Las Vegas - 2014 - Brendan's Bachelor Party

Life is an interesting series of events. First you're born, imagery I will exclude. Then you go on to shit your pants a bunch. Then you go to school, and experience recess and how hilarious it is when one of your friends gets injured, usually under some bizarre circumstance. Then eventually hair bursts from your nipples and you discover masturbation, a discovery that typically coincides with pornography. Then there's high school, a period of your life where most people have a delusional sense of self-importance. Most people don't leave. Then you work and have sex, and generally something goes wrong during one of those activities.

Then sometime after all of that, usually after you finish school, move out of your parents' house and find a stable job, it's about time to get married to that girl, or guy depending on who's reading this, and if you don't identify as either male or female, well then it's time to begin the overly difficult process of marrying that organism that occupies your time. Now, most importantly, the part that happens after is the party. In my case, it was time for my friend's bachelor party. After that, people get married, have children and then we all die, so it's hardly worth mentioning. Unless you're eager to get your quarter life crisis out of the way like I did. I'm giving away existential crises at a fair price!

So I get a text one night, and one of my best friends tells me that he is getting married. You can imagine how over joyed I was, partly because I was happy for him, but mostly because I had won the long standing bet of, "Who Will Get Married First?" Come to think of it, I think we all won that bet... Naturally the conversation that took place immediately after between myself and everyone else was, "What are we doing for his bachelor party?" A sentence men use to disguise the true question, "How can we holy fuck with him before he gets married?" It took all of 30 seconds to decide. Las Vegas. There is absolutely no good reason for us to go considering Brendan's preferences in life, but we're going anyway. Fuck that guy. We will train him in the art of acute misery to better prepare him for marriage.

... I think I actually felt Chelsea pick up a hatchet for a second there.

This is the story of our adventure to Las Vegas in May of 2014. As I said in the article I wrote about my trip to Vancouver with Susie, a writing I haven't finished yet for no good reason I can think of, this is my odd way of preserving memories. As you read this story, you'll be surprised to know that I actually remember all of it. I had no business in Vegas, literally and metaphorically, but you can make out with balls if you don't like it. I hope you enjoy the story, and have to pee really bad by the time you start reading about Monday.

Saturday, May 3rd, 5:00am
I just realized I'm breaking the unwritten law of, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." We now reach the second point in this writing where you can make out with balls. So I wake my ass up at 5:00am, forget to pack my toothbrush because I'm an idiot, and get picked up by Chris at 6:00am. It was around 5:45am, actually, meaning that Chris could be a vampire. I wondered how he had managed this, until I saw the enormous Monster energy drink in his car. That man was wired as fuck. I was almost worried that he was going to drive to the nearest mountain and climb it with nothing but his eyelids.

Chris gave me a tour of his new house, which is notable because of his Saw-like basement that had a set of monitors showing the positions of the hidden cameras set up around his house. I can only imagine he's waiting for the day he sees the girl from The Ring lurch into frame and... begin furiously masturbating. Then Brendan arrived with the help of his Starbucks enriched fiance Chelsea, and we finally tell him straight up where he's going. We had fucked with him for a while, asking if he'd enjoy fishing or spelunking. Of course, Larry spilled the beans right infront of him at wing night one week, so he knew what was going on, but it was entertaining nonetheless. Emotional distress is recreation for us. On reflection, kidnapping Brendan and putting a bag over his head for the duration of the flight to Vegas was a far better plan.

So we drive to the airport and realize we don't have to go through customs, as we have a connecting flight in Regina, Saskatchewan. Chris, on the other hand, had a direct flight to Vegas, so he had to clear customs. This resulted in Brendan and I having to wait forever until we got to board. We waited so long, I'm pretty sure Jesus came back to life. I was a little upset that we couldn't pre-board as well. I love getting on the plane before I get on. So we're about to board the plane, when we realize we're being led on to the tarmac. We had to take a fucking bush plane to Regina. I'm almost positive I saw the pilots' feet coming out of the cockpit. Needless to say, our flight to Regina was interesting. I'm certain the interior was made out of repurposed refridgerators, and the propellers just had some playing cards stuck on there so the plane sounded like it was going fast.

We land in Regina and located a Tim Hortons. For my American readers, Tim Hortons is a haven for those eager to eat and drink bullshit while developing caffeine addictions. Of course, it wasn't a real Tim Hortons. It was just a counter with a vending machine beside it. In order to earn my place in that shitty Tim Hortons, I had to go through security, where some lady threw out my fucking sunscreen. Goddamnit, I paid like 10 bucks for that yogurt that deflects UV rays. I wish we had a flight back to Regina so I could jam a cactus up her ass, or maybe just get my sunscreen back. I do find it a little strange how they confiscate and dispose of anything over 100mL. Great, I'm no longer a danger on the plane, but the entire airport is fucked up now because of the cream I intended to masturbate with.

The flight to Vegas was alright. The guy sitting beside me, who wasn't Brendan thanks to the brilliance of airlines, ordered just about everything on the menu. The dude opened a cafe right next to me. I can't believe they have menus on planes now. I find that obscene. I remember when they used to just give you a bag of something crunchy and told you to shut up. For longer flights, they gave you something that resembled cheese with a sausage under it. After that, people filled the lavatories faster than a strip club on two dollar titty night. Good times.

Now, for anyone reading who's eager to travel to Vegas, let me mentally prepare you. When you begin your final descent, it's going to feel like the back of the yellow school bus. Then, when you're about to touch down, the plane is going to turn into an enormous teeter-totter, almost as if the aircraft itself prepares for Vegas by drinking. Don't worry, you'll live. But like me, bizarrely, you'll develop sympathy for popcorn kernels. All you can hope for as you wait for your brain to erupt from your head, is that it becomes delicious when smothered in butter and salt. I felt like someone had bounced a basketball on my head for about 3 hours, and I was hungry and thirsty. McCarran airport did little to help. You could find more food in the desert. Come to think of it, they may have been trying to hammer that point home.

So after landing, we had to clear customs. You have to fill out a declaration or something when you land. Not knowing this, I had to find a pen in the airport, which is far more difficult than it sounds. There were counters upon counters with pens on them, but they had all been forcibly removed from the tiny chains via assholes. So we found a nice Albertan couple willing to lend us a pen, and thus began waiting at the very back of the longest line I have ever seen in my life. It looked like everyone was lining up for the new iPhone. Luckily some guy spotted us and asked if we were on the West Jet flight, and we were rushed to the front of the line. After that we had the pleasure of standing in another line waiting to give our declaration form to some dude that I was really hoping would be dressed as Elvis. Sadly not. Missed opportunity, McCarran.

Stepping outside for the first time in Las Vegas is fun. You get hit with this blast of hot air that leeches all the moisture in your body in under 2 minutes. It's not like Hawaii where a muggy blanket washes over you. No, this is like stepping into a gigantic oven while walking into a blowdryer. There we encountered our third line of the day, the line-up for taxis, which was more or less as long as my penis. So like, really long. I would liken it to Godzilla's tail. For all the ladies reading, I'd like to add that there's more where that came from. So we got a Shuttle to our hotel instead, Treasure Island. Driving to the hotel from the airport is really incredible for the first time. The whole drive there is like an advertisement with a pulse. Giant screens showing everyone performing in Vegas, for ages and ages. Out in the distance there's probably someone having sex with a camel, but I didn't look.

The view of the city driving in is stunning. It looks like something ridiculous you'd build in Sim City. The whole time I was waiting for the giant eyeball to loom over the city and vaporize The MGM Grand. We dropped our bags off in our room and headed up to Chris's room, where the troops were stationed. Chris, Braeden, Chad and Kyle were there, laughing at us and our relaxing flight to Regina. Brendan and I were on the verge of starvation, so we went to a restaurant in the hotel called Gilley's. Don't ask me why it has a dumb name. We sit down at our table, freezing our balls off because every indoor area in Vegas is like the arctic north. The transition from sauna to crisper drawer delivered more of a shock to my system than... something shocking, I can't think of a good example.

The hotel is littered with games upon games upon games, but the moment I truly realized I was in Vegas was when our server walked over to our table and had more ass hanging out than a baboon. Her titties could have popped out the top of a turtle neck. Then she delivered a burger to my table larger than a newborn child, with a side of fries that could feed the population of Belgium. Chris got a pretzel the size of the steering wheel on a city bus. In the middle of the restaurant there was a mechanical bull, surrounded by drunken bachelorettes. Needless to say, it was dinner and a show. Although, the best part was the one guy who attempted to ride it, got bucked off faster than the spider on my hand two weeks ago, and was subsequently teabagged by the bull. Owned.

After dinner we went to Margaritaville to purchase some drinks called "Yards". They're essentially giant slurpees served in an enormous crack pipe, laced with alcohol. It's like the version of 7/11 you regret less, depending on the involvement of hookers. Now that the guys were armed with yards and I had a bottle of water, because I was ready to get FUCKED UP, naturally it was time to show Vegas just how classy Canadians are, by bursting into The Venetian wearing orange shorts, wielding towering slushy alcoholic beverages. We watched people gamble and stuff for a while. It's quite a place, The Venetian. As I rounded a corner, Braeden turned to me and said, "Welcome to the world of sports gambling." There was a wall of monitors the size of movie screens, and the wall stretched the length of the CN Tower if it fell over. Just one of the many areas in Vegas filled with people who might be trying to avoid foreclosure.

We went back to the hotel to have a bit of a rest, and then we decided to dress up super fucking good to see the volcano show infront of The Mirage. Damn did we look good. One girl got pregnant on our way to The Mirage. Speaking of our journey to The Mirage, we also saw a dead dude on the sidewalk beside Margaritaville. That man either had the best night of his life, or the absolute worst. I like to think he achieved the former. So we watched the volcano erupt and stuff, which was cool. Not as cool as the volcano that erupted two states north, mind you, but cool nonetheless. Had we brought the dead guy with us, we could have partially cremated him for free. Yes, I'm tasteless, but look on the bright side. When I go to hell, he'll slap me.

The rest of the guys went out to the club after that, while the groom and myself mosied on back up to our snug hotel room for a rousing session of oily ass spanking. Like I always say, it's not gay if you beat them up afterwards. Really though, I was a fucking zombie by the time I got up to the room. I laid in bed, and 30 seconds later I was gone. I don't remember any anesthetic drugs entering my system, but I was gone faster than Rob Ford's dignity. Somehow the rest of the guys partied until about 5:00am without collapsing. Myself and Brendan have a theory about this that I will share with you on Monday morning.

Sunday, May 4th, 10:30am
I woke up around 10:30am feeling absolutely incredible. You know that feeling you get after you indulge in a guilty pleasure? Ignoring the shame, that's what I felt like. I was your guilty pleasure. I felt like I wanted to fuck the sun that morning. Instead we got up and went to Larry and Steve's room, which was so far away from the elevator we had to bring supplies and find shelter. When we got inside, we, as well as Steve discovered that he had somehow drunkenly stocked his fridge full of beer, and bought two litres of water. I find it amazing that he transported that much shit to his room without damaging anything, including himself.

After that we had our second run-in with American food. Specifically, the portions. We went downstairs for breakfast at "The Coffey Shop", where they misspelled "coffee". We truly were in America. I ordered a pancake tower for some reason. Four pancakes with sausages in the middle of the bottom two, with eggs on top. No one should be capable of finishing that amount of food. I suppose this explains why Americans are huge. I always thought it was because the country is prone to tornadoes, and it was all in an effort to stay on the ground if one touched down. So after we all prepped ourselves to give our respective toilets an absolute beating several hours later, we started walking down the strip.

First everyone went to buy more fruity, alcohol laced drinks from Margaritaville, which came in adorable little sand castle buckets. Then we walked by The Bellagio, where we stopped to watch the fountains. Shortly after the fountains that wonderfully simulate your mom having an orgasm (burn), Steve suffered an allergic reaction to whatever the fuck the guy put in his drink. I've never seen full body adema before. I made the suggestion of seating him in the shade, putting a hat on the ground and having him clap his hands together like pincers like a lobster. He decided on the more sensible option of Benadryl. Then we walked through a part of The Bellagio which, if I remember correctly, was filled with fancy fucking shops. Gucci and Dolce & Gabbana for starters. The shops we were walking by would make our girlfriends panties wetter than Kobe Bryant in the fourth quarter.

We ended up at Planet Hollywood, which Britney Spears appeared to be performing at, according to the enormous building-sized advertisement on the side of the building. I was disappointed to discover that she wasn't beating cars with an umbrella. Our purpose at Planet Hollywood was to eat at a sandwich place called Earl of Sandwich. I highly recommend visiting this place should you find yourself in Vegas. That shit was amazing. It's like Subway, but nothing like it at all and it's made inbetween Jesus's tits. Make peace with however that makes sense in your mind. Afterwards, the guys went off to the pool party we had booked that Brendan wasn't keen on going to at all, so myself and Chris stuck with him and walked the entire length of the strip. I counted exactly 13 towering structures that looked like dongs. I regretted not going to the pool party just a little bit, if only just to see Steve high off of his balls from the combination of Benadryl and alchohol.

We were in Vegas on a fight weekend, Mayweather versus a dude named Mariana or something, I don't care. The fight was taking place at The MGM Grand, which I was eager to visit. Not only because Tupac was shot there, but because it was mentioned in Ocean's Eleven and I've been told it's cool and stuff. We were approaching the main lobby, and I changed my mind. That was the longest line I've ever seen in my life. Holy shit. I think fewer people stormed Helm's Deep. We ended up at The Luxor, which is the pyramid with the sphinx infront of it. Once inside, we accomplished one of our goals of the trip, which was getting Brendan spanked. It was our dream to deliver a woman to Brendan's bedside every night, for the sole purpose of spanking his sweet ass before bed. We didn't get to see him spanked every night, but we did get him spanked once at random, so it's a victory for us. I say at random, because we were just walking through the hotel and some girl grabbed us and offered to spank him. Had she summoned a toilet for me to shit in at that moment, she would have made two of my dreams come true in that moment, but alas.

We ended up back at Treasure Island relaxing in the room, since we had just walked through the desert like The Alchemist. A considerably nicer desert, mind you. But eventually it became time to dress up fancy again and go to the strippers. The strippers are interesting for me, because I've never been. I'm not a fan, but I am a fan of titties, so since I was basically forced to go, I realized worse things could happen in life. We took a party limo short bus thing to Sapphire. Luckily the entrance came with instructions so we knew how to get inside. There's a hilariously tacky sign over the doors that looks like it was made out of Lite-Brite that says, "Enter Here!" I will admit, I was a little curious if any of the strippers assholes were labelled in a similar fashion.

So we go inside and have to go through about three checkpoints littered with enormous intimidating gentlemen before we could get to the strippers. I resisted the urge to tickle one. We get inside, and there's about 10 strippers waiting to pounce on us, with maybe 6 servers wearing slightly more clothing. One of the strippers rubbed my arm as I was walking in. Not understanding the social structure of this establishment, I turned and said, "Sorry!" She looked a little bewildered. Then one girl reached for my dick, but I dodged her. We also lost Kyle at this point. Keep in mind we were maybe 30 seconds in, and Kyle had disappeared about 5 seconds in. It's like we were playing British Bulldog on the way in, and one of the strippers got him and took him on the tour of the club. Secretly, she wanted to take him on a tour of her exposed vagina. I like to think that she did.

We sat down at a table, and if you're like myself, somewhat socially awkward and inexperienced in the art of strip clubs, and somehow find yourself in Las Vegas, be warned. You will be swarmed by women eager to squish your face inbetween their tits. Worse things could happen in life, I suppose. The first woman that came up to me and sat on my lap was this scary sounding Russian girl who offered me, "a very sexy dance" and potentially a needle to the neck. Felt like I wanted to stir my pasta with her. She was built like a popsicle stick. I wanted to lift her up and throw her like a spear. I turned the dance away, only to be faced with another dance a few seconds later. All I could hear was the supporting cheers of my friends as I said, "I guess so" and gave her 20 bucks. Thankfully, this isn't the part of the story where someone actually makes out with my balls. Mostly for their sake. I walked a lot that day.

The sounds of their cheers were then muffled as this woman encapsulated my entire head with her enormous breasts. I became an Oreo. I heard what sounded like immense laughter as her tits covered my ears and I began to struggle breathing. Then a minute later it was over and I felt no different. My head probably had a little more baby powder on it than it did previously, but oh well. Then I got another lap dance from, I would say, the hottest girl in that club, courtesy of Chris. The rest of them were about as appealing as dentist tools. The first girl just kind of seizured on top of me for a while, but this second one was a tad dirtier. The first thing she did was put her head inbetween my thighs and put her hand on my bulge. Then she rubbed it for two seconds. I realized in that moment that I had to pee really bad.

Then she rubbed her tits on my face, which I realized was unfortunate for her because I had stubble that day, so she essentially massaged a cheese grater for a few seconds. After that I watched the girl on the main pole in the club nab a dollar bill out of Brendan's mouth with her tits, and I believe the same girl grabbed two dollars off of his thigh with her mouth. Braeden leaned over to Brendan in that moment and said, "Dude, I think she just robbed you." Then I watched Steve get a lap dance with a ridiculous look on his face as she started moving her ass up and down. The smile that erupted on Steve's face was pure gold. The dude looked like Elmo. There was also an extremely old stripper that inhabited the club that I believe gave the unwilling Brendan a lapdance. Brendan and Chris described her as, "leathery" and "so wrinkly" respectively. Steve chimed in later, saying she "felt like bacon". Needless to say, I ended up actually having a good time as we were all laughing our asses off.

Then four of us cabbed back to Caesar's Palace, which is an incredible building that's about the length of the Bering Strait. We were walking down the strip earlier, when Chris tells me, "This is the beginning of Caesar's Palace." A solid 20 minutes later and we had walked to the end. If they sold that building they could probably pay off the country's debt. I can't remember who came with us to Caesar's Palace. I remember Chris and Larry distinctively, but the fourth member remains a mystery. Who the fuck was it? Tell me. Was it you, Steve? You ordered the uncooked burger, right? What the fuck is it with the United States and uncooked meat? One thing I did forget to mention was our hilarious cab driver. There are thousands upon thousands of cabs in Las Vegas. You will never struggle to get one, except perhaps from the airport. If you think you've seen some shit in your life, you can only imagine what a cab driver in Las Vegas has seen.

Our driver to Caesar's Palace was some russian guy who said he could direct us to a club where, for $10.00, we could "smell the pussy" and "have them sit on our faces". A small price to pay for bad tasting herpes. The four of us got dinner at Central in Caesar's Palace, and goddamn. Everything on that fucking menu looked good. If someone had brought that menu to the strip club and rubbed it on my face, my dick would have been hard enough to have a trapeze artist swing on it. Chris and I argued over the proper pronounciation of Carbonara, while I ate my delicious sandwich. I ordered a Clubhouse, if you care. Word of advice should you ever find yourself in Central, however. Wear something warm. The second time we went to the restaurant, I'm pretty sure Larry got frost bite.

We walked back to the hotel at around 4 in the morning, where we saw a guy begin to experience what looked like altitude sickness mid-stride, then he performed an epic face plant. Rather than help the man to his feet, Chris got down on the ground with him and started counting to 10. Originally it was ruled a knock out until he rolled over with an unmistakable look of joy on his face. I haven't seen anyone that happy since Steve got a lapdance a few hours prior, from that stripper with the crescent moon shaped head. I neglected to mention this until now. Then we walked away and left the guy on the ground. We saw him at the airport two days later.

Brendan was in the room when I got back. He and the rest of the fellows went to McDonald's. Had I known they were going to be fine dining, I wouldn't have ate at Caesar's Palace. Fuck. I think Brendan was eager to get the taste of old stripper titty out of his mouth, so he actually went into McDonald's to deep fry his entire head. I remember looking at the clock before I passed out. It read 5:03am.

Monday, May 5th, 8:00am
I remember hearing a knock on the door from someone who clearly didn't speak english, and Brendan jumping out of bed like me if I smell pancakes ever. It was house keeping. Brendan told them to suck the farts out of his ass and die, then he went back to bed. I forgot to mention this up to this point, but Brendan and I shared a bed. He spooned me the first night and tickled my ass. We had two beds in the room, we just preferred to leave the second bed for all the hookers we intended to kidnap and shelter. We were both awake at this point, and this is when I realized something is amiss about Vegas. I was operating on 3 hours of sleep, and I felt incredible. Not delusionally incredible, I mean I was ready to dropkick a lion. They pump extra oxygen into the rooms in Vegas. I can't wait to purchase a hooker next time I'm there and bang her diseased ass for 10 hours straight, then do it again after a 15 minute power nap.

... ok, that's a little gross.

We decided to squander this shot of adrenaline by eating at the restaurant downstairs again. I'm sure there's plenty of breakfast places in Vegas, but that one was just so convenient. We watched Scooby Doo before we went downstairs. That dog, I'm telling you. Ruined some guy's plan to steal a diamond, what a fucking idiot. So we ate downstairs, and I ordered Eggs Benedict this time around. I'm not sure what sauce they used to drown my eggs in, but I don't think it passed for hollandaise. Maybe a melted shoe. I more so enjoyed the cheese that only sort of resembled cheese on Brendan's omelette. Much like how a barnacle resembles a vagina. Don't think too much about the previous sentence, I certainly didn't.

After breakfast, I think that's when Chris won $350 on roulette, and for stark contrast, the Raptors lost game 7. Poor Brendan and Kyle. They looked like someone took a piss on the Mona Lisa, though I would seriously question why anyone would like any team residing in Toronto. You might as well cheer for Calgary. Ok, too far, too far. We went to an outlet mall after breakfast, or as I came to refer to it, the portion of the morning where I felt like shitting myself. We took a limo to the mall like goddamn G's (I never had occasion to use that singular letter up to now). Pasty white G's, but G's nonetheless. I should stop using the word G's now, I think I just heard my soul vomit in its own mouth.

We got to the mall, and I finally realized what an outlet mall is. It's just a mall, but it's outside. I suppose that should have been obvious. The group branched out. To no ones surprise, Steve went straight to the sunglasses outlet, while Brendan and I confusedly roamed the shops that were either too expensive for us to shop in, or shops that would make Brendan shit. I'm referring to Dairy Queen, of course. Michael Kors is a basket of asshole. I saw a sea foam green repurposed garbage bag made out of potato skin and fish scales, "on sale" for $800. That's US dollars, so it's at least $4000 Canadian, if I know my exchange rate properly. It was a little amusing standing in that store. It's fun watching all of the men with broken souls following their horrible women around that store.

I went to the Disney outlet after that to see if I could buy something for Susie, but the only thing I could find was a giant pillow that looked like Kermit The Frog's severed head. That would have been traumatizing for her for several reasons. Chief among them is the memory of the video "Kermit The Frog watches Two Girls One Cup", where he begins masturbating shortly after the video begins. I reference it whenever Susie forces me to watch a romantic comedy. Every time I say, "eat that shit" in my Kermit voice, I can feel the regret in her heart grow a little bit more. Don't ask me how our relationship has survived for four years. It's a tribute to the depths of human patience. What a lovely depiction of our relationship.

Anyhow, we left the outlet, and realized we were hungry as fuck, so we ate at a place called Senor Frogs. Mexican food coupled with the shitty breakfast we ate? The likelihood of gastrointestinal imbalance was great that day. I wasn't a big fan of the table we were sat at. Had we known we were going to be seated in the restaurant's wind tunnel, we might have asked to move. But we didn't, so we watched as condiments and Chris's nachos rocketed off our table. And when I say Chris's nachos flew off the table, I mean we were throwing olives at the people leaving the hotel. This is when Braeden and Chad had to leave us, sadly. They probably had a good reason for leaving, but were immediately branded the light weight quitters of the trip regardless. It's true, we made a lot of jokes at your expense, dudes.

We celebrated Braeden and Chad's depature by going to Walgreens so I could buy juice, marking one of the many points in the trip where I was ready to get FUCKED UP, and everyone else went to Kahunaville or something to buy Yards. The plan was to go back up to mine and Brendan's room to get drunk. Chris, Brendan and Kyle failed to get drunk, but we did succeed in having a great fucking time. Eventually Larry and Steve got to the room, and... I totally fucked up the story, because I know Braeden and Chad were there for a brief moment. It's possible that we hung out in the room, then ate at Senor Frogs, then Braeden and Chad left. I don't care enough to rewrite the story up to this point, so that's what happened. Braeden and Chad went to the airport after Senor Frogs, came back to the room, then Chad lost more money on roulette. Perhaps I shouldn't have so boldly stated that I remember everything about this trip... Thankfully no one has managed to read this far, so I'm good.

We definitely ended up back at the room though, which we referred to as "Home Base". It also smelled like shit in there, as everyone was quick to point out. I never told anyone that warm weather makes me fart. Brendan blamed it on everyones feet. Fool! Although our disgusting feet may have contributed. Walking around in Vegas is fun, because your feet sweat so much, you could drown someone by emptying your shoe after a 30 minute walk. Our feet smelled about as pleasant as deep fried condoms. So we wallowed in our own decay and filth for a couple hours, watching part of Euro Trip, something about golf briefly, I believe a basketball game, then a hockey game, like true Canadians. We really had no solid plan for the evening, until Steve suggested we visit Old Vegas, or The Old Strip, or Freemont Street, whatever the fuck it's called. The only alternative was ordering pancakes to the room in the hopes of eventually horrifying house keeping.

We ended up infront of The Golden Nugget, and beside that, a giant billboard covered in tits. Yes, we were still in Vegas. Everything else looked like the set of The Hills Have Eyes. We ended up at a place called Binion's, where the Mexican food finally caught up with me. My bathroom venture was notable, because as I sat there on my porcelain temple, a man plopped down on the dirty bathroom floor to see if there was a person connected to the feet he could clearly see. I just looked at him and farted. He said, "Cool maaaaan" and slithered away, probably into a drain pipe. I assume the man was drunk. I'm almost certain he took a urinal cake to eat later.

So the guys started playing Craps (interestingly enough, the game I had just invented in the bathroom) after we took an amazing picture with "Binion's Million", where Chris bent Larry over the money like a bitch. I was sticking my tongue out and masturbating behind Steve, though the latter part isn't overly clear in the picture. Brendan looked like he belonged on a bus stop advertisement. Old Vegas is pretty goddamn cool, I have to say. It's what I imagined Vegas to be. Loud as fuck with a million people everywhere. Old Vegas is encased in a shitty building that looks like it's made out of aluminum, and there's actually a street that runs right through it. I had no idea until I saw an enormous bus seemingly attempt to run over 100 people. If you ever find yourself there, look both ways. The ceiling also lit up at some point and played Bon Jovi, but that's hardly worth mentioning. Had the ceiling lit up and played Backstreet Boys, then it would have been a party.

After we all began to die from the enormous amount of smoke trapped in Binion's, we travelled back to Caesar's Palace to gamble some more in marginally cleaner air. Eventually we walked back to the hotel, where a cab driver asked if we needed a ride there. We said no. Then he asked in the always hilarious 7/11 accent, "How about titties?" We considered.

Tuesday, May 6th, 8:00am
I'm not sure what the fuck is wrong with house keeping in Vegas, or at least at Treasure Island, but my god. The "Privacy Please" sign is sacred. It means reverent silence, like Shaolin Monks. I can only assume house keeping is trained to wake everyone the fuck up so the casino can make the most money possible. I was dreaming about vegetables and biking, and they had to go and wake my ass up. I consumed about 36,000 calories daily, I needed some broccoli immediately to reverse some of the effects. Luckily we were going home, so I was close to that beautiful, enriching vegetable that smells like grandpa.

At this point we were tired of The Coffeey Shop and its food with shockingly efficient diaretic properties, so we went to go get pizza instead. It was around noon anyway, so whatever. Everyone needed to experience Grimaldi's. I'd say Grimaldi's is incredible and that you should eat there, but let's be honest. It's hard to disgrace pizza. So long as you're not slathering ketchup on dry wall, you're doing well. I must say, it is fun being a pizza chef myself and watching other people make pizza. We all look so stupid. I saw one of the guys put his fist straight through a dough that I'm sure became Steve's pizza. It is fun watching them put the pizzas in the oven though. They put the pizza on a shovel that's about 20 feet long, and launch it into the oven. I assume the pizza ends up on the desert floor outside 50 yards away. I mean they really belt those fucking pizzas into the oven. They might as well hire Ben Roethlisberger to cook pizzas, and then have sex with them after.

Afterwards we ended up back at the hotel, where we all decided to play the Megabucks. It's $3.00, and you could win a bunch of money that you'd get taxed for and subsequently harassed at the border for, but it's worth it to try. It was my first gamble ever, as I took the seat. I heard Steve's friend shout behind me, "Play max credits!" So I pressed the button, the slot machine did its thing, and suddenly everyone around me started cheering madly. I had no idea what the fuck happened, so I figured it was the classic prank, tell the blindfolded guy at center court he made the $100,000 shot. Then Larry pointed at the machine, and it said I had won $15.00. Then I started cheering and high fiving everyone madly, because goddamn, who doesn't love $15.00? I could buy some chocolate milk with that. Everyone there must have thought we had won the Megabucks the way we were cheering. I would have bought none of you houses had I won, just so you know.

Then, sadly, it was time for Brendan and I to go home. We watched Chris, Steve and Kyle play roulette for a while, and some enormous black dude at the black jack table next to us win a whole shit load of money. Dude knocked his chair over and shouted "BAM!" three times in a row, alarming everyone but the stone faced black jack dealer. There were a lot of black people in Vegas. Just an observation of mine. Though I did wonder at some point how many of them were actually just white people who had stayed there too long.

So Brendan and I ended up back at the airport, ready for our needlessly long journey home. Not much to say about the flights home, other than the landings in both Seattle and Edmonton were far more comfortable than the landings in Regina and Vegas. It was nice landing back home and not having to seemingly dodge anti-aircraft fire. Also, Seattle is a beautiful city, my god. My attention was equal parts on the city as we flew away, and on the tiny girl next to me that managed to consume an entire pizza by herself in about 2 minutes. That's not a joke. She ate the whole fucking thing in 2 minutes. She looked like Goku eating anything in Dragonball Z. If you understood that reference, you may not know what a vagina looks like. Also, Brendan ate grilled cheese in Seattle for some reason. Brendan plus cheese on an enclosed, airborne metal tube? Free entertainment.

Then we landed in Edmonton, where I accidentally farted near a guy sleeping on a bench, and realized that Larry, Braeden, Chad and Jeff still owe me $111.00. I'd conclude with something sappy like, "I'll remember that trip for the rest of my life, it was a kick ass time, guys!" Instead I will just say, I'm glad none of us got herpes, though I did have money on Steve.

Dove's Real Beauty commercial is bullshit, and so is your face

I thought the title was mildly appropriate given the subject matter. Yes people, this is what it has come down to. We are all bickering over the stuff I use to lather my balls with and occasionally my asshole. Soap. I'm not sure what else could fit that description. Maybe shaving cream, but I make a point to never shave below my single roll of fat. Not because I have prejudice against smooth balls, I just like comparing my sack to Abraham Lincoln's face. Anyway, at some point in 2013, soap apparently became a pressing social issue. At least I think it did. Do I understand this properly?

So this company that loves white people made a commercial which was intended to be a beacon for women everywhere to realize their external beauty or something. Selling stuff was clearly a secondary objective. Point is, women everywhere lost their minds. Naturally, this struck me as comedy gold, and I immediately endeavored to make fun of everyone involved. I can do that. I'm a satire writer, and an asshole. And when I say "immediately", I mean several months after the fact. I don't adhere to urgency often.

Now, I'm not writing this because I hate women or anything. It's just that I had a free afternoon and sometimes it's really easy to make fun of things. Seriously, someone might as well have addressed an invitation directly to me. It just so happens that women are involved in the topic. I'm also going to make fun of Dove too, so this may be the most wonderfully ambivalent piece of writing that you will be confusedly angry at all day. So, while I sit here contemplating masturbation and waiting for my shitty internet to load the only piece of research I cared to reference for this, allow me to walk you through the video that happened in 2013.

The video begins with a sketch artist dude who worked for the FBI for a while. A lady is interviewed, in this place she had never been before, which she awkwardly tried to be clear about, and she soon realizes, oh my! This man in this completely contrived scenario is drawing me! I can't imagine what else he would be doing with a drafting board. Perhaps he was going to frisbee it at her face? That's what I would have done. What's weird is that the woman claims she figured out he was drawing her from the questions he was asking. The scratching pencil didn't tip you off?

The women begin describing themselves, I think one girl tears up a little for the camera, then some other people come in and describe the same people. The women who were drawn then get to look at the sketch of themselves that they described, and the sketch that another person described, side by side. Sorry to spoil the ending for you, but the sketch on the left looked like the wax sculpture of Amanda Bynes, so just Amanda Bynes, therefore disgusting, the sketch on the right looked like someone I would jack off to for at least a minute, and then Dumbledore dies.

Left: Shrek
Right: Dreams
Far right: Looks like a girl I work with

I wouldn't say I liked the video the first time I watched it, because if I did, that would mean that I'm gay. I certainly didn't hate it. I got the message they were sending and moved on with my life that consists of eating and neglecting laundry. You are more beautiful than you realize and you judge yourself too harshly and all that shit. Cool, good message, particularly for women, who are hounded on about looks in our society. Don't be so critical of your looks, be happy, whatever. It's like people suddenly regret putting looks above everything else and are trying to make up for it. Then people everywhere, I assume mostly women, collectively lost their shit at this advertisement that didn't perfectly represent every aspect of equality and diversity. This confused me, because at first I thought women everywhere were saying, "You can't tell us to be happy with how we look, you bastards!" A social issue hasn't erupted everytime I've tried to compliment a woman, what's going on here? So I decided to see what all of the complaints were about.

I was linked to a site called, "Business Insider" that had a piece titled, "Why People Hate Dove's 'Real Beauty Sketches' Video". It looked as if the article was a summary of all the main complaints that people have had towards the video, which was great news for me. I take research about as seriously as I take ass crack grooming, as has been well established at this point, so thank you to whomever it was that compiled this list of inventive pessimism. You've made my life easier. The list of complaints was great fun to read, largely because I found a way to make fun of every point in some regard. Again, not because I'm sexist, but because I'm an asshole. These qualities are infact mutually exclusive at times. First off, most glaringly, the title seemed off to me.


"Why People Hate Dove's 'Real Beauty Sketches' Video"
Hate. I've used the same word to describe my feelings towards the bizarrely sharp, invisible objects that sometimes inhabit the bottom of my shoes, or how I feel whenever someone asks me what I'm going to do with my life. Personally, I like answering that question with, "Die eventually." That conversation is now over. The problem I have with the word "hate" is that it's overused. We don't comprehend the gravity of it anymore. We've went right to the top shelf with that word. If you hate something, by definition, that person or object has incurred your extreme, seething hostility and you wish death upon it. I don't think people "hate" the video so much as they were "irked" by it. They felt "dissatisfaction". I think we should put more stock in those words rather than "hate", because really, to put all of your hatred in perspective, this is what it probably looked like:

It's nice to see my flawless artwork conveying my ideas perfectly.
The giant Hershey's bar is supposed to be a keyboard, if you couldn't tell

Another complaint I had is that they called it a "video". I'd describe it more as an advertisement myself. The word "video" seems too general and devoid of context. Advertisement has a more specific focus. It's like how some doctors specialize in reading charts, walking places and ignoring you, while others delight in sticking tubes in horrible places or drugging you. No, there wasn't a good way to illustrate that thought without looking stupid, deal with it. With that in mind, reacting to this commercial in some fashion gave Dove more exposure, which is what they ultimately wanted. They probably left out certain aspects on purpose. Welcome to marketing! Or maybe Dove is just racist, money starved sexist people failing miserably at appealing to all standards, who knows? All that being said, I'm going to refer to the ad campaign as a video anyway, because I'm lazy. I'm all about low expectations. Now, on to the main complaints.


The video only focuses on a very small subset of women
I think you should look up the word "subset", because I don't think it means what you think it means. When I first read that complaint, that only a very small subset of women were represented, I thought they were complaining that Dove didn't sketch every woman on the planet. Of course they didn't, stupid. The dude would develop arthritis long before he ran out of lead. A man is only ever interested in driving his muscles to that extreme if it involves extensive masturbation. Those are some high expectations you have, lady. Some lady named Kate Fridkis described the concept of the video as some pretty young, lovely women describing their appearances. I felt it was worth noting that she used the word "lovely" to describe the abundance of white women in the video. That's nice and all, but it begs the question, how does this woman measure loveliness? I wonder what personal standards she referenced for that statement. You are no different than this filthy advertisement, you snake!

Describing all of the women as "pretty young" was good too. I suppose it was cleaner than describing the women as, "sort of but maybe not children but almost old but no kind of I don't know". Keeping it general. I like it, Kate.


In fact, most of these "real" and "beautiful" women are white
I'm not sure why the words "real" and "beautiful" were in quotations. That usually means a person is intending to be sarcastic. So wait, the white women in the video aren't real? Holy shit! Those were some convincing automatons. Robotics has come a fair ways. The women and/or cyborgs in the video aren't beautiful either? Damn. That's a little harsh, don't you think? Again, this raises the question of how this person gauges outward beauty. I know I certainly wouldn't complain if I saw any of those women in a sweater. I did feel a little cheated that we couldn't see the sketch of the asian girl. I can only imagine Dove felt it best to wheel out a picture of Buddha. He's like the stencil for asian people. Now that I'm done offending a large portion of the human race, let's continue.

"Blogger jazzylittledrops wrote a passionate blog about the video's lack of diversity." Ah, jazzylittledrops. It's good to know only the most serious and prestigious of sources were referenced for this piece. jazzylittledrops, championing the notion of diversity, complained that out of the six minutes and thirty seconds of footage, people of colour were onscreen for less than ten seconds. I'm not sure why jazzy felt it necessary to refer to black people as, "people of colour". For future reference, you can just call them black. Don't worry, making an observation is ok. I often refer to broccoli as just green rather than a "vegetable of colour". Also, just to be that guy. Technically, everyone in that video was a person of colour.

jazzy and I definitely didn't watch the same video, and for that I'm thankful. The video I watched was only three minutes and one second long. I can't imagine sitting through a 6:36 long video, I think I would literally start to biodegrade. I barely made it through the 3:01 one before deciding I had to do something else just so I wouldn't have to continue watching it. She also complained that a black man was interviewed and made the comment, "She had pretty blue eyes." Actually, he said she had, "Very nice blue eyes." Much more direct. "Pretty" can mean a couple of different things. I win the universe. What's wrong with having blue eyes and being white anyway? She also said that the two black women describing themselves in a negative way were both lighter skinned. So wait, they have to be jet black to be considered black people? I'm confused.

I dunno, I think I smell some latent racism here, or at least some slight insecurity masquerading as criticism. Is it possible that someone is projecting a little? I know I don't normally think about the absense of black people in commercials or TV shows. This person seems weirdly determined to brand herself as a free thinking, accepting, not racist person, probably in an effort to convince black people everywhere that she's one of the nice white people. Right before they jack her car, of course.


The ad might teach what it preaches against - that beauty is paramount
I like how the word "might" appears in the title. It could, I don't know. I suppose so. Definitely a possible maybe. Covering all your bases, hm? Ann Friedman had an exhaustive quote underneath this point that was essentially, "Don't judge people based on beauty." That's wonderful, but I have a problem with that complaint. The video starts with a sketch artist. What exactly did you think was going to happen? The guy would sit people down and ask questions like, "Was she good at painting? Did she express passionate opinions about the gold standard? What was her stance on communism?" My artwork is about as refined as the tinfoil around a baked potato, but I think it would be pretty hard to sketch someone's face based on their personality. The dude's not a personality profile collector, he draws pictures, and sometimes those pictures get arrested and subsequently dicked.

We all judge each other by personality in the end anyway. I know I wouldn't date a person who could string an interesting sentence together about as well as a deck screw and had as much sense of humour as a hang nail. Usually what initially attracts you to someone is outward appearance. It's important, don't kid yourself. It's naive to think that people don't have standards. I know I wouldn't date a person who's missing a head. Of course the more pressing issue in that circumstance is that person is probably dead, but you get the idea. You could have the best personality in the world, but if you're missing a head, I won't find you interesting.

... that's a lie, I'm going to wonder where the fuck your head is, if you want to play soccer, and shortly afterwards if you find the joke, "Keep your eye on the ball!" funny. Conversely, just to make a point, the paintings in my house are beautiful, but that doesn't mean I want to date and fuck them. With the exception of sexy Hawaiian bitch, goddamn.

That's my dick taking the picture

If you're with a person that is only with you because of yours looks and doesn't give a shit about your personality, then just get all of the sex you want out of the way and leave. It's very simple. Don't date a douchebag and get angry when it's exactly what you knew it would be. That only further perpetuates this ridiculous generalization. I don't condone douchebaggery, but at least it's honest.


Furthermore, it could even make women more self-conscious for having a real, as opposed to "imaginary" mole.
Kate Fridkis makes her second appearance in this piece with more choice quotes. "Interestingly, even the sketches based on the self-descriptions weren't actually particularly unattractive, and I was faintly annoyed with the idea that one sketch was supposed to represent unattractiveness and the other beauty, when the distinct-" hold on, I need to inhale. "-ions between the two seemed to lie in characteristics like a mole, shadows under the eyes, slight roundness in facial shape, or a few wrinkles." Now that we're all done moarning the death of our friend the period (the tool to end a sentence with, not the vagina thing). They weren't actually particularly unattractive? That may be the most evil thing I've ever read in my life. They weren't unattractive? The fuck does that mean? What were they, attractive maybe? Why couldn't you just say that out right?

I don't think the purpose behind the video was to label one picture as Jekyll and the other as Hyde. The idea was to sell products. I'm not sure what else was going on there or why Dove felt that was needed. I find it's best not to read into things too much sometimes. For instance, I can find plenty of things in the video that raise interesting questions, depending on your perspective. Why did that one girl ride a bike to the studio? Why is the room all white? Why weren't men represented? Why weren't there any brown women? Why is everyone and everything so clean? Where are the lesbians? Though I ask that last question all the time, even at Thanksgiving dinner. I think you find evil when you look for it based on your view of things. For example, I think Barney The Dinosaur is a pedophile, and Winnie The Pooh is a heroin addict. Otherwise, there's a simple explanation for everything. Winnie The Pooh fucking loves honey, and Barney enjoys pissing in the mouths of children.

Kate states that the video implies that all women who age and get wrinkles are less attractive, and I think to an extent, things imply what you want them to imply, because I don't remember that being said directly. Now I wish it had though. Had the sketch artist compared a woman's face to his scrotum, and then immediately got a boot to that area, I would have been far more entertained. I'm not saying don't ask questions or discuss things, I'm just saying there's value in sleeping all day instead.


The ad blames women, rather than society, for critiquing the smallest physical imperfection.
It may be because I'm a white male and nothing bad has ever happened to me, but I don't grasp this concept very well. The message I'm getting here is that we should blame the pressures of society for our choices? Society made you wear the clothes you're wearing, held you down and put make up on your face? You are victimized by beauty standards that society imposes on you that you are under no obligation to fulfill at all? It's impossible for people to be critical of themselves, and when it happens, it's always a bad thing? This all has to be a byproduct of environment and what we're fed on television? Sorry to get all serious on you here, but I'm not sure what's worse. Labelling all women as victims, or labelling all women as gullible, mindless idiots? Though in fairness, when I watch a car commercial, it does make me want to buy the fuck out of a van.

You do realize that at any point you want, you can shave your entire head, never wear make up again and dress in a potato sack, right? You can do whatever the hell you want, you don't have to buy into anything. I'd hang out with you. This begs the question, who exactly do you hang around with who perpetuates this myth that all women must be skinny blondes with blue eyes and impeccable fashion sense, and if they are less than perfect, they are judged and ostracized for it? These guidelines for perfection tickle my balls, because they're so ambiguous. Perfection to one person could be that they have a foot fetish. Perfection to me is the ability to tell at least one adequate knock knock joke. I know I haven't oppressed any women I know, at least not in the past few days, so what the hell is going on here? Those are some terrible people you hang around with or pay attention to, ladies. Get the hell out of there!


Women don't want to be seen as victims. It's patronizing.
Then why do you complain all the time about everything? I know the shoes don't go with the dress. Worse things could happen in life. Anyway, a women, who by the grace of Facebook's lackluster privacy settings, has her name publicly on display in this article. She says, "Implying all women hate themselves for stupid reasons that don't exist is not empowering or comforting, it's insulting." Good thing the video focused on a small subset of women, am I right?? Isn't it a bit of a stretch to assume that these women with scripted dialog hate themselves? Saying that they hate themselves for stupid reasons is kind of misguided as well. That seems kind of dismissive. You've never wanted to change anything about yourself ever? Nothing ever bothers you, and when things bother other people, it's stupid? This message has become confusing. On the brightside, only this small group of women hate themselves.


The sketch artist was a man
I dunno, I thought he drew the pictures pretty good. Apparently, the issue was that he got to present to the women their "true" beauty. What's wrong with that? That makes it sound like you need special schooling to compliment a woman, without a rigorous anaylsis occurring shortly afterwards. Would you have preferred a woman present the sketches? I'm not sure if that would solve the problem more than create more problems. If this commercial featured all women, it'd be a disaster. Have you spent any amount of time in the real world? Women hate each other! The commercial would be all passive aggressive and quiet, and only when the other women were several yards away would they voice their contempt for their eyebrows or poor taste in shoes. You don't even get to see a good fight full of slaps and scratching. That's right, I understand females. No shade of contrived ignorance here, ladies.


It's hypocritical for an ad aiming to instill healthy body images to come from Unilever, a company that makes a business of marginalizing women in Axe campaigns.
Those Axe commercials confuse me. They make it seem like you have to cover yourself in a deadly nerve agent to attract women, and also that they appear to enjoy suffocating to death. What I'm wondering now is, what's the ideal scenario here? Thus far, no one raising complaints about this ad has suggested anything to that end. This is supposed to be a very supportive atmosphere, and you are not being conducive to such. If you're starved for suggestions, I have an idea. Two black people walk in frame, one old, one young, and then they start making out. One of them has a dick and a lesbian sucks on it, then someone saves a puppy and eats a pistol because fuck guns, man. This way, people can't claim the commercial is racist or degrading to gay people or even animals, and opposes gun laws. If that wouldn't sell some goddamn soap, I don't know what would.

Even if you made the perfect commercial that represented everybody equally and well, I would still think you're fucking stupid. Just sell what you want to sell and shut up about it, you don't need to create an identity or attempt to start a movement. Not doing terrible things is usually a good enough reason for me to buy something. Everything else just makes me think you're full of it. I just want to buy soap and shampoo. Why do ethics need to be introduced in this scenario? I just want clean balls. Throughout all of this, I still don't know what Dove was trying to sell. Their name, I guess? I think the biggest reason why women hated the video so much, is because there wasn't a clearly labelled object to buy. That's just me saying something terrible because it makes me happy that you're mad now.

I think we should all just stop watching TV and videos for a while and fuck all of these companies over. Suddenly, their dumb messages that could never possibly apply to everyone hold very different meanings. Why would they even bother trying in that circumstance? Oh damn, these people were just looking for creams to masturbate with, not a social movement weirdly aimed directly at women. Eat my balls, Dove. I'm gonna go listen to Blurred Lines and pee on a lesbian now. Take care!

Getting My Appendix Removed - A More Needle Filled Adventure Than A Lindsay Lohan Biography

I wrote most of this in my notebook the day after the surgery when I was out of recovery, like a boss. I was bed ridden the entire day and I needed something to distract me while I had trouble peeing. This is that.



The title's a little longer, but whatever. Like Peter North, it gets the job done. So I had my appendix removed yesterday, and like everything else that happens in my life, it deserves to have a story written about it. I would have written about the time I lost my virginity, since that was an ordeal, but I promised your mom that I would be discrete. Here's how I got my appendix taken out. A story that proves the human body shares qualities with pressure grenades.


The story begins on my goddamn day off. The day I booked off, in fact, because as Murphy's Law states, these things can't happen any other time. I can't even have the satisfaction of vomiting on something at work. For shame. It was around 8:00 or 8:30 after I had essentially eaten a bowl of beans, when I had me one hell of a stomach ache. I was sure the stomach ache and beans were linked in some fashion. Felt like a Scottish marching band was using my stomach as a drum, or that I'd just eaten a quesadilla laced with dead bird. Either way, I felt like a bag of ass. Also, I don't know if this is the drugs talking right now, but I just realized that humans resemble bag pipes in a lot of ways. We're awkward looking bags of air with tubes sticking out, and we make funny noises when someone squeezes us.


Anyway, I believe it was around three in the morning when I was wide awake and decided, to hell with it, it's vomit time. Normally I will do anything to avoid vomiting, like how my girlfriend will do anything to avoid watching Dragon Ball Z with me, but it had to be done. Luckily I keep a picture of my ass crack on me at all times, so vomit was induced quickly. Problem was, I still felt like dead rain barrel squirrel afterwards. The rest of my sleepless night was full of more vomiting, ceaseless chest pain and only somewhat successful bowel movements. I shat out a green pebble the size of a ping pong ball at some point, that was funny.


Eventually it was morning and I felt like Kurt Cobain, post mortem. I had a sip of tea, then buried myself in my pillow to sort of sleep. I woke up with a sharp pain slightly above my love hammer, meaning I was either still sick, I was about to start pissing wasps, or I had rolled over one of my balls in my delirium that I would barely classify as sleep. At some point I decided to watch Fringe to take my mind off of things, but that was a stupid idea. When you're focused that show can be hard to follow. I had just spent the night clogging the toilet with my internal organs. I thought I was fucking hallucinating. All I remember was that someone got shot and I didn't care, and then someone got crushed by a car via telekinesis. That was awesome. Instant raspberry yogurt.


A little while later my girlfriend came over, and not long after that, the pain had migraded to the lower right quadrant of my mid-section, which is one of the many imminent self-destruct areas in your body. So my mother, who became tired of my repeated screaming, decided it would be best to take me to Emergency at Grey Nuns hospital. I'm not sure why the hospital is named Grey Nuns. Why would a nun be grey? Do some world views fall in a grey area? Is there a difference between grey and gray? I'm confused. Anyway, as the roads in Edmonton are in similar condition to Stalingrad circa 1945, the drive to the hospital was about as pleasant as dental work on the eyeballs. But, we arrived, and thus began the day of waiting. I may have waited longer to lose my virginity.


First, we waited in line in Triage, amongst people who didn't look like they really needed to be there (sorry), and others who looked more deserving of medical attention than myself. Like the lady who looked like the letter "C". Completely bent in half and barely shuffling herself around in her jogging attire. Diagnosing her must have been easy. Something inside this woman has exploded. Operate now, please.


After waiting in line in Triage, we were then sent to admission. For those who aren't familiar with how hospitals work, when you go to admission, you're essentially granted permission to sit in an uncomfortable chair for several hours while people ignore you. As movies would have us believe, medical attention is instantaneous, when it usually isn't. It involves waiting and lots of paperwork, and if that paperwork gets lost, be prepared to wait forever.


2 and a half hours later and I was moved to a room marked "Patients Only", which is another room largely designated for more waiting. While I was waiting, I was told to provide a urine sample. For future reference, if you are headed to the hospital, hold in your piss. It's highly probable that someone who probably dreamed of doing more with their life will want to examine your urine. If you pee before you leave the house like I did, you get to drink shitty Dasani, which I'm sure is made of sea water, and wait until your bladder feels like filling up and emptying again. I somehow managed a decent squirt, like if you put a piece of tape over one of those peeing statues. A lady comes up to me a while later and says, "Your urine sample was inconclusive. You need to provide another one." What? That doesn't make any fucking sense.


Lady, my dick looks like a shrivelled bean right now. I have no fluid left in my body. I distinctly remember peeing with my dick, what did I do wrong? Did someone mistake the sample for apple juice? They didn't explain shit to me, they just handed me another cup and walked away. This time, I ignored their meticulous instructions of first peeing, stopping, peeing in the sample, holding again, then peeing the rest in the toilet. Y'know, because everyone can gauge how much they have to piss with such precision. Those instructions are more complicated than going down on a vagina. So I mustered what few drops I had left and just peed it all into the cup. Take that, you bastards. Way to ruin a perfectly good batch of pee. May I just say, that it's incredibly funny handing someone a tiny bottle full of your urine.


Then my piss was never spoken of again. Later on, a guy calls me into a room and says he's going to give me some medicine. If you are like me and dislike needles, should you find yourself in a hospital, let me mentally prepare you. When someone tells you that you're getting medicine, they're about to stick a needle in each of your arms. The first needle I got was a shot of anti-inflammatory, I assume because my appendix resembled a balloon, and the other was supposed to help with nausea. Hilariously, it only made me nauseous. My temperature also skyrocketed, and then just as quickly dropped again. I was having a fantastic day thus far. Also, this is completely unrelated, but my hands smell lovely right now, my gosh.


Then a lady came in and took my blood. If I wasn't already well-versed in having my blood taken, in my state of mind at the time, I probably would have thought she was a vampire. No, instead she was just a woman with a needle, who no doubt took my blood to stockpile it for the eventual clone wars. Then another lady came in and stabbed me with more needles. I felt like a pin cushion, or more appropriately, a dart board, because I could have sworn the last needle she put in my arm left her hand for a moment. She threw it from a short distance. She was good enough to not throw it at my neck though. Best to look on the brightside.


Then, after hearing more nothing forever, a guy comes in and says, "I'm going to hook you up to an IV." By this point, it's a miracle I wasn't dead. I hadn't slept in almost 24 hours, I hadn't eaten anything since the day before, my system was full of drugs, I had several viles of my blood taken, and my appendix could very well have been on the verge of bursting that exact moment. I asked what the purpose of the IV was, since again, no one was telling me anything. Do I need the antibiotics because my appendix will be fine afterwards? Is it simply a good idea that my body be hydrated intravenously? Do I need surgery or not? I guess hospital staff don't like when you ask questions, because the man went away after my barrage of questions and never came back. Sometime after that I also got an x-ray for no reason at all. I hear those are great at detecting soft tissue damage.


At the time, I felt really stupid for essentially refusing medicine that was critical for my health at the doctor's recommendation. But in retrospect, the guy that was going to do my IV, did it for another man instead about an hour later. I eventually got an absolute sweet heart nurse who took extra care in finding a suitable vein to jam the IV in to, which she did, mid left arm. The dude nurse didn't. I noticed that the guy he helped, his hand was covered in a lot more blood than it was before. A substantial amount, in fact. He had a bandage on his hand, fucking soaked in blood. Guess that dude nurse totally missed the vein, or forgot to remove the barbed wire from his syringe. Either way, dodged that bullet.


So I sat there for another couple hours until I was sufficiently drugged up. Then, after the bag of salt water or medicine or whatever was empty for about 20 minutes, the other dude nurse in the room finally decided to stop pretending to do paper work, came over to me and said, "We're leaving this in your arm over night." I was convinced it was a needle that he left in my arm, despite him telling me otherwise. I was terrified the rest of the night and kept my arm perfectly straight. Worst part was, that asshole taped my arm so thoroughly, he essentially turned it into an eventual wax job. Thanks, man. I don't need hair anyway.


I woke up the next morning experiencing a sensation akin to rigor mortis in my left arm, and also my penis, but I interpreted that stiffness differently. My body hadn't betrayed me and bent my arm against my will during my sleep. Quite the opposite, in fact. I felt like I could have punched through a brick wall my arm was so stiff. I decided not to and showered instead, because I smelled like hospital and vomit. My mother had to wrap the area where my IV was in saran wrap before I could shower, which was funny because if you didn't know, wet saran wrap looks like a used condom. Try it sometime. Now, that morning, I was scheduled to have myself a CT scan. It's a shorter version of CAT scan that means the same thing, just with different words that doctors pretend to understand.


Before you get a CT scan, you need to fast for at least 12 hours, which is something certain people consider to be a legitimate substitute for exercise. So I enjoyed some water and headed off to the hospital to have more of my blood taken immediately. Five fucking vials of it. The first day it was two or three, I can't remember, but today, it was five. WHY?! What the hell does anyone need with five vials of blood? Is the blood being used in a cult ritual? Just take the whole fucking arm.


After the oddly humourless woman robbed my body of precious fluid, I was sent to a really weird looking section of the hospital for my CT scan. The walls were bright pink, and then just as quickly went back to turquoise. I found myself in a room with an enormous television watching the show, "Kelly and Michael". I guess Regis has retired, so now that smokin' hot ass mama Kelly is working with that dude who I think used to play football and pretends to be important. He's the guy in the next picture with the gap between his teeth that looks like the demilitarized zone between North and South Korea, who looks like he wants to die almost as much as Ron MacLean on Coach's Corner.

That's the face of a man who hates himself

God I would fry an egg on Kelly's ass. What a sexy bitch. Thank you for giving me boners when I stayed home sick from school as a kid, Kelly. Anyhow, if you find yourself going in for a CT scan one day, I'm here to give you fair warning. It sucks balls. While you're sitting there waiting, a lady will walk in with a paper cup the size of a 7/11 Big Gulp full of mysterious liquid and tell you three things. One, drink it. Two, do it quickly. Three, she will say something similar to, "It's mostly sort of water." Then she'll just disappear. You will actually never see her again. Her entire purpose for being is to give you a cup of shit and tell you to drink it. We really are trusting of our medical professionals, aren't we? She could have handed me a cup of paint thinner for all I know.


Now let me tell you the secret behind fasting for a CT scan. It's not because eating or drinking will disrupt the scan, no. I'm 100% confident it's because you won't have anything to throw up after you drink that filth. What they essentially tell you to drink is a giant cup of plastic mixed with toilet water. It was absolutely revolting. The other kid in the room with me must have been dreading drinking that shit, because I was coughing and gagging. Every last drop was suffering. Then I gave my cup back to some other lady at a desk, waited for a little bit, then got called down for my CT scan.


But, as I should have known, when you're called down to anywhere in a hospital, the first thing you're going to be doing is waiting. So I sat with an annoying old couple while I waited for my scan. I sat there for what felt like an hour until someone called me into the room. The whole time I was thinking to myself, "Why did I have to drink that plastic shit so quickly if they were just going to make me wait?" While I was sitting down though, that lady I saw the day before in Triage, the one who was bent in half in agony, was being wheeled around on a stretcher. She waved at me. I waved back. It reminded me of Wallace and Gromit.

A sweet little asian lady then lead me into a room and said, "You need to watch this video before you get your scan." The video outlined exactly what was going to be happening in my CT scan, clearly believing that this scan is more dangerous than it actually is. The biggest issue surrounding a CT scan is this dye they inject into you that's used to map spots on organs. Sometimes people have bad reactions to this dye, like nausea, vomiting, or dying. This is something that a person could just tell me, not this monotone asshole on the TV. After that, I was directed into the scanning room, and this lady walks up to me with another cup of that goddamn plastic water. "We need a little bit more of this in your system." Oh, so now it's instantaneous. I don't need to wait for rapture for it to spread through my system. Wonderful. So I drank the melted grocery bag and laid down on an extremely comfy table, my god, while the nurse injected the dye into my blood stream.


She told me, "You will start to experience a warm sensation, and you will feel like you wet the bed." Sure enough, a couple seconds later, I felt like I had opened a dishwasher mid-cycle and jammed my head inside, and it really did feel like I pissed myself. It was really pleasant, actually. I'm surprised people don't piss themselves more often. It's so warm (I didn't actually piss myself). Then they stick you inside a giant donut and a lady tells you to hold your breath and stuff. Really, it's a big ass donut.

Then your kidneys soak up the dye almost instantly, marking the first time in my life where I've fully appreciated my kidneys, so you're good to go and wait some more while they analyze the scan. Typically you're getting your chest scanned when you get a CT scan, so you have the pleasure of still not being able to eat or drink anything while you wait for results. For an hour. Joyous. I'm not sure if it's ever expressly explained why you can't eat, but what I do know is that this process could loosely be considered torture at this point. I did learn something interesting while I waited in Triage some more. There are three distinct sections of the middle of your body.


I used to refer to the whole thing as my chest, as every layman does, but as I discovered, it is indeed split into three different sections. Chest, stomach and abdomen. They also fall into their own categories of severity. There's a sign in Triage that reads, "If you are experiencing chest pains, you are permitted to skip the line." This is important, because if you walk in there with a stomach ache, they will tell you to fuck off to the back of the line. If you tell a doctor that you are having chest pains, they generally interpret that as, "Your heart is about to explode" and medical attention comes immediately. If your abdomen is bothering you, that's not terribly worrisome. So long as your appendix hasn't turned septic, most doctors assume you are just struggling to take a crap. And unless you have a bullet in your stomach, like I said, enjoy the back of the line, you pony bitch. I drew a diagram to illustrate this better:

So over an hour later, a nurse struggled to pronounce my name somehow, and I was lead back to Patients Only. I'm sure there's a proper name for that room, but I can't be bothered to remember what it could be. Unwanted Accupunture Victims would be most appropriate, because when I entered that room again, the barrage of needles was astounding. I got more shots in my arms and sweet jesus, they took more of my blood. The amount of blood they drained me of at this point roughly equates to a small child. I felt like that nazi dude at the end of The Last Crusade.

Should have moisturized, bro

Come to think of it, they may have just taken my blood. I'm not sure anymore. The amount of needles at this point has sort of blurred in my mind into one giant harpoon. They did hook me up to an IV again, that I remember, because I sat there for another hour or so watching a show called Cake Boss. I think a better title for the show would be, "Asshole Makes Cakes", as it's more honest. The host is a complete prick douchebag from New Jersey who pretends to be in The Godfather 90% of the time, yells a lot for no reason, and generally takes cake making far too seriously. You bake and design sugary sponges for a living. This isn't fourth down in the fucking Super Bowl. Take it down a notch, Don Corleone.

Nice cake, asshole

Then after waiting some more, and mustering the dumbest answers I possibly could for some nurse's questionnaire, I was summoned into a room with a doctor and a surgeon, at long last. The surgeon was quick to confirm what I already knew, I was going to have surgery. Kinda figured, since I was talking to a surgeon. Took them along enough to get around to saying it. They said it would be happening later in the evening, and simply told me to sit tight until they called me down. No problem, I'm already well versed in doing that. The look on the surgeon's face after he broke the unsurprising news to me was weird. He looked at me with such dismay and said, "I'm sorry" and paused dramatically afterwards. This isn't Grey's Anatomy, boy. Am I gonna die or something? How bad are you at your job that you have such little confidence in yourself? I'm not scared of surgery. I'm more frightened by your enormous math teacher mustache. Felt like I was in a German porn movie.


Just to go back to the questionnaire for a moment, I wasn't entirely honest with you. It was just one really dumb answer. She asked me my name and birthday, marking the 83rd time I answered those questions for some reason. Either hospital staff are extremely forgetful, doubt my credentials and/or existence on this plain of reality, or need to constantly check if I'm still lucid. Then she asked me, "How much do you drink in a week?" Keep in mind, I don't drink alcohol, so when someone asks me how much I drink, I interpret that question very differently than the average person. I answered, "I don't know. I don't really keep track. Is a lot a good answer?" I didn't realize it at the time, but the shocked expression on her face was very justified. I followed up a second later by saying, "I drink at least four glasses of water a day..." The look of relief on her face looked like she'd just found Jesus. She said, "No no, I mean how much alcohol do you drink?" I replied, "Oh. None. I don't drink." She then began to laugh her ass off for the next 30 seconds. In fairness to me, she could have phrased that question better. To be unfair, I'm an idiot.


Then, in uncharacteristic fashion, a nurse called my name like half an hour after my brief meeting with the surgeon and said, "They're ready for you now!" Damn, that was oddly fast. I had hoped to use the time before the surgery to mentally prepare myself for it. Then they called me down, and although I consider myself a brave and exceptionally manly person, and despite being in a positive mood, I'll admit. In that moment, I was scared shitless. Literally. Some dude told me to get naked and put on a robe, so I went to the bathroom and pooped. My fight or flight response was leaning more to the flight path, as I immediately began plotting escape routes and excuses I could spin to get out of the surgery. But like kisses from grandma, there was no escape. So I exited the bathroom, laid down on the stretcher thingy and was wheeled off to the surgical wing. Though it did feel kinda cool having someone wheel my naked ass around, I must say. Hospitals kind of do a bad job at making you feel like you're not going to die.


Once I got to the wing, slightly curious if I'd just flashed everyone on the way, a really nice nurse gave me a blanket and said, "The anesthesiologist will be along in about 15 minutes." Although a blanket is what Yoda was wearing before he died (spoiler alert), it was so wonderfully warm, I didn't care. Felt like she put my feet in a microwave. Then she put a shower cap on my head and walked away. Then the anesthesiologist came along and essentially said, "I'm going to drug you." Again, kinda figured, since you're essentially a drug dealer, but it's good to know medical professionals can describe what they do. It instills confidence that they know what they're doing as well. Then my girlfriend came in, and what a sight that must have been for her. Fucking shower cap on my head, tube in my arm, old blanket on my feet, piece of shit robe on me that looked like umbrella material, disgusting facial hair, and more pale than a masturbation addict. All that's missing is a missing leg and bleeding eyeballs. On reflection, I should have said "Hey sweet cheeks." Fuck.


Then I said goodbye to my mom and girlfriend and got wheeled into an extremely bright room filled with people with masks on, who would be removing a piece from my unconscious body in a few minutes. Man, if the hospital setting hadn't been well established by this point, that would be a really creepy sentence. I then lifted myself off the stretcher and on to this tiny ass table, absolutely flashing the dude pretending to do work infront of me. I also noticed there was some young looking nurse looking at me and smiling. She was wearing a mask, but I could tell. I'm also pretty sure I went to high school with her. I don't know how I could tell, but I could. Damn, what's with all these people my age making more money than me? Fuck you, I can beat Halo 1 in under an hour and twenty minutes. Bet you guys can't. Suck it.


Anyway, then a really nice lady asked me to hold out my arm, so I did. The anesthesiologist walked up, and I swear to god, just tapped my IV. He didn't stand there for a few seconds and carefully inserted a needle or something. He just walked up and tapped it. There was no way to make that sentence not sound dirty. Less than five seconds after, the ceiling appeared to start moving up and down. A lady put a mask on my face and the anesthetic guy said, "You should be feeling light headed." I'm not sure how I was supposed to answer him with a tube on my face, but indeed I was. 10 seconds later and I was gone. I don't even remember a fade to black. Just cut to black. BAM. Out. Damn that shit works fast. I potentially could have just died, and I didn't care at all.


Then two seconds later I woke up to a lady asking me, "How are you feeling, Scott?" My first thought was, "How do you know my name?" My second thought was, "I wonder who that nurse was in the surgical room..." Then I replied, "I feel like I'm on drugs, so quite pleasant, thank you." She giggled, then I went back to sleep, and immediately woke up in recovery. My first thought there was, "How the fuck did I get here?" My second thought was, "I wonder how many people have seen my dick today." I could tell I was still on drugs, because my mom and my girlfriend didn't walk into the room after I woke up, they glided into the room, as if on a conveyor belt. I giggled. I don't remember the conversations that took place afterwards, just that I probably sounded really stupid during them.


I was really looking forward to sleeping after my mom and girlfriend left. I was completely exhausted. Naturally the drugs wore off moments after they left, so I was wide awake. Damnit. Shortly after, a really sweet nurse with a wonderful Ukrainian accent walked in with a tiny bag marked "Bath" and said, "Time to wipe yourself down!" Sweet. This should fulfill at least two fantasies at once. The scary Russian sounding nurse lady cliche didn't even occur to me until several hours later she was so nice. I will say that if our roles were reversed in that moment, that probably would have sounded creepy. "Time to your wipe yourself down! Yeah, slower." Gah. Then I got confused. Wipe myself down? What the hell is she talking about? I shit myself during the procedure, didn't I? I realized what she was referring to when I lifted up my robe. I appeared to be covered in red spray paint. A little alarming at first, I thought I was covered in blood, but it was just antiseptic. The base of my dick was red as well, confirming my suspicion that several people saw my junk today, and someone touched it as well.


After failing to get the bulk of the antiseptic off, the nurse ordered me to go pee because she was leaving soon. Apparently she was very confident in my ability to pee. She handed me a tiny bucket-like contraption that fit in the toilet bowl that measures how much you pee, and away I went. It was this moment that was very eye opening for me. I went to get out of bed, and I couldn't fucking move. I didn't have the capacity to try harder either. I was just kind of stuck there. The nurse eventually freed me from my mattress prison, and I went pee. It was glorious. Painful and strenuous, but glorious. I nearly filled that little bowl thing. She then instructed me to leave it there. Poor lady. I can't imagine that was very pleasant to deal with afterwards. Then I got back in bed and she said, "I'm going to give you a shot before I leave." Hey! One more for the road, why not? She gave me a shot of blood thinner, meaning if I accidentally cut myself on anything, I would look like I just got injured in a Tarantino movie, and I would bleed out instantly. Not really, but that's what I imagined would happen.


Thus began the night of agony. No one told me that laying down was a bad idea, so naturally I tried to lay down. People tend to do this when they want to sleep. Should you ever get surgery done on your abdomen, here's some advice. Don't lay down for a while. You won't be able to breathe, you'll be in an enormous amount of pain as the painkillers wear off by the time you want to sleep, and you also won't be able to get up. I also hadn't eaten anything in 24 hours, so my stomach was growling and gurgling like a hungry volcano on the verge of eruption. Then my shoulder started hurting like crazy. It didn't make any sense. I was also pinned to the bed, until I discovered that I could raise the bed via remote control. Sat myself back up, and savoured the next hour of ceaseless shoulder pain and my stomach trying to eat itself and die.


The best word to describe my sleep pattern that night would be "erratic". I'd sleep for five minutes, then for half an hour, then for five minutes again, then for exactly 18 minutes. I know, because there was this obnoxiously loud clock in my room. All that thing needed was a bird shooting out of it and every few seconds and a strobe light to make it more absurd. I have to emphasize it. This thing was LOUD. Felt like someone was clapping in both of my ears every second. Maybe I was going insane at this point, I don't know. Soon enough, however, my roommate's snoring drowned out the clock extremely well, so I had the pleasure of now struggling to sleep next to a malfunctioning go-cart. Every now and again he'd choke on his snore, so he'd snort like a pig for a few seconds, then snore even louder, as if achieving a higher decibel of snore would abate the choking hazard. The guy also let out a raunchy fart in the bathroom at around 4 in the morning that shook the door.


Then at around 6 in the morning when I woke up from another 10 minute increment of whatever my body was doing that slightly resembled sleep, I got up to pee again, then a nurse came into the room to check on the old bastard sleeping next to me. Then she brought me cranberry juice, which didn't taste like cranberry juice at all, and it was delicious. I was so happy to finally have something in my system other than drugs, water and surgical instruments. Then I walked around Recovery for a while before discovering the kitchen. The nurse said I could make toast, so I made a slice and went back to my room. That was the most amazing piece of toast I have ever eaten. It could only have been more delicious if Kate Beckinsale walked in and buried my face in her breasts.


Afterwards I finally introduced myself to my roommate, and this guy was made of balls. I noticed he had a HUGE cut on his neck, and before I could ask him what the hell happened, he told me the story. "Well, I was on the fuckin' golf course, and this fuckin' piece of calcium broke off into my brain. So I drove myself to the doctor and he looked me dead in the eye and said, 'I can fix you, but I could fuckin' kill you.' They fixed me up and I've been here since friday. I better get to leave today, I need to work on my swing. This coffee tastes like dogshit." He started telling more stories of how he visited Africa, how he met his wife on a golf course and banged her somewhere in the trees (not kidding), and how he has seven children, one of which he described to me as, "a fucking asshole". He later said to me, "When do they serve breakfast in this fuckin' place? Worst bed and breakfast ever. HAHAHAHAHA!!" This man, was insane.


Then a nurse came in and took my blood, just what I like for breakfast. I would like to go back to the hospital after I recover and ask someone how much of that blood was actually needed. Afterwards I was sitting in bed, still enjoying my cranberry juice and water, when a doctor came in with a pack of students, marking the fourth different doctor I had dealt with in two days. He looked like the Old Spice guy though, which was cool. I think I may have disappointed him though. He asked me stuff like, "Can you move? Can you pass gas? How is your pain?" I said I walked around Recovery most of the morning, I farted earlier, and my pain was non-existant. He looked so sad, like he wanted there to be something wrong with me so his students could learn something. Instead, they just learned that I'm awesome and heal like Wolverine, so they should feel priviledged instead, ungrateful shits.


Not too long after, breakfast was served. Up until this point, I had been very friendly with all of the hospital staff, and they seemed to mostly pretend to like me. So this dude walks in with my food and I asked him all cheerfully, "What's on the menu today?" He just looked at me with such disdain, like he wanted to stab me to death, mumbled something, set the food down and walked away. He didn't give my roommate Kenneth anything though, so I immediately heard, "Where's my fuckin' food, cocksucker?" I'm pretty sure the guy heard him too, considering he was just outside the door grabbing the extra plate.


Now, I expected hospital food to resemble airplane food. I don't know if airplane food has changed since I last flew somewhere like 13 years ago or something, but I remember it being similar to uncooked egg white mixed with snot, with cheese and a sausage on top. I also expected it to be primarily yogurt and jello. Not at all, in fact. Hospital food is just awkward. They gave me two extremely adorable tiny slices of toast that were bleach white, a tiny omelette that was an absolutely perfect rectangle, looked indistinguishable from a sponge, an enormous cup of coffee, probably something else that I can't remember, and a tiny cup of apple juice that honestly looked like a urine sample.

I managed to fall asleep after breakfast, which was absolutely wonderful. Then my mom and brother woke my ass up like half an hour later, damnit. But it was ok, because a sexy hot mama nurse came in to give me more antibiotics, and another shot of blood thinner. Her ass pressed against my arm at some point, that was awesome. After my body finally absorbed the last of the medicine, it was finally time to remove that fucking IV and send my ass home. Naturally, removing the tape was extremely painful, but it seemed to be hurting the nurse more than it was me. She kept wincing and saying, "Ooh! I'm so sorry! Ow! Ow!" Lady, it's not your fucking arm. Just yank the damn tape off, don't be a baby. Then she had to clean my belly button incision, which was disgusting. I felt bad for her. At some point during this process, Kenneth was able to go home. His wife escorted him. I looked at her when they were leaving and thought, "I know things about you..." Thank you, Kenneth, for making my stay in Recovery entertaining, and for pretending to be deaf while that sexy nurse asked you questions. He also asked her, "When can I work on my swing?" He was totally talking about his dick. You sly dog, Kenneth.


Now I'm at home, only just now fully realizing that they essentially pulled a finger out of my belly button with a pair of tweezers. Gnarly. I had hoped they would let me keep the appendix in a bag afterwards so I could throw it at someone, but the bastards probably threw it in the garbage instead. Wasted opportunity... So yeah, that's how I got my appendix taken out. Kind of scary how my body randomly decided to shut down on me like that. Stupid body. At least I finally get all that time off from work I've wanted. I now intend to live out the next month of my life as a vegetable. A naked, constipated vegetable. Oh, and the thing that was in my arm that whole time, was in fact not a needle. It was a little flexible plastic tube thing that looked like a tiny worm, which means that I'm an idiot.