TMI Thursday: From the (HACK! COUGH! AHHHHHH!)

It's TMI Thursday my friends. For more stories that will entertain and disgust you at the same time go to LiLu’s place for this week's full list. And now, on to the fun!

In TMIs far and wide, the four Ps have been widely discussed. For those unfamiliar with the four Ps, they are, in descending order: Pussy, Penis, Piss and Poo. In a way they kind of remind me of George Carlin’s “Seven Dirty Words You Can’t Say On TV.” Such wonderful words those were: shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits.

Anyway, for your consideration, I’d like to suggest a fifth P, Phlegm, and its subcategory, snot, with this little story.

[Note: After a day's contemplation, I realized, Phlegm, and its subcategory, snot, would actually be the sixth P. I'd forgotten one of the most venerated Ps earlier and I'd like to take this opportunity to give Puke its proper due. So, Puke, here's to you! Huzzah!]

It was late November; we’d been aboard that little island off the South Carolina coast for about nine weeks. None of us had any hair yet, mainly because it’d been shorn to the skin about four times in the two months, but we were starting to believe we maybe just might march off the Parris Island parade deck as Marines in about a month. (Historical note: It was freezing fucking cold Dec. 17 of that year and I got to graduate from boot camp indoors. Yipee!)

Yes, we were hard, hard young men. We’d lost weight – in my case, more than 50 pounds in nine weeks while eating about 7,500 calories a day – built muscle and learned to shoot a man from 500 yards. We’d run the obstacle course, learned how to turn our backpacks into a flotation device we could shoot from while assaulting a beach and battled the other platoons in the pugil stick ring.

We were tough.

Yeah, not so much.

Nothing, and I mean nothing at boot camp is done without a reason. No matter what you may think at the time or later, there is a method to the seemingly insane madness that is Parris Island. The drill instructors know the recruits’ heads are getting a bit swollen now that they’ve survived more than two months and made it through the rifle range and Mess & Maintenance (working in the chow hall) weeks. So it’s time to take them down a peg or two.

Or, say, 20.

The build-up starts the day before. DIs laughing and smiling and commenting about what’s coming tomorrow. “Ha, boy, we’re gonna git you good,” is a common refrain.

And then, suddenly, it’s the next day already. It’s time.

You’ve had the classes, you know your mask works, but that’s little comfort as you pass through a door with this sign over the lintel: Even the Brave Cry Here.

The gas chamber.

You walk in with your hand on the shoulder of the recruit in front of you, and the hand of the recruit behind you on your shoulder. The air is thick, you can barely see the person you’re holding onto for dear life.

The billowing clouds of acrid CS (tear gas) bite hard into the exposed skin of your head, neck and hands. Unlike the DIs you’re not wearing a hood or gloves to protect these parts of your body. But then again, they’re going in and out, you just have to do it once (easy in retrospect to understand, but it kinda sucked at the time).

“Just let me get through the next three minutes. Just let me get through thenextthreeminutes. HolyFuckingShit!Justletmegetthroughthenextthreeminutes!”

They start you start slow. You crack the seal of the mask while holding your breath and let the mask fill with the gas and then re-seal it and clear the gas by blowing hard. You get most of it out, but not all, and now your cheeks are tingling…just like your ears. (I’ve heard tell CS feels a bit like a sunburn. That’s a fucking lie. It feels like a sunburn someone is rubbing with steel wool.)

After everyone’s clear and gives the thumbs up, it’s time. Time for the mask to come off. Completely.

The funny thing about CS is while you may think you can avoid it by holding your breath, you can’t. You may not be breathing, but it’s still seeping up your nose, irritating it and causing you to breath in just a little.

And that’s all it takes my friend. That tiny, insignificant breath, no more than the tiniest little whiff really, and you’re done cause your next instinct is to take a deep breath to really blow it out and now it’s in your lungs and you’re coughing and you’re hacking and the only thing keeping you from screaming like a little bitch is the one thing you’ve remembered is to keep your fucking eyes closed.

Oh, and did I mention it doesn’t matter if you’re an pearl diver from the Philippines and can hold your breath for five minutes? You don’t get the chance to hold your breath because the DIs start asking you questions which you have to answer. This requires you to breathe, which you can’t do 'cause your lungs are filled with CS gas resulting in a scene suitable for America’s Funniest Pseudo-Sadistic Home Videos.

And then, like the cherry on top of a shit Sundae, you get to sing the Marines Hymn.

“From the (cough, cough,) Halls of Montezuma (hack, cough, hack), to (cough) the (hack) shores (hack-cough) of (cough-hack) Tripoli (cough-hack, hack-cough, spit, hack, hack, hack)…”

Eventually, they let you don and clear your mask proving, again, the equipment works, which is all the gas chamber is really for anyway.

Then you’re allowed to leave the chamber, your hand on the shoulder of the man in front, one hand on your shoulder. When you emerge into the weak, late fall sun, it’s only two minutes after you went in, but your head’s a lot less swollen.

Probably a side effect of the five gallons of phlegm leaking from your nose and mouth. Seriously, have you ever seen a man with a 4-foot trail of snot running from his nose?

I have. And I’ve been that man as well. It pretty much sucks. But on the bright side, my sinuses were cleared for the next week or so.

And that's not even a very long snot trail.

Time in a bottle

A couple of weeks ago, one of my best friends asked me a simple question, “Why aren’t you on Facebook?”

I answered her question with one of my own, “Why would I need to be on Facebook?”

“Well, it’s fun. You can find out what everyone you knew back in high school is doing,” she said.

“I really don’t care what the people I went to high school with are doing today.”

I don’t think she quite understood my response.

Seriously, I couldn’t give two farts in a stiff Texas breeze about 652 of the 654 people I graduated from [insert name of rich, suburban Rust Belt high school here] with back in nineteen garble garble. The two who are left, you ask? Well, I’d drop everything on less than a moment’s notice if they called and said they need my help, as I’m sure they’d do if the situation were reversed (right boys?).

Everyone else can get bent as far as I’m concerned.

How can I dismiss out of hand 652 people? It’s not like they were bad (well, at least most of them were nice). It’s just that over the years those bonds of high school friendship that seemed so, so very important have not stood the test of time.

One guy, who I was as close to as the two who are left just kinda-sorta drifted out of my life after he got his girlfriend pregnant about three years after we graduated. His life got different, and we stopped having anything in common. The conversation ended there. It just petered out.

I’m not a Luddite, resisting some new-fangled Internet thingy just for resistance’s sake. The digital camera and souped up Mac I received this week prove that.

But perhaps, as I think about it, there is a bit of resistance to the idea of Facebook in my actions. Maybe I am old fashion in my thinking that a friendship is something that goes further than a few short sentences on a wall or posting a new picture or two every once in a while.

I used to love writing letters to my friends. During the 13 weeks I was at Parris Island I must have written 50 letters to family and friends. While I was in Saudi Arabia during the Gulf War I wrote letters back to the complete strangers who’d taken the time to write to Any Marine. Some of these started correspondences continuing long past the time I returned home.

I can’t remember the last time (aside from Christmas cards) I put a pen to a clean sheet of paper to just say hi to a friend. How about you?

For me, friendship involves the breaking of bread, a shared bottle (hopefully something distilled by Mr. Jameson) and tales of mischief, woe or love told face-to-face. A hug goodbye as you leave a party is so much more satisfying than clicking “sign out” when all is said and done.

I’d like to think the time I don’t spend on Facebook is time I can spend with you ITRW.

The worst pain…ever

I’m feeling a bit of a ranty mood coming on today. You’ve been warned.

Folks, when the traffic is jammed up like on, say, I-395 going past the Pentagon toward the 14th Street bridge at just about any hour of the day, is it really necessary to pull up as close to the car in front of you to prevent people (me) from merging from the on-ramps? It’s a shitty interchange. I know it, you know it, everyone knows it.

Funny, this is the picture I got when I Googled "Mixing Bowl"

The road goes up a hill, down a hill, bends to the right, then the left around the Pentagon then back to the right again before crossing the 14th Street bridge and then bending to the right, left and right again. There are on and off-ramps coming and going every which way as they please and, seriously, whatthefuck were they thinking? Whoever designed this thing should be flogged within an inch of their professional lives with their T-square. Or, rather, I’d think, their compass since there are so many bends in this road.

But that doesn’t mean you, as a driver, have to do everything in your power short of using a particle accelerator to join your bumper to the car in front of yours to stop me from getting on the highway.

Those a bit crunchier-than-thou among us would say, “Well, if you were riding a bike you wouldn’t have to worry about all of that.” True, but that’s not the point of this rant, so shutthefuckup. (Those of you who know me, know I have a bike, love riding it and will, if properly outraged by rude drivers, not hesitate a whit to use my fist on the fenders of offending cars. U-locks work really well too.)

Seriously, you’re not going to get to where you’re headed any faster by cutting me off from merging. All you’re going to do is up your already dangerously high blood pressure and risk blowing out that artery twitching in your forehead long before you can tap into your depleted 401k.

So, it’s called the “zipper.” If you’re crawling along in rush hour traffic in the right lane it’s your responsibility, nay, your duty, to allow a car on the on-ramp to merge in front of you.

Learn it. Love it. Live it.

Second verse, same as the first
Oh my god! Everyone run for the hills with your duct tape and antibiotics, the swine flu is gonna get ya. (Note: Neither of these items will actually help you when it comes to swine flu, just wanted to mention that. Yanno, for legal purposes.)

Or, at least that’s what you’d be thinking if you watched the news in the past two days. CNN this morning was like the Swine Flu News Channel (SFNC). I heard news about it on Elliot in the Morning on the drive in. Apparently, according to the report I heard on the radio, the Israeli health minister doesn’t like the idea of “swine flu” because it’s not kosher, and from hence forth, it will be called “Mexican flu” because, yanno, that’s so much less offensive.

But would you like to guess how many people the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention are, as of this morning, reporting have come down with the dreaded malady?

Three million? (1 percent of the U.S. population.) No.

Thirty thousand? (1/10,000 of the U.S. population.) No.

Three hundred? (1/1,000,000 of the U.S. population.) No.

The answer? Forty, yes, 40. Four-zero. Just slightly more than one ten-millionth of the American population (13 millionths). Let’s say that number again: ONE TEN-MILLIONTH. (This number should rise significantly, numbers speaking, in the next day or so as tests are completed, but c’mon.)

According to M. Webster, a pandemic is an outbreak occurring over a wide geographic area and affecting an exceptionally high proportion of the population. What does this mean?

According to CDC, malaria is prevalent in areas of the world where about half the population live (3.2 billion). Each year 350 million to 500 million cases of malaria are diagnosed (5.8 percent to 8.3 percent of the world population). One million of these people die, 80 percent living in sub-Saharan Africa.

Funny, CNN isn’t giving this any air time, but let a couple of people in NYC or SoCal get the sniffles? You’ve got yourself a national story of the utmost importance.

Swine flu is the friggin’ flu people. Cover your mouths when you sneeze or cough, keep your fingers out of your nose and eyes and, if you feel like shit?

Don’t. Go. To. Work.

Stay home on the couch, keep a bucket handy and watch some Sports Center and TNT’s “Primetime in the Daytime,” drink lots of fluids and get better. If you don’t feel better, call your doctor. Here’s some more helpful advice from the really, really smart people at CDC.

The pain! The pain!
It starts slow, but spreads quickly. Like a lightning flash, every nerve ending in your body is on fire. It is a pain that can never, ever be equaled.

Guys, you know what I’m talking about.

It’s the pain caused by not being able to play with a new electronic toy because, say, it’s missing the right friggin’ monitor cable.

Making matters worse, the Apple store doesn’t have one in stock.

Ya know what? I’ve been looking forward to my new computer for days. Yesterday, after I saw FedEx had delivered it, I had to hold myself back from leaving work early to go home and play with it.

But when I figured out I couldn’t play with it last night, well, that was like Steve Jobs kicking me in the jimmy.

The pain is almost too much to endure.

Life's goal

I want to be just like this guy:

aaa

The Most Interesting Man in the World.

I want to have awkward moments just to see what they feel like. I want to live vicariously through myself.

I love these commercials. They make me smile. I admit it, I’ll rewind and watch them again (and maybe even again). The Dos Equis Web site is pretty cool too. You can learn the skills necessary to be the MIMITW’s assistant.

These skills include, but are in no way limited to, arm wrestling Mao, Churchill and Joe Stalin; how to use a blowgun to plug holes in his luxury submarine; or how to avoid a shiv in the ribs by using the proper insult in the proper location. For instance, in Polish "Jak ma ciebie patrze to mi oczy zachodzą musztardą" means "Watching you makes my eyes go blind with mustard." You wouldn't want to throw that out just anywhere because you risk finding yourself face down in an ally.

Me? I’m staying thirsty.

TMI Thursday: Sneaking about in plain sight

It's TMI Thursday my friends. For more stories that will entertain and disgust you at the same time go to LiLu’s place for this week's full list. And now, on to the fun!

Remember those days in college? You know the ones I’m talking about: Those days in February when the only money you had left, if you were lucky, was the balance on your meal card?

The weather had yet to turn, even in the warmer climes of the American South. The nights were cold and you’re still a couple weeks away from being able to stumble from bar-to-bar in shorts and a T-shirt. A decision is made, and you and your friends maybe figure tonight it might not be such a crime against nature to spend a Saturday night in. You know, just the one.

You trade in the potentially damp and cold night chugging Blue Cups at He’s Not, and the decision is made to gather everyone for movie night.

Yeaaaa! Movie Night!

You, your roommate, your girlfriends and six or eight friends gather in your room because, hey, let’s face it, nobody else has a 20-inch TV (yeah, it was cool at the time) and your room is set up for large crowds. The key feature of this set-up is your loft where the mattress sits about 7 feet above the floor, giving folks plenty of room below to sprawl in chairs and the cool hammock slung in the eaves of the loft.

“What should we watch?” someone asks, and the discussion ensues. Finally someone says, “Hey, Chris has ‘Xxx Xxxx xx xxx Xxxxxxxx,’ we can borrow that.”

Glancing up at your girlfriend in the loft, you give her a little smile and a wink. She smiles too and, maybe, even blushes a little. The two of you have borrowed this same movie from your suitemate at least three times in the past month…and never made it to the end.

At least not clothed, that is.

The movie is slid into the VCR (remember those?), and with everyone comfortable, you hit play and climb up into the loft and join your girlfriend in the balcony seats to watch the stirring tale of epic heroism and forbidden love during the Xxxxxx xxx Xxxxxx War.

It seems tonight, with a room full of friends, you two may, perhaps, just maybe make it to the end fully dressed.

Or not.

The hero rescues the girl from a fate worse than death and, as the first great battle scene begins to rage, you spoon together, cuddling closer, back further toward the wall where the shadows are deeper. More private.

The loft is strong with plenty of bracing to prevent any untoward swaying and squeaking. You know this be you built it this way with your own two hands.

The need for quiet forces small, slow, intense, passionate movement.

The film (shot, I should add, in North Carolina) reaches its climax with a crescendo as our hero races to rescue his love once again. He succeeds, and you hug your girlfriend close whispering, “I love you” softly in her ear.

While the credits roll, your girlfriend feigns sleep as you bid farewell to your friends from the safety of the loft. The last two people to leave are your roommate and his girlfriend, heading over to spend the night in her room.

As the door closes, a hand reaches out for yours.

You smile.

Just a bit outside

Boy, this little news item is going to ruin a lot of vacation memories for countless people.

Apparently, everyone who’s ever had their picture taken here:

at the Four Corners Monument with their arms and legs splayed into what they believed at the time to be four different states was, actually in Arizona the whole time.

Seriously, I’d be a little pissed, but since I’ve never been I can’t get too wound up about the whole thing. Hopefully they’ll move the monument to the right spot.

Or at least put a sign up telling people it really isn’t where they say it is.

Schools, drugs and the Supremes

I don’t know if anyone’s seen this story, but the Supremes will be hearing the case this week.

If you don’t feel like clicking the link and reading the whole story, the short and very, very dirty version is this: six years ago a 13-year-old Arizona student was strip-searched by zealous school administrators in their search for illegal drugs.

Excessive? Some may say yes, some may say no. Until, that is, you find out the school’s vigilant principal, vice principal and nurse strip searched the girl while searching for ibuprofen. Personally, I’d say they not only pegged the excessive meter, the excess needle started spinning like a pressure gauge in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

C13H18O2: It can be administered orally,

topically or (hehe) rectally

According to CNN’s lovely story (they must be hiring better writers in Atlanta these days since this one’s actually readable) the school has a zero-tolerance policy for all prescription and over-the-counter medication, including ibuprofen, without prior written permission.

“In this case, the United States Supreme Court will decide how easy it is for school officials to strip search your child,” Adam Wolf, an attorney with the American Civil Liberties Union who is representing the student, told CNN Radio on Sunday. “School officials undoubtedly have difficult jobs, but sometimes they overreact -- and this was just a clear overreaction.”

Ya think? Maybe just a little?

When nothing incriminating was found in the student’s backpack, the vice principal and the nurse (both women) had the girl strip to her skivvies. She then had to turn out the cups of her bra and pull out the waistband of her underwear so they could make sure she didn’t have any anti-inflammatories stuffed down her drawers.

You know what? Even if they’d found her muling a key of pure, uncut Mexican brown their reaction would have been too much. In case these folks out in Arizona haven’t heard, there are actually people called “police” who are specially trained to deal with a situation like this.

Although, I’m pretty sure, the cops would have laughed at the school if they’d called and asked them to strip-search a student to find out if she was hiding OTC medications. That should have been their first clue they were making a mistake.

Their second clue should have been THEY WERE LOOKING FOR FUCKING IBUPROFEN!!

If I’m wrong, and I’m never wrong, I recall from reading many of your blogs (often on TMI Thursdays) 13-year-old girls may perhaps suffer from “discomfort” as they become women. Also, from what I’ve read, there may be a fair amount of embarrassment associated with this event and they may not want to go to the school nurse to ask for something to help with the cramps.

I find it totally reasonable a young girl might have a little stash of Advil or Tylenol (the brand name for another dangerous gateway drug: acetaminophen [C8H9NO2]) in her school kit.

The school district, inconceivably, won the first and second go-rounds of the case, but lost in front of the full 9th Circuit. The school has said it feels a ruling against them could “jeopardize campus safety.” Any restrictions on them strip searching students could be a (have to use the quote here because its logic when applied to anti-inflammatories is amazing) "roadblock to the kind of swift and effective response that is too often needed to protect the very safety of students, particularly from the threats posed by drugs and weapons."

Perhaps a moment or two of contemplative thought instead of swift action is exactly what this situation called for, eh? Maybe? At the very least it would have saved a forest of trees from becoming briefs (Ha! Get it? Briefs?).

School officials added the judges of the 9th Circuit were “wholly uninformed about a disturbing new trend” – the abuse of over-the-counter medication by teenagers.

How the hell do you abuse ibuprofen? (I checked with a doctor friend of mine, you really can’t.)

What happened here is these school officials made a HUGE mistake and they know it, and now they’re trying to litigate their way out of the mess they’ve made.

One of the most important jobs a school has is to teach its students to respect the rules of society. But by stripping students of their rights, to say nothing of their clothes, this school has utterly failed in its mission of turning young adults into productive citizens.