August 26, 2005

(I was looking over some of my posts from the past, back when I was a Wyld Stallyn, back when no women could hope to contain to me, when I came across the following gem. Goddamn I made myself laugh)

I am 10 years old.

Granted, we all know that I have the mentality of a pre-teen--what with my propensity to laugh at the word "poop"-- and my math skills can only be described as "a joke", but now there's another reason that makes it that much more difficult for anyone believe that I really am 30 years old.

I have an ear infection.

Yeah, good, great, grand. What 30 year old gets an ear infection? Me, apparently.

Twat? I cunt hear you. I have an ear infucktion. Can you help me finger it out?

See what I mean? Damn I loved that witty play on words when I was a kid.

A few weeks ago I went to Urgent Care because I'd been having a pain in my left year. "Urgent", my ass. More like "We'll get to you before you pass out from the pain Care". I sat in the waiting room for three hours for them to tell me that I had a big, hard ball of ear wax that was causing the pain. No shit? Well, get it out!

They tried, and tried, but the damn thing wouldn't budge. A little gross, I know, but at least it wasn't wax on the outside of my ear. It's not like anyone could see it without an otoscope, so whatever. They also tried to soften it up with this stuff called Colace, that doubles as a stool softener, but it didn't do the trick. It's a good thing that the liquid doesn't seep through the skin, otherwise I would've crapped my pants right there in the doctor's office, and I'm just not up for that kind of embarrassment these days.

The doctor told me to go home, buy a bottle of Colace and put a few drops in my ear a few times a day, and then come back when the wax is loosened. So, not only do I have a big Death Star of goo attached to my ear canal, but I was now supposed to enter a real pharmacy, with real people working behind the counter, and buy something that's usually reserved people for old people and babies. I would've rather bought adult diapers.

I had the mental of image of bringing the Colace up to the counter, laughing nervously when the Somali lady behind the counter uses the intercom to request "Price Check on Stool Softener. Colace". And then when she looks at me uneasily, I point to my ear and mumble "wax ball", and that gets an even weirder look from her, as if I just spoke in a dead language or some shit like that.

I didn't need that. Fortunately, I couldn't find any store that sold Colace liquid, only pills. I'm no genius, but I have a feeling that sticking a pill in my ear wouldn't have the same effect. At all. It would probably just make things worse.

So, I went with the over-the-counter wax remedy, Debrox. It took two weeks for it to work, but it finally worked. A few days ago, after two weeks of intense labor, my ear gave birth to a sticky orb; a resin baby. There was a problem, though--it was still born. It didn't cry, it didn't even breathe. It just sat there like a ball of wax.

The other, bigger problem, was that my ear started to bleed and I couldn't hear a damn thing. That's not usually a good sign, is it? What? Speak up, I can't hear, remember? Christ.

Back to Urgent Care, I go! Wee, this is as much fun as a barium enema.

This time they took my plight a little more seriously and I got to see a doctor in less than hour, only to have her say "Yup, looks like you've got a pretty decent ear infection. Just like little kids usually get." Thanks, Doc. No, really, describing it that way makes me feel like such a man. Perhaps you'd like to tell me my penis is "cute" while you're at it? That would give me the same feeling.

She prescribed me a drug named "Ceftin" for the infection, and said that if it keeps oozing clear fluid after I'm done with the medication--right now, it is--I'd have to come back so that they can check for a punctured eardrum. Lovely.

Yesterday I was reading up on the wonder drug, Ceftin, you know, just to make sure I could drink while taking it--I can--and the website I was on listed all it's various uses. There was, of course, the ear, sinus and throat infection, but at the bottom of the list, there stood the super-happy-fun STD, gonnorhea.

What she didn't tell me was that my ear was not only infected, but it has The Clap to boot. I guess the good thing about this is that, if I'm quick about it, I can go out, get gonorrhea, and not have to get a new prescription for it. Two birds, one stone.

So, just a forewarning for those that were looking to fuck my ear this weekend; Don't, I have no idea where it's been.

Summit '08 is in the books. Ship it. I don't have the energy to do a proper write up, so here's are a few snippets from the weekend.

On the way down, Drizz and I stopped at Culver's for a quick bite. Upon placing my order, I was given unlucky order #13. I should've told Drizz to go ahead without me, continue on the Chicago, leave me behind because I was in for more than one form of hurt during the weekend. I was pretty much spot-on. Taking the Greyhound back to Minneapolis would've been the safer choice.

Not once, but twice I waited for Drizz to seek and play penny slots like the true addict he is. Only one of those was in a casino, you know, where he could win real money. The second time was at The Brat Stop outside of a Chicago, where the shitty slot win held "no cash value". He somehow walked away a $2 winner after winking at the busty barkeep, who was a woman.

I played poker in an actual casino during our one night in Milwaukee. Of course I was down a whole buy-in (nah doi) when I won most of my stack back on the very last hand against a guy that was in desperate need a of a voicebox. AA>bottom pair. We had a dealer that looked like the bastard child of Iggy and Corey Feldman, and the 1 seat had been there over 24 hours. Playing 3/6 limit hold 'em. I would've felt bad if not for that impressive stack of white chips. Those are $10 chips, right?

We apparently attended a Cubs game on Saturday. I was also told the Cubs won. Who knew? I remember drinking a lot of watery malt beverage on a rooftop patio, eating a killer spicey sausage(no homo), 1 and a half hamburgers(only half of the first one because I threw the rest of it out after drunkenly bringing it in the bathroom with me. Idiot) and walking more stairs than a drunk guy should. Also, I've never been more afraid of a random girl staring at me than I was at that game. That's why nobody saw me for more than 10 minutes at a time--it's tougher to eat a moving target. You see, I was afraid she would eat me if she caught up with me.

Enjoyed the hell out of the lesbo bar down the street from DP's. Not only did I drink some damn good Alpha King, but the owner gave DP carte blanche over almost the entire bar. That included that the arm-wrestling that DP and I tried to keep on the down-low, so the other guys wouldn't rag on us too much. The only thing that would've made us more homo at the point in the weekend is if we both went in to the bathroom to keep it a secret. In case you really want to know(you don't), our match stalemated. That's probably the only competition I didn't fail at the entire weekend.

Speaking of failure, I lost not one, not two, but three consecutive $20 games of darts that same night. The first one Joaquin and I had no chance, mostly because he could barely see straight, let alone hit a small target with pinpoint accuracy. I chalked the 2nd and 3rd were just bad luck because Drizz was playing out of his fucking mind. Triple 20, double 13 to win it? Drizz would hit it. 5 bullseyes in a row? Oh, you're fucking right drizz hit it. It wasn't tell the next day that Drizz let slip that he's played competitive tournament darts, that a-hole. Obviously he didn't mention that while we were playing. A-hole. I guess he made up for it by not making me drive either way.

I'm pretty sure Kent hugged me on Saturday night, but I don't know exactly why. Anyone?

I also lost $40 playing poker. Had we played more than just a few hours on Friday afternoon, I assure you I would've lost more.

Wait a minute. I ate 4 fast food meals over the course of the weekend and I lost every damn thing I bet on--I now know what it feels like to be Grubby, albeit on a much smaller scale.

No homo.

My steam, it's gone. I'm sure I have more stories in my head somewhere. Now I have to find something to do to make it look like I'm working the rest of the afternoon.

T-minus 10 days until stupidity ensues in Chicago. We're not very much into debuachery as a group, but we are very much into the stupid.

Also, I'm a little excited about getting to drive there. It was cheaper than flying, and I don't remember the last time I actually took what would be considered a road trip. Probably when I was 20 and my then girlfriend and I drove my bitchin' Ford Ranger down to Six Flags just north of Chicago. On the way back we were planning on camping near Wisconsin Dells, but ended up having to hit up a classy Super 8 on the outskirts of town due to rain, where the lady grilled me about who I was with, and if everybody was over 18.

I was all like, yes, lady, here's my Discover card to prove that I am very much a grown up, god damn it. I'm an adult. Get off my back! I'm outta heeeere.

Anyhow, this time through it sounds like the numbers are a little pared down. What the fuck? Iggy is playing in a shitty Las Vegas poker tournament, F-Train will be watching him play in said shitty Las Vegas poker tournament, Daddy has family business to attend to, and Garth? Nobody knows where Garth is hiding out. Who's left from last year's attendees? Who will donate to me in the late night poker game?

Oh, right, Bob and Grubby. Nevermind. Color me tickled pink.

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I had planned on brewing two 5 gallon batches of IPA last weekend, but as it turns out, I'm an idiot and didn't think to check the burners on Molly's stove to find out if they would actually boil the beer. They won't, of course, which results in having to shell out even more money on brewing equipment. In this case it means a new 7.5 gallon pot and a propane burner for brewing outside. Let's not talk about not having anywhere outside to brew, or that when I'm finished boiling, I'll have to bring a scorched pot of liquid hot mag-ma up three flights of stairs in order to cool it.

What are the odds that at least one of my legs has a nasty wort burn by next weekend?