a perfect playback of the NBC Peacock jingle, exhibiting flawless three chord progression in a smooth melodic flow. It was "suave". If Dean Martin were to let one go, it would not have sounded so polished. As the air of future celebrity surrounded us, I detected a tear in Sherry's eye. This was ground-breaking, earth-shaking, and wind-breaking at its finest. I had achieved greatness, and she was there to witness and partake of the glory. Word, like everything else, spread fast. Kids (even older kids, like second and third graders) came from three to four houses away to congratulate me and to shake my hand, uttering praises like "gifted" and "was that for real?" While Ed Sullivan featured countless novelty acts, it was apparent that talent of this caliber was in short supply. Perhaps my Mom could call the Ted Mack Amateur Hour to book an audition. I'd be on my way! However, Moms don't really see eye to eye with kids on show business. Or gas. No one else in the neighborhood ever came close to matching my prowess. Oh yeah, there was one kid who claimed to have done a rendition of "Three Blind Mice", but he was exposed as a cheat and a fraud for doing it in three separate toots.

It saddens me to say I was never able duplicate my moment of glory. I had blown my fifteen minutes of fame way too early in my life. At least someone I cared deeply about was there to share. Oh, Sherry...

Ok, so I did laundry yesterday. This, in itself, is nothing extraordinary, as I do roughly six loads per week. Cold water, no bleach, tumble dry on Warm. Anyway, it comes to me that my underwear seems to be deteriorating at a much faster pace than I can ever remember. I had casually noticed this over the past few weeks, but yesterday the realization actually hit me. What happened? Years ago, underwear seemed to have everlasting life. They even had an Everlast brand.

For as long as I can remember I have been a brief guy. Well, except for those torturous weeks of boot camp when I was required to wear government issue boxer shorts. Talk about a rude awakening from the comfort of briefs. The boxers had the tag in the front, so partway through the day I'd realize I had them on backwards. That took a fair amount of jockeying to correct. Probably where they came up with the term "jockey shorts".

Back on topic... Briefs have served me well, lasting for the better part of a year, beginning to fade around mid-autumn. They usually lasted right up until the Christmastime replacements arrived. Twelve pair were plenty to last for the year. This was done by constantly rotating stock, not by wearing each pair for thirty days straight. Certainly do-able, but not recommended.

So here we are, three months into a new underwear year, and mine have already given up the ghost. All twelve pair have taken on the appearance of cheesecloth. They still have a hint of waistband elasticity, but the basic fronts and backs look sheer, and the legbands are almost completely detached. Now, I know that underwear is considered a high wear and tear item (I'll refrain from using the term "consumable item") designed with occasional replacement in mind. But three months? Again, what happened? I don't think I subject my underwear to significantly more hazards than any other person. OK, opinions may vary.

Now I'm wondering if Inspector 12 finally retired, and the Fruit of the Loom guys seized the moment. I've also got my doubts about the green and purple grape guys. I think they're jealous of the apple guy for getting all of the good press, and the lead role in their commercials. Or maybe, just maybe, some foreign manufacturer is making cheap knock-offs to sell to unsuspecting merchandisers who unwittingly retail them as 100% original Grade A, USDA approved drawers. Watches, shoes, handbags, and now underwear... What next?

The end of January is here and along with that comes my annual prostate exam. Well, as usual, I didn't study. I wasn't really worried though, because if it was anything like the last few years, it was going to be more along the lines of a pop quiz. Anyway, the appointment reminder call got me to pondering the ins and outs of the procedure. I know the whys and wherefores, but still, I have questions.

First off, who pioneered the method of examination? What were they in search of when they made this profound discovery? Was it found through meticulously planned, liberally funded, medical research, or was it the accidental result of a sadistic experiment gone awry? "While there doesn't seem to be enough oxygen up there to support a lab rat for the long term, Dr. Burrows, I quite unexpectedly discovered this interesting tidbit." No doubt, shouts of "brilliant!" and "eureka!" rang throughout the lab. Or dungeon. Whatever.

Secondly, why wasn't research continued in regards to improving upon the procedure? Digital analysis may sound high tech, but with today's advances in medicine, you'd think they would have come up with a less invasive, more patient-friendly method of examination. Perhaps HMO's are to blame, by refusing to pay for more than the minimum. I mean really, how much can the procedure cost? My co-pay alone should cover a pair of rubber gloves and a dollop of lube.

Next, how is it that the prostate gland is described as being "about the size of a walnut"? How, I wonder, did they come up with this? Certainly not a blind taste-test. Did they do a side-by-side comparison? Who in their right mind would actually have volunteered to be part of the test population for this? "OK sir. I'm going to shove various tree seeds up your butt until I find one that is comparable in size to your prostate." Did they start with say, an almond, and work their way up the nut ladder? And who added "a walnut" to our standard units of measure? Were they using walnuts in the green sticky stage, the grey convoluted hard-shelled stage, or the black mushy stage? Important questions all, I'm sure you'll agree.

My final ponderance... Do doctors actually choose to specialize in fields such as this, realizing childhood dreams of digital analysis? Or is this considered some sort of punishment, akin to military KP duty? Perhaps this is the entry level, and they have to work their way up to the better orifices...