Second Effort

I feel compelled to post on weekly basis. But its been quite some time since I felt like I was obligated. What momentous event has broken me? Forced me to write. Well, it all goes back to about four hours ago when an elderly man ventured where no man has gone before. That’s right, today I was violated.

See, for the last couple days I have felt like I had to pee. Like every minute of every day, including the second after I shake off and re-tuck Lil’ Chuck Norris. I pushed fluids and tried to be patient. But after about 48 hours of worrying that my junk’s ability to function could be hinging on this, I called the clinic and got me an appointment.

Now, I am a pretty recognizeable figure in my community. And I don’t have to tell anyone what they automatically assume when you are a 20-something dude with peeing issues. So everyone looked down on me for the first 15 minutes of my visit until they could run my piss through the mystical whizzinator that tells them I haven’t caught anything from the high school volleyball team.

That’s when he started to flirt with me. “You’re the sports editor, right?” “Where are you from originally?” “And what does your wife do.”

Mixed in with this flurry of small talk are the staple questions. Yes, Chuck can still salute. No, Chuck hasn’t been wandering without his leash. And when I’m not busy staring directly at the guy’s fingers imagining just how wide they are and which one he’ll use, I am feeling sorry for him. He’s doing his job, uncomfortably dancing around that fact that not only is he about to get the best look at my asshole anyone has had in 26 years, but he’s diving right in that hairy sum’bitch. Then he finally comes out with it: “Well, I’m sorry to say this, but I think I’m going to have to do a rectal.”

“I knew we were heading that direction,” I responded.

I have to say, this is as adult as I have ever been in my life. Sure, I considered running, but this wasn’t about me. This was about Lil’ Chuck. Am I willing to sacrifice his well being to avoid a few short seconds of unpleasantness? Well, maybe. But seriously, what about the wife? She can’t be denied the one thing that makes her truly happy (other than ice cream and being smarter than other people). And what about all the wives that follow? I had to take one for the team.

So he continued to banter with me, even delving into politics. “How much did Hillary win by last night?” he asked. And just before the moment of the truth, he made sure I knew he was a republican. Almost in the same breath as the phrase “lubed up.” It didn’t matter how he actually phrased it after that. All I heard was, “Drop you drawers, turn around and bend over, bitch.”

I want to be clear in stating that I am not accusing the guy of being less than professional. He did what he had to do and tried his best to put me at ease. I was just keenly aware of some of the more awkward details. So there I am, pigeon-toed for his pleasure, as he wades into the jungle.

His utterances:

1. “Ah, there we go.”
2. “Are you having a lot of pain with this?”
3. “Hmm, just a little soft.”

My responses:

1. “Whoa, sh….”
2. “Well, it isn’t comfortable.”
3. “What does that mean.”

And then I wiped four pounds of vaseline out of my ass while he watched. It was, I suppose, exactly as I would have imagined having something shoved up my butt. It was exactly like losing your virginity. Except totally sober and way more awkward after the fact.

So the good news is he doesn’t think I have cancer. He dispatched that theory, a little too frivolously, because of my age. But he gave me a prescription for a drug called Cipro, thinking that I have prostatitis, an inflammation of the prostate. Mom, if you made it this far, you can read about it here.

If it doesn’t clear up I am to call him back. I am not worried yet and readers of this blog shouldn’t be either. But, if I do have cancer, I am going to resume smoking immediately, I just want that to be clear.

So I went out and picked up the prescription and returned to my desk. And if the vaseline in my crack wasn’t enough reminder of my run in with the true meaning of the middle finger, I had an e-mail from someone completely unbeknownst to my situation waiting in my inbox.

It helped put me at ease for a few short minutes. As I sat here, rehashing the details in my head, I began to hear his voice. Words like rectal, lubed, republican…they resounded in my brain. And then I really heard his voice. He was at the front desk, talking to my wife about some Knights of Columbus bullshit here in town. It was as if seeing me and having his finger up my ass reminded this guy that he needed to stop by the newspaper office.

I slowly stood up and peeked over the edge of my cubicle. Not enough to see the finger in question, but enough to confirm the identity of the of the first man with whom I had become intimately, physically familiar. And all I can think now is, I wish I had walked by him and winked.

I’m just going to get this out of the way right now. So everybody can blame me come September. I just think it would be poetic. And I have a feeling it could happen. Sure, we need to trade for two pitchers in the next two months, but I really think this is it. This is our year.

100 Years Apart. Then we can just rip off seven straight to prove Marty McFly right in 2015.

The ball and chain and I went on something of a mini vacation last weekend. While we had a good time, I think it says a lot about the two of us that pictured below is the highlight of our trip.

It’s true. An honest to god Masturbating Bear. What led us to this point, well, that’s a long damn story.

See, when the wife got her promotion a couple months ago, we went into high gear searching for a house only to be incredibly disappointed by the first 20 or so that we had a chance to see. We were getting stressed and I was staring down another fall/winter season at the sports desk when my lovely bride suggested we take some time for ourselves to cool our jets. We were looking online for some coo trips to Maryland and Colorado, hell, anywhere that wasn’t here.

Two days later we found our house and two days after that, our offer was accepted. Needless to say, that whole down payment thing will take some craftiness on our part even without dropping a grand on a four day vacay. We had to downsize.

So we went to Omaha for a night instead. Woo hoo! Omaha! There are actually big fiberglass O’s with exclamation points behind them (or in front, depending on which side you stand) all over the downtown area. I don’t get too excited about anything relating to Nebraska…except the odd Rolling Stones Concert, but we did have a good 24 hour excursion.

And it began at the Omaha Zoo. I don’t remember the last time I went to a zoo, but it couldn’t have been in the last decade. I was, of course, reminded of why I don’t like big public anything (or the idea of children, not just having them, but the idea of them altogether) when sickening and sweaty cornhusker mothers screamed at their children all around us, but I did have a good time. And it resulted in my first meeting with a masturbating bear.

The first time we walked past the Sun Bear dwelling, he was snoozing and nearly out of sight. But after a trip through the gorilla compound we came out atop the bear village. Zoos name their lockdowns very creatively.

So this guy was drawing quite a bit of attention, perched atop about a 40-foot tree in a full reclined position and itermitently flopping his junk around at the onlookers below. It was awesome. Suddenly the cornhusking mothers (who, by the way, were decidedly louder that the kids at which they were yelling to “Shut the fuck up!”) shut their own yappers and hustled their children past the bear. Meanwhile, every 20-something man within half a mile converged on the scene and shared a moment of uproarious laughter. Highly enjoyable.

That night we had dinner at an excellent brewry/restaurant that led to this new banner on Second Effort. Now that I’ve figured out how to change it, I probably will every three months or so. You know, about as often as I write a post.

I’m sorry. And all that crap. You don’t want to hear it anymore.

So anyway, there have obviously been some big shifts in the “Owski career and life advancement plan.” Sara gave the run down here, so I don’t have to.

While I was getting pretty keyed up to move to a bigger city, I am very happy with this development. For one thing, I’ve been waiting for Sara to catch a break for a while. I feel like this puts her on track to start saving for her retirement and my burial so I don’t have to.

For another thing, I can stop paying rent. Finally. Some quick calculations on my handy desk calculator, which I have to use regularly at the sports desk, came up with the frightening figure of more that 25 grand spent over the last eight years, assuming I paid a minimum of $250 a month. This, of course, is just my half since “hooking up” with Ed,  as I will now refer to my wife. (Sports Ed Note: Ed had to ask for clarification on why I will now call her that. You can see how her intelligence really caught the brass’s attention.) There was that year living in Iowa City when we were both forced to live on my meager income alone, which was challenging considering the vast amounts of Fanta and hot dogs we consumed.

So must begin the search for our first “Home.” I think Sara is both freaked out and excited. While I am pleased that we will no longer be flushing money down the drain, I am dreadfully frightened by the idea of not having someone to call and bitch at when I clog the toilet. No more landlord means the old man will be getting more regular calls.

And I can’t think of anything that will make him happier. Ed and I have pretty much sewed up this independent living thing. We haven’t had to beg for money or ask much advice for quite a while. Since ridding herself of her most recent deadbeat boyfriend, the little sis has been doing pretty well for herself too. So Dad has been left in Dad limbo, making regular pleas for grandchildren in the hopes they will be old enough to mow his immaculate lawn before he has to start paying someone else to do it. This, I’m afraid, is not in the cards.

But this house thing, oh, Dad will take to that. And I have to say I probably will too. While I’ve never been keen on that whole physical labor thing, I’ve reached the age where my male hormones no longer have me praying just for occasional unexpected female nudity. Instead, I have a sickening craving to paint, hammer and prune things. I get embarrassed when sorting through my unorganized tool chest and realize I haven’t used a tenth of the man-gifts given me.

It’s been such a strong desire that I actually volunteer my services to people in the hopes of being part of a weekend project. I can move heavy things, I can rake, I can climb a ladder with a raging power tool in my hand. The latter being my most often practiced and recently perfected craft.

And while I probably helped Dad out with as many home improvement tasks as any youngster, I still feel completely incapable of taking on most jobs. So instead, I will call him every time something goes wrong. He will gripe and bitch and order me to have beer on ice by the time he arrives, and he will love every minute of it.

I just wanted to share the below photo, my new desktop background on my work computer. There are perks to my job. Such as, you know, using company time and our new kick-ass photographer to do regular features on the area’s golf courses. Free golf is always good golf, but how many people get to have a professional photographer follow them around for two hours to take pictures suitable for framing?

Plans are in the works for the big state track and field weekend in Des Moines, which I have managed to parlay into some much-needed man time. Former Spartan track star Prof. Tre, now on his extended summer vacay from grueling English teaching duties, has agreed to brave the sunny 75 degree conditions while I carry out my lowly sports editor routine during Friday’s session. We will then partake in said man time through the night at what I’m hoping will be the cheapest, grungiest hotel in town. The dawn will bring more track and the arrival of our women on the scene. But it is Friday night that is of some concern.

See, I have a history of making the most of these rare nights away from the boss. On one such trip, this time solo, I spent an evening alone in my room with a sixer of Bud heavy, and not one, not two, but three Long John Silvers full dinner platters. I ate all of them. By my calculations this must have included at least 5 fillets, 20 big fried shrimp, maybe four chicken planks and about a pound of fishy french fries.  With an extra side of hush puppies and all the little crispy things.  I am confident that after this binge, sheets had to be thrown away and at least one illegal alien quit her sweet Motel 6 gig on the spot.

This, I think, has the Prof’s better half slightly concerned about her husband’s well being in my company and prompeted this intraoffice exchange:

From: Little Susie

To: No. 3

Re: Bad Influence

Rules for Friday night:
1. No cigarettes for Mikey.
2. If you decide to eat Long John Silver’s and you must take your shirts off, please refrain from rubbing your greasy bellies together. I get jealous very easily.
3. Strip club, yes. Going down on strippers, no. (Or just wait for Sara and me to get there before the strippers enter the picture. But there will still be no going down on strippers.)
4. Try not to let Mike dry-hump any of the track stars, male or female. He gets very excited about track and field events and might get a little handsy. If you can intervene and let him grope you instead, I would appreciate it. Take one for the team.

And My Reply:

From: No. 3

To: Little Susie

Re: Clarification

In the order they appear below
1. Assuming there will be no women around (aside from strippers), I sure he won’t be driven to smoke.
2. Are bellies the only restriction when it comes to rubbing greasy parts together? Also, what if we choose KFC instead, then can we rub bellies and/or other parts?
3. Strip club, yes.
4. I cannot take responsibility for him on this count. What I can promise is that I will document any such incident, including his forcible removal from the stadium with my handy digital camera.

This is gonna be awesome.