Category Archives: bodily functions

The Terrors of the Hidden World

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Have I ever mentioned how my awful sense of smell is?  Awful may not even be the right word, nonexistent is probably closer to the truth.

I have a beautiful pink rose called “April in Paris.” Isn’t that charming?  It’s famous for its intense, heady aroma and friends who’ve seen it blooming attest to that in raving terms.  Yet when I shove my nose right into the very center of the blossoms, I can only detect the very faintest of rose scent.  I am nose blind.  R Man for years insisted boxwood had a very distinctive smell which I never once knew.  We would be strolling through some lovely parterre and he would suddenly demand “Can’t you smell that?”  “Smell what? I would counter.  He seemed to be convinced I was just being contrary.  And then we would be off on one of those on-going squabbles that are such a feature of long time companionship and which spinsters never seem to grasp.

So what are the few things that actually make a dent in my limited olfactory sense?

  • the pungent funk of stinky old man B.O.
  • farts by people in line in front of me
  • cat pee

Which makes it all the stranger that last week Super Agent Fred and I were noodling around  in my guest room, vaguely in preparation of Diane von Austinburg’s upcoming visit (yay!) when he spluttered “Dear god, did Saki pee in here?”

I claimed not smell anything and kept doing so as I leaned in closer and closer until suddenly I was hit by ammoniatic reek.  A dense cloud of it.  Probably took a year off my life, one I really can’t afford at this late stage.

Poor Diane already has plenty enough to put up with in visiting me so I determined to clean the piss up.  I knew that cat piss shows up under a black light, so I bought a small UV flashlight to narrow down the actual site.

It was very much like being in one of those forensic cop shows, but without the terse dialogue and dreadful puns.  Amazingly, even though I was choking on the fumes, nothing glowed.  What?

Since I wasn’t having any luck in the stinky spot, I idly started flashing the light around on the hall and office floors.  Holy shit.  It looked like the aftermath of serial killer’s vacation.  Every single spot Saki has every puked on (and there were an alarming number) shone like a brilliant purple Jackson Pollack canvas.

If you are an animal owner and you are interested in being horrified about your home hygiene, go ahead and try one of these UV tests, although I have to warn you, you will never sleep well again. Years ago, a vet examining Saki mentioned that “cats don’t vomit for no reason.”  I gaped at him, stunned at his lack of experience.  Obviously a dog guy,  Through the many, many cats I have lived with, they have vomited because they were bored, or mad, or because they ran across a spot the hurled on years before and were feeling nostalgic, but I don’t call that reason or excuse.  I think it’s simply perverse.

Anyway, I gotta go mix up a batch of hot water, vinegar and dish soap and attack the scene of Saki’s urine crimes.

Chris Rockway

Why can’t I have something like this to sniff in the guest room?  Why?

In Which We Give Thanks

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I hate to be the one to break it to our dear friends on the East Coast who sound like they’re suffering through a winter that still resembles the freezer door being left open too long, but the weather this afternoon here was glorious, sunny and warm, balmy in fact, perfect for lazing around and glorying in the fact that one no longer has medical apparatuses dangling out from or off of one’s bits.

Yes, chickens, mrpeenee paid a visit to the urologist today (and let me just mention how all specialists’ offices smell very particular according to their specialty.  Pedicatricians smell like baby powder and puke, oncologists smell like hard candy from the enormous bowls of the stuff they have lying around for patients suffering from chemo-induced nausea, and urologists do not smell like pee, don’t be vulgar, they smell like old guys, a stinky stew of Old Spice deodorant and all the things it fails to deodorize.) to get his catheter out. Outoutout.

I was careful to phrase all my answers in the form of a statement that included the words “Take the catheter out.”

  • yes, and take the catheter out.
  • no, but take the catheter out.
  • maybe, or take the catheter out.
  • I don’t know, just take the fucking catheter out.

Finally we got past negotiating and he announced he would fill my bladder with a sterile liquid (like we haven’t all heard that old chestnut before) and if I could piss it out, he wouldn’t have to replace the catheter.  He went over these points five times, like they were some complicated party game and he wasn’t sure I was a bright enough guest to pick up the finer points.  He then filled me up to the brim and discreetly excused himself, leaving me staring at a steel bucket and willing the pee to come.

I wasn’t praying, but I wasn’t not praying either, looking into the depths of the bucket and thinking about faith when I remembered a charming bit of doggerel Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter shared with us on a long gone post when I was nattering on about saints:

Something’s lost and can’t be found
Please St Anthony look around.

As soon as it finished echoing around in my empty little brain, well, they weren’t flood gates, I am an old man, after all, but gates, nevertheless opened.  Never have I been so glad to see anybody’s urine.

Praise lord and all the saints! Let your shouts be manifold!  Give thanks unto the heavens and especially Mitzi, the old darling.

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Saint Anthony of All American Guys

In Which Childhood is Missed

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I’m pretty sure I remember, vaguely, longing to be an adult.   And now that I am technically here, I keep realizing “Wow, this sucks.”

Which brings us to taxes.  I’ve been putting them off for more than a month, but finally knocked them out last week, yay, which is considerably better than I usually do.   My tax guy is very sweet and patient and sends me a letter in December with a checklist of things to complete and include and a number of deadlines in boldface, most of which I ignore until panic finally motivates me.  So actually grinding them out only a few days after his deadline was a great accomplishment,

And handy, too, since on Friday I realized I was no longer able to pee and by Saturday afternoon wound up in in the emergency room confronting a breezy young nurse who assured me they would have to catheterize me.  Breezily.  There are more details, but I will spare all of us them, especially since most of them involve a couple of feet of aquarium tubing being shoved up my dick.

I’ve spent the time since then mostly in bed or at least avoiding the stairs if possible.  The good news is I’m going to the doctor on Thursday morning and, hopefully, will have said aquarium tubing pulled out.  The bad news is both cats refuse to accept as nonnegotiable my points of “NO” and “Stay off my lap.”  Tyrants.

So I tried to find a picture from some cock and ball torture filth to illustrate this (as a kind of Artist’s Rendering,) but I got distracted by this, the meaning of which I have no idea.  Let’s just pretend it represents my bladder vs. me.

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Toilet Talk

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Thanks to Jason at Night is Half Gone, we were pointed to the now terribly famous blog report of the Diaper Alley Crack Whore (here). You just know that by now the Ho in question is an internet star and whatever divey bar he’s lurking in currently is filled with people walking up to announce “saw ya on the internet, honey.” Plus, since the alley itself is pretty clearly identified, I predict it will take its place among the tourist destinations for fans of the sordid just like the Senator Craig toilet at the Minneapolis airport.

While looking to see how much the wonderful world of Google would lead to this (answer: plenty) I stumbled across a public service website that I have to salute. MizPee. Here’s the mission statement from the site “MizPee finds the closest, cleanest toilets in your area. You can add and review toilets, get some cool deals in your area and challenge your knowledge of toilet trivia.” Toilet Trivia! Cool deals (on potties?)! A groovy little illustration of a girl crapping in her pants! Speaking as someone who recently had to negotiate with the Lady at the head of the line at Peet’s bathroom to go first, I say this is a work of genius and long overdue. MizPee, you go girl.