memories

The times my dad taught me about enemas, hemorrhoids, and prostitutes…

Today’s post may be disturbing or triggering to some people… Personally, I choose to laugh at these memories, but some readers may not find them very funny, since technically a couple of them are about what many people would consider child abuse. Anyway, you’ve been warned… proceed with caution.

In the interest of writing something that doesn’t have anything to do with current events, I’m going to share a few stories about my dad. Regular readers of this blog may know that my dad and I didn’t have the easiest relationship. He was basically a very good man and he was an excellent provider. But he was also controlling, uptight, and an alcoholic who was occasionally abusive to me. Despite that, he definitely had his moments of hilarity… especially since he was so uptight and military, and I was… well, I was kind of outrageous and frequently shocked him. Case in point, people who know me well, regularly send me this kind of stuff on social media. For some reason, they think I’ll like it.

For some reason this morning, I was reminded of South Park and the episode during which the South Park kids ask Chef (RIP) about prostitutes. He doesn’t want to tell them, and expresses exasperation that they’re putting him in the position of having to explain such a thing. The kids finally goad Chef into bursting into a song about prostitutes, which includes a poor impression of James Taylor…

“Dagnabbit!”

This morning, after I enjoyed a hearty laugh at this memory, I was reminded of the time I asked my dad about prostitutes. Picture it. The year was 1981, and I was about 8 years old. I’d been riding on the bus, where I endured daily bullying from the asshole kids who had grown up in Gloucester County. My parents had just moved us to the county months before, so to those kids, I was a “come here”. However, as Gloucester didn’t then and still doesn’t have a maternity ward in its hospital, a lot of those kids were born “over the rivah”, like I was.

I was born in Hampton, Virginia, as were some of my Gloucester native classmates. A lot of the other “natives” were born in Newport News or Williamsburg. Those nearby cities all have maternity wards. The difference was, they were raised in Gloucester from birth, while I moved there when I was eight. But since my parents ended up staying there for 29 years, I think a lot of them think of me as a “native” now. Anyway, I digress…

Those kids picked on me mercilessly every day, both at school, and on the bus. I used to come home in tears all the time. I was different. I was also obnoxious, but I was just trying to fit in and make friends. For some reason, one day I told one of the kids about the time one of my male cousins offered me money if I’d show him my private parts. To put this in perspective, when this incident happened, I was six or seven years old. He was two years older, so he was eight or nine. I doubt this was anything more than pure childhood curiosity. It was definitely innocent on my end, although I don’t know what my cousin was thinking. We never got along and I’ve never asked him about it. He’s probably forgotten all about it.

Before we lived in Gloucester, we lived in Fairfax County, up near Washington, DC. University Mall, a glorified shopping center that was kind of like an enclosed mall without a roof, was right behind our neighborhood, and I was allowed to go there by myself– completely unthinkable today. There was a Giant grocery store and a High’s convenience store, where I could get candy. My aunt and her family lived in our neighborhood, so I saw my cousins regularly. They were close in age to me and used to walk me to and from school. So when my cousin offered me what seemed like a lot of money just to show him my vagina, I trusted him. Because, at that point, I was not taught that any part of my body was “private”, per se… Remember, it was the late 70s, and he was my first cousin.

Some hours later, my parents found the money and questioned me about it. I told them what happened, and they returned the money to my aunt. I think she gave my cousin a spanking, and that was the end of it. I never came away with the idea that there was anything weird about the story, so I guess I told it in an attempt to fit in with those kids. But the kids on the bus laughed at me, and called me a prostitute. I had never heard that word before, so I didn’t understand why it was so “funny” for eight year olds to call another eight year old child that.

That afternoon, my dad was working in his frame shop, the business he ran out of our house. I asked him what a prostitute is. Our conversation went something like this.

“Dad, what’s a prostitute?” I asked.

“What?” He was pretty shocked at the question, and his brow furrowed because I was so young to be asking.

“What’s a prostitute?” I repeated.

“Where did you learn that word?” he demanded.

“I heard it on the bus.” I replied.

My dad got a look of disgust on his face as he explained.  “A prostitute is a woman who sells her love to people.”

I was a little confused, since love is supposed to be a good thing.  Selling is legal.  So is loving.  So is fucking, for that matter.  But I didn’t press him for more details, because he looked kind of pissed.  

This was the very first issue of Mad Magazine that I ever read. I recently read that Mad has ceased production.

A few years later, the neighborhood pervert, who used to refer to his penis as “the home of the Whopper”, gave me my very first issue of Mad Magazine. I loved reading Mad, back in the day, and I still enjoy it, even though it was introduced to me by a person who used to regularly show me pornography, completely unbeknownst to my parents. They thought of him as a good neighbor and a friend. He even babysat me once or twice, even though he used to show me Penthouse, Playboy, and a strange quasi-medical book called The Sex Atlas. Again, I was very innocent, so I didn’t think what he was doing was wrong. I used to watch whatever I wanted on HBO and was rarely monitored by my parents. It wasn’t until I was much older that a mental health professional told me that what my neighbor did was technically considered sexual abuse of a minor.

Anyway, there I was reading Mad Magazine… I was maybe ten or eleven years old. And I came across yet another word I didn’t know. The word was “enema”. There was a feature on doctors and the running gag was a physician who would prescribe enemas for everything from a sore throat to hemorrhoids.  Naturally, as a somewhat sheltered kid, I didn’t know what enemas were.  I also didn’t have access to Google in those days, so I asked my dear old dad.

My dad was a somewhat formal guy.  He had a sense of humor and could be funny when the mood struck him.  But he was also very military and conservative and he didn’t approve of my raunchy sense of humor. To put this in perspective, my dad– who served almost 22 years in the Air Force– once blushed seven shades of red when Bill told him what “Charlie Foxtrot” is a euphemism for in the service (cluster fuck). My dad didn’t like swearing or other “inappropriate” talk. In retrospect, he probably didn’t like it because it reminded him of his father, who was also an abusive alcoholic, and swore a lot. He and his father did NOT get along.

Still, I was totally innocent about enemas, and my dad didn’t mind teaching me about such things.  I had never heard of them and simply wanted to understand what they were so I could get the joke in my favorite magazine. Our awkward conversation went something like this…

“Dad,” I asked, “What’s an enema?”

Dad put down what he was doing and said, “What?”

“What’s an enema?” I repeated.

He got a strange look on his face and said in a rather matter-of-fact tone of voice, “An enema is a very uncomfortable and unpleasant procedure in which someone forces a tube up your behind and flushes out your bowels with liquid.”

“Huh?” I asked, suddenly shocked and grossed out.

“It’s very unpleasant and uncomfortable.” my dad reiterated.  I guess he hadn’t heard of Fleet’s, which are somewhat less horrifying than the old fashioned enema bags he was likely thinking of.  

I started thinking about it and wondered if my dad was speaking from personal experience.  He probably was, come to think of it.  But somehow, I knew better than to ask him more specific questions about enemas. To this day, I haven’t yet experienced an enema. Certainly not one like he had described. I have witnessed Bill going through them, though, since he’s a man of a certain age.

And then there was the time I asked my dad about hemorrhoids, but all he told me about that was that your intestines come out of your ass and bleed on your underwear.  That happens to be factually incorrect as well as disgusting. 

I really could have used Google when I was growing up, but if I had, I wouldn’t have these funny memories of asking my dad about inappropriate things like enemas and watching him struggle to tell me about them without blushing.  At least I never asked him about douching.  And at least this post has taught me how to spell hemorrhoids. It takes practice, that’s for sure. 

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Trump

Clorox and Lysol anal probes? Why not?

Like a lot of people, I was pretty shocked to read about Donald Trump’s musings that we all inject ourselves with Lysol and Clorox and get exposed to more UV rays. I was even more shocked this morning when I saw that many major news outlets, including The New York Times, ran articles imploring people not to follow The Donald’s advice. Alas, they are probably right to make the statement, since there are people out there who are stupid. Seriously stupid. Remember the couple from Arizona who decided to ingest fish tank cleaner because Trump said a cleaning additive called chloroquine phosphate would help cure coronavirus? The wife wound up in critical condition and the husband went into cardiac arrest and died. So, for that reason, it makes sense for newspapers and other media outlets to instruct the public not to inject themselves with bleach and/or Lysol. Some people really do take Trump’s word as gospel. The papers would also do well to remind these folks not to pour sulfuric acid on their genitals, either.

Dude… you don’t even know what you’re talking about. STFU.

By now, it should be pretty clear that Trump doesn’t care much about your health. He cares about your vote and your dollars. And if you’re nice to him, maybe he’ll help you out, but only if you can do something for him. So I wouldn’t take his advice on most matters, but especially those that have to do with health. I have read comments from apologists who say Trump was being “sarcastic” and/or “thinking out loud”, and we should give him a break. My thing is, the orange disaster has been in office now for over three years. He should know that it’s not smart to make unrehearsed statements or discuss things with a hot mike. Decide what you’re going to say before you get on TV and make an ass of yourself… and/or make statements that could seriously harm people.

No, you weren’t being sarcastic, chicken dick. And even if you were, that would have been extraordinarily inappropriate under the circumstances. Why not act like a real leader?

People are still stubbornly championing this guy, though, despite his incredibly asinine comments. They whine about how we haven’t given Trump a chance. Like I said, he’s been in office for three very long years. He’s had a chance, and he’s fucking things up. I’m not surprised, since Trump’s talents mostly involve fucking… either actual fucking with women (and reportedly, girls) or figuratively fucking the people with whom he does business. I have yet to see a single shred of evidence that he cares about the people he’s supposedly serving. I have seen a lot of toddler-esque temper tantrums, blame shifting, passing the buck, and lectures to especially female reporters, demanding that they “calm down” and stop being so “nasty”.

I can barely stand to listen to him myself or look at his mouth, which always looks like a urinal to me… I have never felt this way about any other president in my lifetime. In fact, as much as I dislike Mitt Romney, I think he would be 10,000 times the president Trump is. And I never liked George W. Bush or Bill Clinton, but they are both about 50,000 times better… and Obama is not even in the same league as Trump. I never paid much attention to Obama when he was the president, but now I delight in hearing him speak because he doesn’t sound like an arrogant buffoon with an intellectual disability.

The jokes about Trump’s latest ridiculous suggestions have been fast and furious. One friend shared this photo with me.

Yeah… this is the ticket to health and prosperity!

Another shared this…

*May also kill you… but maybe death would be preferable?

I started thinking about the old jokes about anal probes from aliens. It occurred to me that some people are so brainwashed and lacking in critical thinking skills that if Trump suggested anal probes that were impregnated with Lysol and Clorox, there would be a contingent of people who would happily shove them up their asses. And The New York Times would write more articles warning people not to wear anal probes because Trump said so… but unfortunately, the people who most need that information would not be the type to read The New York Times… or anything else, for that matter.

Cartman probably admires Trump.
But Trump’s anal probes would probably be more like the Kids in the Hall’s version of anal probing…

Anyway… as usual, Trump lies and deflects and passes blame to others… and people still think he’s great. But maybe Trump really is onto something with the Lysol. My friend DeNeil says that Lysol’s original use was douching. Yes, it’s spring, and time for spring cleaning, but I don’t think I want to clean my private parts with Lysol. I guess somewhere along the line, someone came up with the idea that Lysol is better for killing germs on surfaces that aren’t made of flesh and blood.

Yow! The things we do for love!
This seems somewhat gentler…

Well, anyway, I think I’ll keep taking health advice from people who know something about it. But, like Anderson Cooper, I’ll still be shocked by the things Trump says and does… and then denies.

No Trump… you said it. It’s on camera. Own it. Grow up.

I think that’s about all I have the heart to write about today. I hope you’re all staying healthy and not listening to Trump, except maybe to laugh at him. And if he ever does suggest probing your anus with Lysol and Clorox, please turn the channel and debrief yourself. But don’t debrief yourself by taking off your underwear and sticking something caustic up your ass.

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