Scratching the Burning Itch of Half-Ass'd Health Care

Thursday, January 5, 2017 | 0 Comment(s)

Friends. Let's just admit that it's been awhile since my last confession/post. Life, it appears, cycles. And like those bits of laundry that fall between your washer & dryer -- sometimes you miss a cycle or two.  I'm not going to apologize, because I'm a professor now. And being a professor means never having to say your sorry.  You instead say, "I've been working on a bunch of projects."

Ya'll, I've been working on a bunch of projects.

But, one issue above all has brought me back to the electronic typewriter: "Why do products like ass cream require the pharmacy to call your doctor for refills?"

It's fucking insane. I mean let's think of the logic here. First off, said person, let's call him Matt for simplicity's sake, has a burning ass, fiery enough to make a doctor's appointment. Then in said doctor's appointment with Matt's 50-year-old female PA, Matt proclaims his ass to be flammable. I will save you the details, but this fictional Matt character may have complained of blood and hemorrhoids. At least that's the word on the fictional street.  Then Matt, having declared his rectal pain, got to watch said PA search the internet for the best creams for said issue.

*It is here, I must add, that Matt lost a bit of faith in his PA. I mean, he can google his symptoms to find the recommended cures. He can also look at the doctors' reviews of said products and corresponding side effects. Sitting there for 5-10 minutes watching her search on the computer felt a bit bush league to Matt. But I digress.

So, with no inspection of the area of said problem (I can't be sure if that was a good or bad thing -- probably bad in terms of treatment, good in terms of emotional comfort), Matt was sent on his way with a prescription for the most commonly used product for such an ailment that also had the fewest  reported negative side-effects.  In summary, the process of procuring my prescription was awkward and uncomfortable on a variety of levels.  But, this isn't even where my real issue lies.


Tuesday, June 14, 2016 | 0 Comment(s)


The problem with death has always been its finality.
No take backs.
Those smiles that rhumba'd.
the pride of our country.
A rainbow composed of more sunlight than color.
and as the angry clouds lift from the disaster 
the prism is a memory.
the reality
a darkness.

The Huge Huge

Tuesday, June 7, 2016 | 0 Comment(s)

Straight guys shouldn't write blogs about penis size. I mean, there are a limited amount of directions for said narrative:

"I have a huge dongpipe, and it's cool."

"I have a average dongpipe, and my dong related activities are unrelated to its size."

And, of course, the most fascinating to the general public: "I have a tiny dongpipe and here is how I work to overcome this  . . . shortcoming."

Personally, with the exception of casual sympathy for the micropenis'd (there ARE other ways to please each other though), I find all three storylines rather dull.  HBO felt differently, apparently, when they green-lit their 2009 original series Hung. The entire plot of the show revolved around the main character being a good looking middle-aged guy with a huge schlong. Essentially the guy's penis was the main character.  I watched a few episodes. There was a lot of spur of the moment sex and seemingly satisfied customers. But, with a one eyed worm that hides inside a guys pants all episode as the lead, I legitimately didn't give a damn for any of the characters -- including the dong's owner.  The show lasted 3 seasons. My guess is that it got extended for the later two because the only thing HBO loves more than entertainment is the opportunity to increase viewership with the promise of nudity. It is the Victoria's Fashion Show of TV stations in that way.

Don't You Dare Cross(walk) Me!

Thursday, May 19, 2016 | 0 Comment(s)

It's still free to park in Easthampton, MA. I see this as a temporary perk that will be short lived as our tucked away hamlet fills itself with more and more quality establishments.

For a itinerant worker such as myself, it isn't the buck I save on parking meters that gets me so excited. It is the relief I feel not having to worry about if I'm going to get a ticket. Personally, I've found that the majority of the times I do receive tickets, I'd put in enough money for the maximum time allowed. I'm not sure if the meter maids get sick of staring at my car during their rounds, or if their route randomly passes my vehicle after 3 hours and 2 minutes -- and by not sure, I mean of fucking course they are -- but either way, I get got. And in truth, the constant fear of a parking violation is much worse than the $10-15 fine.  Most of the time.

Today I went to the local coffee shop to work. Parking was free. Not only was it free, but there were a plethora of spots available. A literal plethora. I chose a spot directly across from my shop of choice, two spots back from the crosswalk. I got out and reflexively walked behind my car to the curb side where a meter will greet me in 5 years. But not today. I opened the passenger door to retrieve my computer and consciously decided to use the crosswalk instead of just darting across the two lane road.  The street wasn't particularly busy, but with parked cars on both sides, it can feel congested and filled with blind spots for both pedestrians and motorists.

A beige station wagon was already speeding toward the crosswalk, and just looking at the guy's face, I instinctively knew he wasn't going to stop.  He could. He had enough time and space. But his face -- the mustache, the shitty knock-off sunglasses -- told me that not only was he cruising through those white lines, he but simultaneously telling himself that he didn't have enough time to stop even if he wanted to.  He had the space. He didn't want to.