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Wednesday, 24 September
Male Rites Of Passage
First Hospital Visit
According to available accounts--my mother and father--when I pushed off my father's chest with my feet at age two and fell, breaking my arm, it was accompanied by a cry that sounded sort of like "LOOP!"
Reports are unclear as to whether or not it was my revulsion for my father caused me to reject his loving embrace, or whether his disgust with his only son caused him to indifferently drop me to the floor. In any case, no child abuse allegations were filed, which today still causes me pain, and which is why, on holidays, I mail my father photographs of suffering children.
Second Hospital Visit
By now a seasoned veteran of hospitals, I reacted as any man would when told that his infected ears were packed with dried blood and needed to be vacuumed: I screamed so loud that my mother swore that I could be heard in space. I was, I think, about four. I don't know where my father was at this time, so I assume that he was out on the streets of Ashland, Oregon attacking children with a switchblade.
First Inappropriate Sexual Epithet
When Patricia impugned my kickball skills, I did the only sensible thing that a man could in the situation: I called her a fag. It should be noted that I had no idea what the term could possibly mean; this is most likely because a child as precociously manful as I was was simply genetically incapable of apprehending such an alien concept. At any rate, Patricia's rejoinder was, "Oh yeah? Well, you're a fag-got!" Only she pronounced it "fag-get." As I didn't understand the original term, you can imagine how bottomlessly mysterious found this new linguistic wrinkle.
I think I wondered for something close to four years what the distinction was. Fortunately, I was too fucking manly to ask anyone for an explanation.
First (And Only, I Hope) Time I Drank Piss
Ah, riding on the bus to baseball games. (I was a rarely used right fielder, mainly because I was terrible and I didn't care about baseball in the slightest.)
"Hey, anyone want a Sprite?"
"I do!" I had a manly thirst.
"Sorry it's kind of warm," said Jeff, handing me a can.
Freshman year of high school; a bunch of us were hanging out when someone wondered if we could score a porn movie somehow. Using my valuable--and piss-friendly--baseball team connections, I called Travis, a senior, who kindly rented Oral Majority 3 for us for five bucks.
"Have fun, dude," he said, tossing me the precious videotape.
It's confusing that I--or anyone--ever thought it would be a fun experience to sit silently for eighty minutes, with a bunch of other guys, all awestruck and wriggling to conceal erections, pretending that nobody in the room just wished they were alone so they could frantically jack it. No fewer than two fellows present that day later came out (long after they left Idaho). I use this memory to bolster my support for gays in the military, because those guys totally didn't try to suck my cock, despite my clear and potent manliness.
First Unfortunate Beer-Related Injury
One night while "partying," I decided to cross the fateful Rubicon of manhood that every young man must: the decision to open a beer bottle with one's teeth. I promptly tore a ragged gash down my gumline and into my lower lip, to the delighted laughter of all in attendance. The next morning, I probed the wound gently while looking in the mirror, knowing that the injury was basically unhideable. I trudged morosely into the living room that Saturday morning, where my father was watching something terrible on television, like apes bowling or something. He looked at me and covered his face with one hand.
"You fucking idiot," he said acidly. "Did you get the fucking beer bottle open at least?"
"No," I moaned softly. He looked at me for a moment.
"Same fucking thing happened to me. Did they laugh at you?"
It was here that I decided to forgive my father, a little bit, for breaking my arm all those years back. It's what a man would do.
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
Ha! You never fail to entertain me!
Seeing as how I'm a girl and don't have any MANLY rites-of-passage to speak of, the closest I can muster was when I decided to open an entire party's worth of beer bottles using my hand and the curb I was perched on.
My black and blue right hand thanked me for weeks for that idiocy.
You, Skot IzzlePfaff, have lived a full life.
Ha! The first time I ever got busted for swearing (in second grade, I think), I'd called a boy in the playground a 'bitch'. I got hauled up in front of the teacher and asked what I thought it meant. I did extensive research before daring to venture back into the world of public profanity, I can assure you. Research that serves me well to this day.
Also, my first porn (on a scrambled sattelite signal in a friend's basement, natch), was a porn version of The Phantom of the Opera. I still can't get aroused unless my husband pretends to be Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Ahhh, mercy. This is amoung the few times I could type "LOL" and absolutely mean it. Not that I ever type LOL, sweet Italian Jesus.
I am inordinately happy about all those archives over there to the left that I can root through, hopefully unearthing many more wonders.
I bumped into this site via the Salty Miss blog.
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