Vaguely Writing About Sports

Y’all been reading about this huge cat who is playing in the Little League World Series right now? Aaron Durley. He’s an American expat kid who is playing for Saudi Arabia. His pops works for Saudi Aramco, where gas is 75 to 80 cents a gallon. Dude is 6’8” and weighs – get this – 256 pounds. Two hundred and fifty-mother-fucking-six pounds. Size 19 shoes. He is:

Bigger than Shaq was at age 13.
Bigger than I am now, at age 35.
Bigger than I will ever fucking be.

For the past couple days, when I get in to the office in the morning and scan the headlines on 1010WINS.com to see what’s crackin’ and to check whether anyone on my death pool list died (still in 1st place, WHAT!!), I have noticed the headline “Little League World Series Blog.” Every time I see the headline, I chuckle at the idea of every post on the blog consisting of something like “fuuuck, that dude on the Saudi team is big.”

Last night my boy told me that his team has two other big dudes – Michael Knight, clocking in at 6’3” and190 pounds, and Andrew Holden, 5’8” and 226 pounds. My boy said he was watching Durley’s team play Saipan the other night and it looked like freakin’ Lilliput up in that piece. But 6’8” at age 13? Damn. The sad thing is that the guy is just destined to play sports. He’s got no choice. I mean, he seems to like playing sports a lot, and he has his favorite sports and players and all that (Boston’s Big Papi Ortiz is his favorite baseball player), so he’s down, but still, this dude wouldn’t have a chance in hell if he told his pops he wanted to be a physicist. I like to think he’d have a shot, but you know how it goes in the USA these days (Durley is moving to Houston soon, since the Aramco compound [read: your average company town, but with a shitpile of money] where he lives in Saudi Arabia doesn’t have a high school). He’s going to be bred for basketball or football. It’s a wrap, as Ramon is fond of saying.

The other sad, but for me also rather funny, thing about this dude is the fact that he has probably unintentionally traumatized dozens of his homies in the showers already. Can you imagine being a little 6th- or 7th-grader, already pretty anxious about the whole locker room scene and the group showers and all that, and you head into the showers and see this kid’s monster cock? You’d look down at your little weenis and be like, “I’m DEFORMED!” and that moment would haunt you for years. Dude probably has a big jungly pube triangle down there too, and all these other little dudes are like bald and shit. Sucks for them. Let’s hope all the shellshocked kids scoped out some of their fellow teammates and realized that they’re in pretty decent shape for their age.

I shudder to think of that one time, that rare situation, when some kid goes to the showers and sees Durley, then sees Holden, then he sees Knight, and he just runs out of there screaming and they find him catatonic in the back of the locker room, sucking his thumb and idly pulling on his dick. That guy would never return to the showers, ever, and thus would never discover that not every 13-year-old has a freakin’ Monsanto carrot hangin’ off him. He’d just be scarred for life. Done.

I just realized that I somehow deleted my entire Biggie piece. Dammit!

Chucky

My first...

I’ve been ruminating on my blog lately – not actually on the blog, but about the blog. You know, what value it has to me or anyone else, how it’s not really about anything specific like some of the more ‘successful’ blogs, whatever that means. And after reading enough posts on various sites that I visit frequently, I have realized that it really doesn’t matter. Even the really successful blogs are basically crap – this one is Snark Central and their jokes are so fucking predictable, this breezy doesn’t really write about fucking anything, this cat’s material is recycled constantly (and when you compliment the guy, he basically tells you to go fuck yourself), this furby points out Beyonce’s armpit hair (nice contribution to society, buddy)…just shit. And some of these, with the fucking book deal? “I picked up this guy and he was really drunk and belligerent…” yeah, whatever. Go for yourself.

Anyway, I’ve decided to stay the course and just write about whatever the fuck. Not try to make it all about hip hop, as I have considered in the past, just keep it Bad news Hughes gully and do my own thing. I guess even Hughes has his “theme” – the Diary of Indignities – but whatever, he gets down however he wants to, which is pretty much how most blogs go, so…

Yeah, I don’t know what my point is except to say that my next few posts are going to be about shit. Literally. And maybe I’ll alternate it with some hip hop. So here we go….

I know I’m going to write about this later, so I figure I’d put some of the pre-treatment excitement and anticipation on paper now. It’s hard to characterize exactly how I’m feeling, but it’s akin to how I felt the night before Christmas when I was a kid combined with how I feel before an operation. This would probably be what I’d experience before going to visit a brothel -- I’m psyched, I’m nervous, I don’t know what to expect or how it will all go down, I feel like I’ve got some great secret, I’ll probably be a little embarrassed…it’s kind of fun to vacillate between feeling like this is some uncomfortable procedure and feeling like it’s a really amazing, fun activity. I have always regarded anything related to medicine and healing, be it a simple checkup or a big operation, as something to be embraced rather than feared. I’m able to handle pain or discomfort, I know it will help me and that’s a good thing, etc. MRI? No problem. Needles? The pain is overstated in most cases. Going under? Let’s do it! Sonogram on my balls? Damn, that gel is cold!

I’ve just never really been freaked out by that stuff. When it comes to the doctor, it’s all good with me, and that mindset has obviously jibed nicely with my periodic fits of hypochondria. I’m sure I would feel differently about, say, a fucking spinal tap, but that’s probably to be expected. And I still wouldn’t be totally buggin’. If you’re getting a spinal tap, you probably really need to have it done, so you might as well hug it up like a groupie on the Bone Crusher tour.

Anyway, so what am I talking about? I think I’ll just bite Cutler – I’m talking about my first colonic!

I’ve been wanting to fuck with one of these for a while. Now I’m in this weight loss bet with a bunch of people at work – and $700 on the line if I win – so I figured that a good old colonic would pull a couple pounds out of me. Plus I’d have something more interesting to write about on this stupid blog.

So Cutler posted about her first colonic, I emailed her and found out where she went – just up the street from my work, sweet – and made an appointment right quick. I walked up there, feeling the trepidation and excitement that you read a few paragraphs up, and strolled right in. Nice place, real groovy and nicely appointed. I filled out the forms, which were pretty standard. The funniest part of the forms was the part where you had to sign off acknowledging you are aware that “sexual intimacy with my care provider was absolutely inappropriate.” I guess that’s somewhat relevant when you’re getting a massage or something, but perhaps not so relevant when you’re talking about a procedure whereby someone sticks a tube in your ass and fills it with water and watches you purge brown stuff while she massages your big ol’ gut. Not quite the time for make sexy.

My colonic therapist was a Brazilian woman who told me she was 45 but looked about 30. She was attractive enough that it made things interesting, but not so hot that I felt like a complete ass. She was really nice and friendly and talked the whole time, which was actually a bit of a relief.

I changed into one of those paper gowns and we went over the procedure. She showed me the gear, how far the tube would go up, and what our respective roles were. She filled until I felt full, I say so and she cuts it, and I let the sun shine in. Repeat as necessary.

She lubed up the tube and in it went – so far, so good. Then she gave me the aromatherapy oil to rub in my hands and inhale during the treatment, to help me chill out and help the flow, so to speak. I began to wonder whether I was going to make some one-trial learning Pavlovian connection to the oil such that I would shit myself the next time I reached for a peppermint at Christmastime, but I guess we’ll have to see about that. Before the insertion, she used a chart on the wall to show me where the water would go (pretty far up, but still in the colon) and she kept talking about “when the water goes in your hole” or “hull” or something. Either way – hole or hull – I found it pretty funny. You know, second language, Brazilian accent and all that. That’s a hot accent, you know?

So anyway, she starts the flow and it’s all good, really. Pretty relaxing for the most part, with some discomfort here and there. I was passing a lot of gas at first. She told me I have a healthy colon, that I was “releasing really well for my first colonic,” and the whole time she’s rubbing me with hot oil, washcloths, stones, etc to help the colon do its thing. I almost drifted off at one point. It was chill.

The vidly part - literally the vid – was the fact that you can see what you’re releasing (just like wacking off, I suppose). There’s a clear glass tube in the machine on the wall that’s backlit and you can see all the 15 year-old crap you’re purging. All those 40s of OE and 25-cent bags of Party Mix from 1993, long time no see!

What really bugged me out was when she was using the tuning forks on me. Like, the viewing tube would be all clear, and then she would hit the fork and place it somewhere on my body, and it would just go all lively. She put that fork on my head and the tube just instantly changed color. Whoa. She’s viewing the thing, telling me I have to chew my food more – when, 15 years ago or now? But seriously, the tuning fork was freaky deaky. The water was a little cold but oddly pleasant, and after 5 flushes or so (one of them with organic coffee), we wrapped up. I used the toilet in the changing room, replete with Wells step for an extra purgular good time, and got dressed. Afterward, it was oddly funny to discuss the session with both the therapist and receptionists, as if I’d had a manicure – “so, how was your first time? Would you like to buy a package?”

All in all, I have to say that I had a damn great time and walked out of there feeling awesome, although I’m not sure I’m headed back anytime soon. I mean, it was cool, and it was effective, but I’m not convinced that I need to go back to the watering hole (ha ha, I’m so damn funny) anytime soon. I think less dairy and some more massages might be the trick for me. Still, I’m glad I went, and I recommend that every single person who reads this blog get one right away.

Ok, I’ma go get a steak now. Next post? Growlers.

Chucky