Rambling Rhodes

WHOOPS, I crapped my pants

Via Twitter, longtime blogging colleague, Leblanc, steered me towards this, which is just chock full of awesome, and it also got me to thinking about the worst example I can recall of gambling on a fart and losing spectacularly.

Back in the summer of 1998, I had just graduated from college and was tenuously holding onto a business/city council reporting gig for the Winona Daily News. Actually, I was covering for the regular reporter, who was on maternity leave, so I basically knew I'd be out of a job in three months. Then again, at $6 an hour, I wasn't looking to make a career out of it, but I thought the experience would look good on the resume when I actually did go out looking for a career.

At any rate, one fine, sunny day in June, I was tasked with going out to get a story about a nearby hog farm that also was a plant nursery and craft shop. I know, it doesn't sound like a feasible business model, but in rural Minnesota the entreprenurial spirit can give birth to some business oddities. Don't believe me? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Pork and Plants.

So, I went out to Pork and Plants that day, put on my journalistic $6/hr. reporter's hat and, by God, I got the story. And what a story it was! It had pork. and it had plants. It had suspense. It had intrigue. Mostly though, it had pork and plants.

With my notebook smoking from all the notes I jotted down, I bid the proprietors of Pork and Plants a good and hopped back in my car--a 1989 Chevy Cavalier--for the ride back to the office.

Listening to my Rush Chronicles cassette tape, I was feeling good as I thought about the Hemingway-esque treatment I'd give to my Pork and Plants article. Perhaps it was the drowsy effect of the sun radiating through the car's windows, or just my general contentment with the world, but whatever the reason, I felt justified in letting loose a nice, rollicking ass rattle.

And, for about a half second or so, the fart went off without a hitch. Truth be told, it had the potential in its early stages of possibly ranking amongst my top five all time butt toots; it had a nice, deep tuba-like quality that promised a hearty aromatic bouquet would no doubt follow, with. . .

And then all hell broke loose.

People often use terms like "opening the flood gates" or "turning on a fire hose" or "really crapping my pants," but none of those really do justice to just what transpired that day. What exploded from my bowels that day was so forceful and unexpected, it nearly made me swerve into the ditch. I don't remember exactly what I screamed at that moment, but from what I recall of the incident, it went something like "AHHHHHH! AHHHHHH! AHHHHhhhhhhHHHHHH!"

Something I learned about crapping my pants that day was that, when I crap my pants while sitting in a cloth car seat, I instinctively clench and elevate my buttocks so that I'm in effect hovering over the seat without making direct contact. It was as if my mind made a snap judgement that said "Okay, the boxer shorts and pants are gone, man, but we can at least save the car seat."

So it was I found myself in a full press clench, hovering over my car seat, held aloft by sheer power of will, for the remaining three or so miles back to the office. During that time, my mind was dedicated entirely to the game plan that would play out once I was safely parked. I knew, for example, there was a pair of jogging pants in my trunk and, even though they hadn't been washed in weeks, they were most assuredly preferable over the soggy trouser mass I was inhabiting at the time.

Moving with deliberate, yet gingerly haste, I retrieved the jogging pants and stagger-stepped my way into the newspaper office, intent on only reaching the restroom, uttering a silent prayer that it would be unoccupied. It was, indeed, all mine, but you haven't lived until you've tried to mop your ass off in a bathroom sink, horrified that at any given second someone would enter the bathroom and you'd have to explain the frankly inexplainable situation that led to me being naked from the waist down, mopping my backside with paper towels, to say nothing of the unspeakably filthy boxer shorts soaking in the adjacent sink. I was willing to trash the pants, but the boxers were brand new silk jobbies that felt like I was wearing God's beard, so no way was I giving those up without a fight.

Eventually, which is to say in under five minutes, I had the situation under control. I ended up stowing the damp boxers in my glove compartment, and neglecting them for about a week, which led to an unfortunate dating anecdote that I won't share right now; suffice it to say. . . SURPRISE!

And that's how I ended up with the short-lived, but hilarious summer nickname, "Boxles the Clown," or just Boxles for short, given to me by "friends" I thought I could confide in (understand, at the time, I took this incident way more seriously than I'm conveying here).

They're not even trying any more

Went into my blog publishing engine this morning and perused the comments, expecting to do battle against the scourge of comment spam that's undergoing a resurgence here in 2009. Lately, spammers have been getting better at disguising their work, but today there was a spammer named "Enlargement."

To be fair, I did hesitate before deleting it, if for no other reason but because I admired its sheer cheek.

Mark Your Calendars

Explanation can be found here and here.

This could be the biggest thing to hit blogging since the Friday Five or, more notably, the Cheddar X.

Phoning it in

I received a new cell phone in the mail last week. Mind you, The Wife requested new cell phones, lest you think phone companies have begun bombarding households with new cell phones every other day, which would be kind of an interesting distraction, now that I think about it, but never mind.

You see, The Wife has a tendency to regularly drop her phone, which probably has something to do with her right hand consisting entirely of thumbs; okay, she's just clumsy. At any rate, she dropped her old phone enough times that it had finally started malfunctioning like R2-D2 after a super jolt of electricity. And, because we're on some sort of dual shared cell phone plan, I received a new cell phone along with her new cell phone (even though my old phone was working just fine, thank you very much).

As I've stated before, I hate phones. My preferred medium of conversation is absolute silence. If that's not possible, I like to convey my messages via the written word. In other words, I'm an e-mail guy, or an instant message guy or, if necessary, a FaceBook guy. I am not, I should note, a texting guy; how people can keep solid friendships alive through texting is frankly beyond me.

Getting back to the original point, I now have a new phone. It's a nice enough phone, I guess. Rather than the flip-open phone I used to have, the new phone is one of those slide-open units that seemed so hip two years ago. It's kind of frustrating, actually; after training myself to open my flip phone with quick wrist twist, the new phone requires a whole new maneuver I haven't yet mastered--kind of like hailing a cab motion mixed with a Spiderman web sling. It's very complex, trust me.

The thing about cell phones that continues to bother me is they haven't yet leaped that technological hurdle that allows seamless back and forth communication. With cell phones, only one person can speak at a time. If both participants try to speak at once, the words collide up on some orbiting sattelite and cancel each other out completely. Under current cell phone technology, the following conversation is common:

ME: It's funny you should mention that, because. . .

OTHER PERSON: What did you think about. . .

ME: I'm sorry, what were you say. . .

OTHER PERSON: Nothing. Go ahead and tell me. . .

ME: No, wait, seriously, you were saying something about. . .

OTHER PERSON: It was nothing, please go ahead and. . .

ME: *pause*

OTHER PERSON: *pause*

ME: Are you still there?

OTHER PERSON: Yeah! Yeah I'm here!

ME: Oh, good! As I was saying, I . . .

OTHER PERSON: I was going to tell you about. . .

And it kind of goes on and on like that until you're able to establish a rhythm. Come to think of it, this may be why texting is so danged popular. . . at least you're able to complete a thought. ROTHFLMAO!

Another thing about two years worth of cell phone innovation is that the new phone now has all these bells and whistles, like the ability to play music and record digital video, which would be great if I suddenly found myself in a Hollywood producer's office and wanted to pitch my great idea for a movie version of "Doogie Howser, M.D." Otherwise, such additional functionality is basically useless. It's like they're trying to disguise the fact the device basically fails at being. . . you know. . . A PHONE!

So, yeah, I now have a new phone. If you really want to reach me, however, you'll probably be able find me on FaceBook.

Monday Gross Out Convo

Caroline says: "Your dad and friends" would be a great sitcom title. If it was about your story when you came out of a swimming pool with a condom on your shoulder, it would be "Your dad and shoulder condoms."

Ryan says: Or. . . "Shouldering Your Dad's Burden." Okay, I just threw up a little bit, in my mouth.

Caroline says: I didn't realize it was possible, but you not having any distractions has made you more disgusting.

Ryan says: What's worse, from now on there's a very real possibility I'll equate "ejaculation" with "burden."

Ryan says: "Ejaculation with Burden" would be a great name for a rock band.

Caroline says: And, thanks to you, now I'll equate the little MSN notification sound to some very disgusting thoughts of yours. I have it worse.

Ryan says: Actually, now that I think about it, "Ejaculation with Burden" could be a self-help book, with the narrator named Burden. Together with Burden, you'll learn how to reach ejaculation carefully and efficiently, with no messy clean-up.

Caroline says: Can one of the book chapters please be called "Splort!"?

Ryan says: That would obviously be the last chapter.

Caroline says: Oh, I assumed the final chapter would be called "Burden's Balls: Sometimes Premature Ejaculation Happens. Don't let it get you down."

Ryan says: That's a mouthful. . .

Caroline says: Well, if you swish it around in there for a few minutes, it's easier to swallow.

Ryan says: I'll have to defer to your expertise in this particular instance.

Caroline says: Just so you know, I'm leaving because of the weather, just in case you've e-mailed me anymore disgusting thoughts and haven't heard back from me ... it's not because I'm dry heaving in the bathroom. It's because I'm home.