Bagged Lunch.

As you may have already concluded from my handle, I suffer from an ailment. I have lived with this ailment and the problems that arise with it for quite some time now. It is an embarrassing life, but it is all I know. I’m a captain in the U.S. military. I’m constantly put into situations where I am unable to do things that most people can. Being a captain in the U.S. military, my mental prowess is that of a loaf of bread. You can imagine that this hinders my ability to excel in anything in life, excluding the U.S. military that is.

Ok, ok, enough of the crap. I have Crohn’s disease which in most cases is known as Crohn’s/Ulcerative colitis. The two conditions are for the most part, the same. The captain title is more of an endearment from my friends and loved ones. I allow the title because it sparks my sense of irony. My friends and loved ones are there for me to command. I am their leader. I own people. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I am better then my friends and loved ones. Because of this, I like it when they call me their captain. Everyone should acknowledge the title and my superiority.
Now that we have established my superiority over you, you have my permission to read on. Anyone that has already read on without my permission is a terrorist and America will come and attack you in Iraq where we know all of the terrorists hide. AMERICA!!! We’re the greatest country on the planet, or we’ll bomb you.

All joking aside, I do suffer from Crohn’s disease. That’s nothing new for me or any of my loyal subjects. Crohn’s is a fun disorder. You get to visit the hospital and see all the nice people. They take pretty pictures of you with really big cameras. The photographers are scared of the cameras, and always hide in the photographer booth when they take pictures. Sometimes they give me a shake before we take pictures. I like shakes! If you’re too friendly with the nice people, they take naughty pictures of your insides. If you complain about the naughty pictures they put you to sleep and take them anyways. I can tell when they want to take naughty pictures of me now. I don’t mind so much anymore. Sometimes I get to stay in the hospitals for weeks at a time and I get room service all day and night. They actually care enough about me when I stay to come in and check on me during the night. I mean come one, what hotel have you stayed at where the maid comes in 4 times in the night to check your pulse, blood pressure, temperature, and weight? Evidently, they are really afraid that I might have just up and FUCKING DIED in the middle of the night for no reason at all. They are worried about it enough that they have to come in 4 times after midnight to see if my vital signs have mysteriously jumped from normal to HOLY FUCK, HE HAS THE SPACE PLAGUE!!! I didn’t even know that you could catch the space plague without exposure to terrorists. I’ve never been to Iraq, I figured I was safe. The nice people in the hospital know better, they treat you right, with every precaution taken. You will be checked for the space plague every two hours. If you come down with the space plague, they will take every measure required to ensure that you die a dirty, horrible, screaming death. We hate people with the space plague.

You do need to be careful around the nice the people in the hospitals. Sometimes they decide that parts of your body are dangerous to you. They say that your body is in disarray because these dangerous parts are starting to plot secretively to harm you. Sometimes they can give you medicine to keep the rebels calm and stop them from rallying too many others to their cause. If the rebels are crazy or persistent, they sometimes resort to separating the trouble causers. This is all fine and dandy in theory. To put it another way, THEY CUT YOU OPEN AND PULL OUT YOUR INSIDES!!! Yeah, think about it. Think about slicing open someone and handling their insides. Could you resist playing around while you have your hands in that? How many times do you get to cut someone open, play with the warm wetness of their inner-self, remove part of them, all the while smiling and offering up a sacrifice to Kali. Yeah, that’s right; I would play with your vital organs if I were your surgeon, reenacting old movie scenes. And afterwards, you would THANK me for it and PAY me a lot of money.

So… All of this has been leading to one thing. I shit in a bag. Yep. I defecate in a plastic receptacle which hangs around my abdomen. I shit in a goddamn BAG! The NICE people in the hospitals decided that my ASSHOLE was too rebellious to stay in my body performing its designated function of ensuring that my lunch doesn’t fall out of my body. They knocked me out, spread my happy ass, eagle, and sliced the hole, right out of my ass. Now, I’m sure that my asshole learned its lesson, but what about me? I didn’t rebel against my body. I didn’t do anything to deserve losing my lunch catcher. So while I was whining about losing my beloved butt funnel, the nice people gave me a new distinguishing feature. They cut a hole in my abdomen and pulled what was left of my colon through the hole. They sewed the ends of the colon to my abdomen, leaving me with a Shit spitting maw on my belly. Evidently, this bastardized solution for rerouting one’s waste is actually still acceptable! They cut a NEW hole in your abdomen, they cut your colon free from its normal home, and then they shove the remaining colon through your freshly sliced abdomen thus granting everyone’s life long wish to be able to watch while they crap. Seriously, doesn’t this sound like the kind of mongoloid, putting the square piece into the circle slot solution to a problem that should have been thrown out for something better a long time ago? Oh well. Until our Doctors are graced with the ability to think of new and interesting ways to solve problems, we can always fall back on the tried and true methods of drug it up until everything is too fucked to care, and if it isn’t doing what you want, CUT IT THE FUCK OUT! Remember, Doctors are practicing medicine, they aren’t always right. If something sounds dumb, you can disagree with doctors. Just talk to some of my old doctors that decided I should what they wanted without question.

Honestly factual truths

I have been getting reports from my team that there is some debate over the truth of my posts. I would like to put a stop to this right now.
I AM NOT A GODDAMN LIAR GODDAMMIT!!!
If that doesn’t clear things up for you, I am also prepared to provide captions from a conversion I had with a character witness to verify my honesty.

Ryan – “Hello C.W. and thank you for taking the time to speak with me.
Character witness – “Hi R. It’s no problem really, anything I can do to help. I’m never too busy at this time of year.”
R – “Excellent! Then I won’t be interfering with your other engagements.” “Are you aware of the rumors pertaining to my personal credibility?”
CW – “Rumors?” “Someone thinks you are deceiving them?”
R – “Yes, there have been some stirrings about the possibility that I am not being particularly honest with my posts.”
CW - “That’s just silly, you’ve never been anything but honest with people.” “I can’t believe anyone would actually think that you aren’t being truthful.” “I haven’t even ever known you to embellish the truth!” “If you need any references, just let me know.”
R – “I thank you for your comments.” “Hopefully, I won’t need references.”

Now that we have cleared that mess up, everyone will know that everything I post is solid and factual. There are no embellishments here, only truths.

Shploosh!

I have recently come into fatherhood. I must say that there really is no way anyone can prepare for the reality that is being a parent. You hear a lot of encouraging stories from parents to make sure that you’ll get through everything as have other parents with no experience. Well… No one, and I mean this, NO ONE prepared me for what happened when my little girl was born. So I would like to assist in this with my experience;

While planning for a little one, I was the one that wanted a girl. I was the only person that was hoping for a girl, as there are already an overflow of estrogen in my family. You can imagine that I was excited when we discovered the little “turtle like bulge” meant that I was going to get my way (as usual I must say). Ok, now, let’s just skip all of the details up until the actual event. You can hear people talk about pregnant women and their crazy antics elsewhere. (My wife was absolutely perfect during the whole affair. You would never have known she was pregnant.)
Ok, so here we are in the hospital, my wife has already had an epidural, on top of other happy fun time cocktails. Despite this, there are still three of us holding her down in her supposed child bearing agony. Seriously ladies, do you have to make such a fuss about it? Everyone has had the crap that was too big to come out without a bit of pain and tearing. Just deal with it, it’s not that bad. So, we are humoring my wife and trying our best to appear sympathetic to her “labor”. The doctor is crouched and prepared to receive the pitch. Three pushes and one audible *sound effect removed by censors* later, the doctor asks if I would like to cut the cord.
Let me take a second here to explain that I’m no fool. My wife, who I have already expressed is a drama queen, has just gone through the required 9 months of duty for this child, and the doctor wants to know if I would like to take a pair of scissors and cut the cord (which is connected to the baby) and possibly risk being the cause of the baby bleeding to death. I would never hear the end of it! Can you imagine the nagging I would get? “HELL NO!” and I looked for the closest person to throw over the grenade. My sister gladly took the task and sliced up my newborn.
Ok, now that all of the buildup is done and the baby is here, the nurses have cleaned her up and she’s ready to be held, they pass her to me. This is the first time I thought “no one could have prepared me for this”. You see, this is because no one tells you what you are supposed to do if you have an ugly baby. I don’t mean the “oh she’ll grow out of it” homely look. I mean the “That’s great, you passed me an afterbirth burrito, now where is my baby?” kind of ugly. I’m a logical guy, so I know right off that dropping the baby to puke is not an option because of the nagging which will ensue from my wife if the baby hits the floor. Knowing this, I did the only thing that one can in this situation and I puked on my newborn baby. No problem really, everyone in the room just chalks it up to nerves. “Dad must be nervous and have the jitters.” Nerves. Right. No, I was disgusted, heartbroken, and frightened all at the same time. I had to suffer through 9 months of a pregnancy for Gollum? Fuck that! Now I’d gotten pretty pissed. I chucked the lump of “baby” to my wife and just said “great job, you baked up a mongoloid loaf.”

Well, it’s been some time since then and I have had a while to get used to the whole thing. I love my wife. I have even learned to love my “daughter”, Steve. I do not love having to list our daughter as a pet for booking purposes. I do not love taking family pictures and being told that it was a good idea to bring the potted plant for scenery. These things I will never love. I may stop resenting my wife for the unpleasant surprise one day, but that is not today.

I hate you.

I don’t like having my thoughts on display in a public avenue for onlookers to peruse. I can’t stand the idea of shamelessly whoring out my own internal ramblings for entertainment purposes. Likewise, I despise anyone who would actually take the time to read such ramblings on. The very concept is repulsive to me. It is because of these dislikes, that I will never have anything to do with personal websites built for the sole purpose of providing an outlet for such things. I will not create, operate, or provide content for such a site. I can easily say that I hate the people that do create and publish said content. These people are often seeking self assurance through attempts at wit and grammatical superiority. This is doubly so for people that dissect someone else’s work with the single objective of self gratifying, masterbatorial ego stroking. Let me offer my suggested alternatives to these activities;

-Have a debate with a dog. Whenever the dog interrupts you, rip out one of its nails with pliers.
-Arm-wrestle a baby. After you win, poke it in the eye.
-Challenge a paraplegic to a foot race.
-Go to an amusement park with a midget and only ride the attractions with height requirements.
-Visit retirement homes and express how old everyone is. Explain to them why it sucks to be so old. Offer to perform oral sex on them.
-Offer compliments to cancer children about their hair. Before they can respond to you, punch them in the face and laugh at them for being bald and believing that you like their hair.
-Go the grocery store. At the checkout lane, insist that you don’t need a bag. Smash your canned goods into the would-be bagger’s face and call him a bag-tard. Bonus points if it actually is a bag-tard.

The point is that there are other options when looking for something to make oneself feel secure. People should Never stoop to posting their thoughts online, or reading other people’s thoughts online.

I hate you.
I hate me.

Now, tell me how brilliant I am!!!