Thursday, November 13, 2008

RERUN: elderly hover peeing and other sins of the mothers

oh for goodness' sake of COURSE its been edited.
this request per SURLYGIRL, who you really need to go see and get reacquainted with because she is rollerbitchin' and live action and funky fresh and also groovy in a happening way!

...ACTUALLY, you know what? SURLYGIRL requested the exorcism story. BEAST requested this one.

Kinda says it all, doesn't it?

You can go to numerous places...say, any tavern, for example- and hear terrifying accounts from men forced to take a dump outside their castle walls. Once I stop laughing I can commiserate, because after all, everyone has to 'vote Republican', right? And eventually you have to do so in a public restroom, where you run the chance of having an audience of people who are not close family. Depending on which part of the South you live in.

But see, guys know nothing about this, not really. Oh, they whine and bitch about being serenaded whether they want to be or not, but has anyone really addressed the horror that is THE WOMEN'S' SIDE OF A PUBLIC RESTROOM? No.
Because it's too horrible.

Of course, that is why I am here.

This, then, is what WE have to contend with.

Nice enough looking woman, right?
You see, from the navel down she's nothing but holding tank. I can say that with complete confidence because a number of years ago it was standard operating procedure for women to have pretty much all their lower organs removed once they'd hit menopause. They'd just pack whatever was left into a plastic bag and let it bob around in there. Meanwhile Zelda is still putting away the sauerkraut and cabbage rolls, only now it has all this ROOM in which to accumulate...and compost...and it's all expected to exit out one hole...a hole upon which gravity, not enough dietary bulk and childbirth have taken a certain toll.

So lets say you're an average female-type gal sitting in a stall taking a leak, maybe humming a little tune, when the swollen ankles and black K-Mart tennies of this woman appear beneath the wall next to you.

They always sigh.

Then there's a Rgnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. Which is more of a concentrated lack of breathing than it is an actual sound, although sadly this is not always the case.

Then they bear down and WALOOPAGAZOWPAKASPLOOSHKADOOSH WABOBP FRAPPO KADOOSH out gallops every meal they've eaten for the past week.

Then the pyroclastic wave hits. Your shoelaces start crying and crawl away and hide.
The hair on your ankles begins to singe.

Now some women are content to simply expel this burden in one long, LOUD, chunky rush, kind of like when the city flushes the hydrants in the summer.
Other women, midway through this process, become so intent that they evidently lose all sense of their surroundings and begin to emit long, sustained birthing groans.




~Gaslooshasooshagadonk,foosh gadooshgoooooooooosh~

Little ladies can surprise you with their capacity. And they're yippers rather than groaners. But it's the big ones who perform the awe-inspiring crimes against nature.

They are also the ones most frequently guilty of firehosing the entire back wall of the cubicle.

Let's revisit that concept for emphasis, shall we? FIREHOSING.
Over the years they've lost track of where exactly their rear exit is anymore so they just work their pants down over the rolls, bend over and hope some hits the water.

Ever gone into the ladies room in a club and heard the drunk woman in the next cube crying and farting at the same time?
'BwaAAAAAha..." ~fuurrrAAAAAAAAAAP! pt pt'
'Hic, Uwuaaaaa,huh hwaaaa,WwAAAA haaaaaaa!"
~FFFFFFFFFFFfft pt pt pt`

It's tragic.

At Charlies' on Capitol Hill all this was playing out one drunken evening when my glasses fell off and clattered under into the adjoining stall. She handed them back to me.
"H H H Here, are thehehese yours?"
I thanked her. "Listen, are you ok?"
"Y Yeah, I'm fiiiiii huhiiiiii hi hi hine UWAAAAAAAAAA...." ~FFRAP! pt pt pt~

OK then.

Many older women have a deep aversion to placing their bottoms onto a seat which has recently supported the bare buns of a stranger. And that's understandable. Use one of those hippie t-shirt things in the wall dispenser. Or craft your own ass gasket out of toilet paper, Martha Stewart style.

But no. That will not do.

No, these women would rather STAND UP AND PISS ALL OVER THEIR OWN FEET.

And their pantslegs. And their shoes.

Because peeing all over yourself is ALWAYS WAY BETTER than sitting on a bare toilet seat. EW GROSS A BARE TOILET SEAT EWWWWW.

You glance over and see a pair of trembly blue veined old ankles with some big old underpants streeeeeetching out between them as elderly Mrs. Anonymous Potty Person tries to convince those Teflon hips to let her straddle the bowl and you can pretty much be certain it's gonna rain.

And it does. All you can do is hope the floor slopes away from your position. You think I am exaggerating. HA.

The rest stop on I-5 at Smokey Point seems to be where all their potty alarms start ringing at the same time. I've been sitting in there when an entire flock of old ladies has gathered to stage a group performance of ELDERLY SYNCHRONIZED HOVER PEEING.

Invariably, these are the woman who pee in splurts.
Or who make motorboat noises.
Imagine Angelina Jolie with a mouthful of Mountain Dew making motorboat noises.
That's what I mean.
And then you hear them flush, and then here they come out of the stalls, chattering away, and off they go, feeling that sense of accomplishment that comes of having successfully avoided sitting on a DISGUSTING BARE TOILET SEAT, soaked with piss from the knees down.

Some of you may be too young to remember these.

No. Not butts; girdles.

Now, in the '60's, back when coelecanths ruled the earth and I was a little kid, all the older ladies wore them. You were supposed to wear them over your big old underpants but nobody did, because with nothing to grip they'd slip and shift suddenly and flub would come shooting out in odd places. And back then girdles were still made with rubber...either rubberized sateen, or just...plain rubber.
This is a recipe for evil.

1. Rubber girdles......had an......aroma. Already. Right out of the box. A very rubbery aroma.
2. Rubber girdles were not machine washable.
Hand wash only. In the bathroom sink. Strange. Tan. Floaty. MOMMY THERES A SCARY THING IN THE BATHROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
3. Rubber girdles DID NOT BREATHE LIKE EGYPTIAN COTTON. (Except for this one, which looks it could have been played like an ocarina.)

No, very little air passed in and out of a rubber girdle.
....Except when it did so under pressure, in a series of sharp little reports, out the waistband or the legholes. SNAP! SNABABABAP!
And remember - this air had exited first through an aperture better left unimagined and then spent an unknown amount of time racing desperately around and around the hot, sweaty, compressed flub of a fat womans ass like a hamster in a Habitrail.
As Redd Foxx points out, this woman may have been riding in a taxi cab. This woman may have run to catch a bus. She may have had liver and onions for lunch.
Usually she was standing next to me on the elevator in Meyer and Franks. Giving ME dirty looks every time it happened.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Rerun: You gotta wash yo ass!

This is a story about the Meadows family. See the sidebar? If you have not met the Meadows clan yet, do go and hit the list there. You'll probably regret it. In the meantime, this is true story about a real family that I rented from....BRIEFLY.
...and yes, its been edited. I remembered a few things. Lucky you!

Driving professionally takes a certain toll on one's lower body, and Mr. Meadows was decidedly gimpy after twenty some-odd years behind the wheel of a milk truck. In full stride he walked like a sailor in a full diaper. When he got up from a chair it would take him a couple of minutes to build up steam, during which he'd make a great big dramatic deal out of hitching around room, bent over at the waist, groaning and exclaiming, knocking over potted plants and end tables with his giant ass.

We were all sitting around the kitchen table watching this show one evening when Kelvin laughed and said to his brother "Hey, aren't you glad you don't have to squeeze his butt anymore?"


I thank God that this following episode happened before I knew these people.

Many moons gone*, seems ol' dad had been bothering a zit on his ass. After a couple of weeks he'd succeeded in making it nice and infected. The time he spent loading and unloading his truck each night further aggravated this condition, as did hustling back and forth making deliveries. The additional hours spent behind the wheel of an unsprung truck seated on vinyl might as well have been spent scooting his bare backside across a patch of coarse grit sandpaper for the effect it had on his carbuncle. It grew into a distinct, golfball-sized entity one could detect through the heavy twill of his white uniform pants.

Yes, well. The spreading pinkish stain was also a giveaway that all was not well in assville.

But he carried on, brave soldier. And sure enough, his Spartan regimen of shitty diet, hairy crack, poor hygeine and neglect paid off; the thing subsided and went away. See? Nothing to worry about.
And all was well.

Until he hopped up into the seat of his truck one night and a quart of green pus shot out of his ass. He screamed, he jumped, and in doing so drove his forehead into the windshield so hard he passed out.
Dad had given himself an anal fistula.

(Now at this point in our story Mr. Meadows himself sauntered over and chimed in, all smiles, to helped tell the tale. By the end even Sunflower had joined the fun. And the important thing to bear in mind here is that none of them saw anything inappropriate at all about entertaining a guest with a story about ass disease.)

Mr. Meadows woke up in the hospital on his stomach with a freshly shaved fundament and some nice big dressings.

The original carbuncle had moved back beneath the skin and fat into the meat of the muscle, and then had actually migrated downward toward a vestigial anal gland, which it ruptured and emptied into. Because this gland had an open channel to the rectal passage, all the old pus and other chunky necrotic guck met up with some brand new bacterial buddies floating around in the fluid that was already there. The whole stew turned into a horrifically toxic ticking bomb. When he jumped up into the truck, the impact of his giant lard ass hitting the seat with all his weight behind it made the fistula explode. It burst, sending a quart of unimaginably horrible semi-fluid corruption geysering out through the pore-sized exit of the gland, enlarging it to the size of a dime.
All this had happened right at the ingress to his egress.
He'd literally been torn a new asshole.

Now that dime, and the tennis-ball-sized cavity behind it, were cleaned out and filled with cotton packing. They sent him home and told him he could remove it himself in a couple of days.
Oh by the way. Don't leave rejoicing just yet, Mr. Milkman. If you don't keep your ass clean, the thing will FILL BACK UP.

Skip ahead one week.
It filled back up.
With the packing in place.

The only course of action now was to nut up, remove the packing, express the gland and keep it filled with Neosporin.

Sunflower flat out refused. Of course.

So the task fell to Eldest Brother.

There were several YARDS of surgical gauze up there.

Luckily, once the part that had hardened into a solid, cork-sized plug of blackened matter had been worked out, the rest of it came slithering out pretty easily. Yards and yards and yards and yards of it. Slithering out.

Don't imagine that this was accomplished without lots of commotion on the part of Satan's Milkman. Eldest finally had to tie him to the bed.
With belts. Leather belts.

So every night for a couple of months thereafter, it was Eldest Brothers' job to collect up everyones' belt, buckle them together, tie his father to the bed face down, spread dads giant nasty asscheeks and then pinch his dads' nasty infected asshole between his thumbs and express the infected gleeg out of the gland into a washcloth until it was empty. No matter how many washcloths it took.
Then he had to poke a tube of goo up there, root around until he found the right hole, and squeeze until the goop started to squit back out.**
Then he'd fold a bath towel into a square and slap it up against dads pucker, let his asscheeks slap back together, and wrap it all in place with an ace bandage.

All done!

I never took a shower in that house again.


*like I was going to resist that? please.

** Sometimes Eldest Brother didn't find the right hole and went through a whole tube of Neosporin before he realized that he'd just disenfected his fathers entire lower colon, and somehow never thought to wonder why dad never bothered to mention that something felt different. (I did. And then I thought about it for a second, and I.... didn't.) Sometimes the Neosporin came squitting back out at velocity right into Eldest Brothers....whatever happened to be in range. This Mr. Meadows idea of a fun little joke. Surprise!