The Rape of Bride

The Rape of Bride

By Stacy Lash © 2009

When you encounter someone new, it’s always a bit disconcerting when the first thing you make eye contact with is their genitalia.  Whenever this happens, I always remember them by some unusual physical characteristic and that’s what sticks.  From first glance on, whenever they are referenced, my brain will immediately conjure up the image of … well … the image of what made them ‘unique’. It’s pretty much all about the superlatives; largest, smallest, etc.  All you need to do is match the adjective with the body part, the result is what ends up ingrained in my mind.

With the Bride, though, it wasn’t so much her parts and pieces as the hirsute nature of her nethers.  Some females don’t believe in razors, however I suspect she just gave in to her condition after a while.  Her most private furs weren’t black or coarse, making them much more intriguing.  Instead, they were soft, glossy and the most unusual honey color I’ve ever seen covering a vulva.  Most pubes are more vulgar than couture but hers were truly stylish.  Packed so densely no hint of the skin underneath could be seen, a full bodied wave twisted them, root to tip, into a gentle spiral.  A lot of women would pay big bucks to for those luscious curls to adorn their heads.

I found the Bride laying spread eagle, draped over the corner of her bed, and wearing just a veil.  The sheer tulle hid nothing; I could still make out the amber hue of her right eye, which was staring toward the closet.  Naked from the neck down, arms and legs drawn up, exposing her sex, she was all but poised for consummation.  A lot to take in all at once, but being first introduced to the Bride’s fabulous honey colored corn-silk pubes the rest of her dilemma fell to the wayside.  Nice to meet you, Ma’am.  You are now synonymous with your bush.  File this case under You’re a Sick Fuck.

The crime scene was like any other, minus the blood, though from the crimson sheets she sprawled upon, you’d almost believe she lay in a pool of it.  There was no sign of a struggle, but something was missing and it would match her veil nicely.  No bra, no girdle, no panties, no garter, no stockings, no shoes.  No ring either.  I had to wonder if she was playing dress up for me instead of lying there dead, simmering in someone else’s juices.

I never like touching them.  Yes, they’re victims but the brutal act taints their flesh forever.  Immortality resulting from being pickled in your murderer’s semen doesn’t seem like a pleasant way to spend eternity.   I’m always relieved to learn of their cremation.  But until the body is out of my sight, I must restrain my gag reflex and deal with their cold, briney, stickyiness.  Shiver.

Three steps take me from the doorway of the bedroom to within an arms length of her body.

Reaching into my pocket, I snap a pair of latex gloves over both hands.  Body fluids are usually hard to spot and though I’m required to wear gloves when coming into contact with biological materials, I actually wear them because I’m fluid phobic.  Saliva and semen are just two of the liquid nasties I’d rather not have seeping through my pores.  It’s not so much the fluid itself, but because it’s a conduit.  I liken them to a hypodermic needle.  The sole reason they exist are to transport pathogens from point A to me.  Everyone has something, everyone but me that is, and I want to keep it that way.  So, even though we’ve become intimate quite quickly, bride, let’s not mingle our flora, okay?

He was a specialist with a fetish, but no necrophiliac; making the scene anything but a classic rape-murder.  She had been alive while he violated her honey succulent cunt.  His oral fixation evident in the many bite marks decorating her body like tattoos; tiny puncture wounds indicated where he’d satisfied his psycho-carnal desires by licking and chewing her, drilling holes in her bare flesh with his canines.

With my gloved finger, I flip back the veil, exposing her face.  Dried spittle shimmered in the dim light.  She had a row of stitches on the outside of her eye he had opened up.  The ends were ragged, soaked with his saliva.  No blood escaped the wound as though he’d lapped it clean after she’d expired.  He must like his bride tenderized, I thought.  Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet and giving her a quick poke I confirmed this suspicion, watching her limbs slide freely over her joints, flexible to the extreme.

Bending forward, my face mere inches from her body, I close my eyes and inhale.  I discern a variety of scents; his acrid fluids, and her musky decay.  They open to a single, inch-long strand of black hair. His hair.  The follicle wanted to be found.  Not that he seemed worried about leaving traces of himself all over her.  He might as well have written his name across her in seminal fluids.  At least the hair was one more item to compare.  DNA would pin him, but that wouldn’t give me anything visual to go on.

Before I had a chance to pull myself back from her corpse, I heard a noise from the other side of the room.  I leaned slightly in that direction, holding my breath and trying to be as silent as possible.  Just below the lip of the mattress, tucked into a dark corner, a black head bobbed in and out of the shadows.  I heard the wet smacking sound of lips and tongue.  He was completely oblivious to my perusal, engrossed instead in the act of fondling his detumescent weapon.

A rush of blood flooded the veins in my neck and the sensation of fear pressed outward against my skull.  All my muscles tensed and the adrenaline being injected into my blood stream made them feel swift and reactive.

I lunged forward, hoping to catch him still unawares.  A split second before reaching his side of the bed, he looked up at me, eyes wide with shock and possibly even a hint of guilt.  I grabbed at air as he slipped around my legs and ran out of the room.  He was traveling so fast by the time he reached the bedroom door that he lost traction and skidded, slamming into the hollow wood panel with a sharp thud.  The door slowed him down enough for me to catch up and, colliding, then ricocheting apart, he scampered up the hall and I sprinted after.  Though his pace was quicker, my legs were longer and I was able to close the distance inside the twenty foot stretch leading to the living room.  On the threshold I flung myself, superman style and when I landed, was able to grab the bastard by his legs.  Caught.

He was behind bars before bed time and I hoped he got used to being there.  Nothing says ‘You’re screwed’ better than a cell you can barely do a 360 in.  I only wish he hadn’t made catching him so easy for me.  Sad thing is, he is sure to be out by morning.  It’s just the way it always happens.  They never seem to do enough time for their crimes.

The night had been long and I was tired.  There doesn’t seem to be as many hours in the night preceding a work day as there are on a day off and I could hear the clock ticking down like it was on crack.  Stripping, I change into the least sexy attire I can find; red, plaid flannel that covers me from neck to wrist to toe.  The holy trinity of, “I have a headache.”

All of the excitement from earlier plays itself back in fast forward while I stand paused at the end of my bed.  I see the bride, one last time, sprawled out on sullied crimson sheets and shake my head, sighing.

“Dan, can you bring me a Shop’n Save bag from the kitchen please?” I hollered up the hall.

A few seconds later he arrives, throwing a crumpled plastic bag at me.  I catch it mid-air and hastily open it up.

Using my index finger and thumb like a pair of tweezers, I grasp the amber furred Teddy Bear by the corner of her ivory, lace veil and drop her into the bag, careful not to let any of her sticky fur touch my skin.

“Why’d you do that?” Dan asked.

“Because Duke violated her earlier tonight,” I replied and tossed the bag into the small trash can beside my bed.

“Rotten dog.”

The End


Cavemen: Why You MUST Evolve!

We know that you are genetically predisposed to be any number of undesirable adjectives, but the fact is, you simply MUST learn to adapt to civilized life!

The following photo was taken exactly ONE day after I had completely cleaned the kitchen from head to toe.  This is a prime example of how your Caveman ways will ultimately be your downfall.  Women can only take so much clutter and filth.  When their lives become a broken record, skipping from cleaning to working to cleaning to bitching at you to clean to working to cleaning to working to cleaning to bitching at you to clean, we tend to say ‘Bye bye’.

My Filthy Kitchen

My Filthy Kitchen

Let’s review the image in an attempt to identify the problems and devise solutions.

First, notice what the picture is missing….

If you answered, “Cavemen,” you have probably hit upon the single most important part of this blog post.

There are no Cavemen in this image, leading me to believe that Cavemen are like dogs.  Once they have shit something up, they conveniently leave the steaming pile behind for the XX’s to clean up. In this case, Caveman A has decided that he’s going to bed at 1:00pm so he can be rested for work (his first week since May).  Caveman B has been shipped off to the home of the God of All Caveman to be punished.  The kitchen has looked exactly like this since last night.  Both Cavemen spent the entire evening seeing how close their molecules could get to the molecules of the couch.  Neither had enough energy to fight against the gravity or cohesion of our living room furniture to make their way in to the kitchen and clean it.


What a brilliant question!  Well, I firmly believe that both of them were fairly certain that if they left the mess, since today is my last day off, that I would be compelled to clean it in their stead.  See, the difference between Cavemen and XX’s is that Cavemen are like wolves.  They want to wallow in the scent of their prey.  I guess since they eat food from the kitchen, they want to live and smell like their food (and the mold that grows when it spoils). Probably so that when they do happen  to go into the kitchen to grab their 20th cup of the day, empty a container and leave it in the cupboard/refrigerator/freezer, or stare at the strange and mysterious metal things in the nearby laundry room, that they don’t accidentally scare any inanimate objects.  Just a guess.  I could be wrong.

My dishwasher is pulled out of the cupboard because we found that while I was living in California and renting, the renters allowed a leak to destroy the floor under the dishwasher, sink and now part of my floor.  I cleaned this whole area on my last days off because I was worried about us breathing in mold and fungus.  I assumed that after the space had dried, they would take the initiative to move the big washy thing back, but they didn’t.

The rest is self-explanatory.  Just a frigging mess and I think that they assume it’s like a prize for me.  Maybe they think I don’t have enough to do on my days off already.  Maybe they think that cleaning is my hobby.  Maybe they are like cats and that leaving a mess for me to take care of is a sign of love and reverence.

Die Cavemen, Die!

When I bitch at Caveman A about the mess, he immediately scratches his head and looks for Caveman B.  He goes to B and pounds his chest like a chimp.  He jumps up and down and grunts and blats and oomphs.  Caveman B rolls his eyes, sighs and replies, “Unga bunga.”

I watch this display and realize how the term “Passing the Buck” was coined.  If there had been a dead deer carcass laying in the middle of my kitchen instead of a dirty griddle and a broken dishwasher, Caveman A would have picked these items up and thrown them at B.  Not that I couldn‘t imagine a dead deer being buried somewhere in that mess! It certainly wouldn’t  be a  stretch, sadly.

The fact is, nothing was accomplished.  No knowledge was taken from this.  Are your brains simply not designed to make connections?  Are you incapable of evolving?

To make matters worse, fuel the cave-fire, whatever you want to call it, we went to town today to procure fresh supplies. You know, more things to dump into the kitchen just before my day off.  When we pulled out of the driveway I happened to notice that the garbage ‘pile’ had somehow grown exponentially.

I asked my Caveman what had happened and he made a sound like of like Scooby Doo used to.  That “Ruh?” questioning sound.  The… I know what you’re asking, but I going to play dumb sound.

I repeat my question in simpler terms.

“You see messy mess?”


“Why messy mess?”




And the only functioning higher level brain function kicks into gear in his miniscule Caveman mind.  Blaming.  Yes, Cavemen might be just a giant sexually mature infant, but the one thing they know how to do effectively is Blame.

“Why messy mess not in shed?”

“You no like stinky.”

“Me no like messy mess more than me no like stinky.”

“Me fix when warm yellow thing go away and then come back again.”

“No, me fix when get back home.”

We get back home.  We pile more junk into the kitchen.  Caveman decides instead of helping me, he’ll eat.  I go outside and start mucking through the most disgusting pile of strewn garbage you can imagine.  For all the Cavemen who live in the boonies, Put Your Fucking Trash in a Container.  A container qualifies as something that the trash goes in.  This excludes YARDS and PORCHES.  It INCLUDES garbage CANS and Sheds.

Caveman comes outside after I have almost finished cleaning up the mess.  I have no nice words.  At least none that are longer than four letters.

I come back inside.  Caveman follows.  Caveman heads for the bedroom, smiles at me and blows me a kissy kiss, all nicey nice.

I want to tell Caveman to stick his head in a vicey vice.

Caveman continues smiling (there’s a reason).  He would like me to finish washing his clothes since he’ll be in the bedroom doing more important things like watching TV and napping.

I respond to Caveman by telling him, “Sure, I’ll just add that to my list.  I’ll be cleaning until midnight as it is, what’s one more thing.”

This was at 1:00pm.  Caveman is still awake (it’s now 5:00pm), I can hear him.  Me thinks that Caveman was just avoiding helping me clean.  Caveman is gunna have wet clothes tonight… har    har   har

Let’s look at this bitch blog as an Aesop’s Fable.  For the Caveman reader, please take away the following:

Moreso than anything else that you can think of, resentment is the one thing that will thrust you from the cozy life of the caveman who has a XX to have sex with to living with other Cavemen and wishing that you had used that little walnut sized thing deep between your ears.  If you are only capable of doing the teeniest amount of things around the house to help your XX, do them well.

Realize that five minutes of ANYTHING useful will mean hours and hours of not hearing the shrieking of your woman.

Let me list five minute activities that are guaranteed to make YOUR life happier.

  • Throwing a load of dishes into the dishwasher
  • Throwing a load of laundry into the washing machine
  • Throwing  a load of laundry into the dryer (make sure you did the previous step first)
  • Bringing an armload of dirty clothes from the bathroom/bedroom/spare room to the laundry room
  • Putting garbage in the shed as opposed to on the lawn where all the creatures in the nearby woods will turn it into a smorgasbord.
  • Putting gas in the car before you come home so you don’t leave your XX stranded on empty 3/4 of the time
  • Emptying the trashcan/s
  • Running a vacuum over a floor
  • Running  a Swiffer over a floor
  • Wiping down a counter
  • Rinsing out the sink
  • Wiping pubes off the back of the toilet
  • Using the toilet brush to scrub skid marks off the inside of the toilet bowl

You realize that this list goes on and on right?

All of these activities could be easily incorporated into larger, more pleasurable activities.  Eventually, if you’ve been trained properly, they should become automatic.  For example: When taking a shit, don’t leave the bathroom without the clothes from the hamper because YOU KNOW your next trip will be back to the kitchen to replenish your shit manufacturing system.

So back to the initial statement regarding evolution.  In the case of you, the Caveman, it’s a process where you realize that even though you are still infantile, that by being a completely irresponsible, inconsiderate retard that you may find yourself all alone in the near future.  Alone is not fun.

Grow up and take some responsibility before it’s too late.  You  will be a happier Caveman if you learn how NOT to be so Cavemanesque.

My Anticolon

As I lay here in my bed, gently rocking side to side in an attempt to spur my colon into even the tiniest bit of movement, I think back to the last time  I quit smoking (unsuccessfully) in April.  The difference between now and then is that then I only went 16 days without pooping.   This time, with the exception of a concrete bunny turd and about 1 cup of chocolate pudding, I haven’t really shit since August 27th.  Ya, that’s right… Nearly a month now.

The beginning stage of constipation is uncomfortable, but I can deal with it.  I get a little gassy, a tiny bit bloated and sometimes some cramping along my ribcage.  I can honestly say that this week uncomfortable has turned into I’m about ready to schedule a high colonic and say fuck my white coat phobia.  I have been searching my house for things that  I could stick up my butt that would allow water or beer or whatever to flow up there and get things moving. If Dan and Santos weren’t here, I honestly would have dug out the turkey baster and used it as a funnel!  What I should be doing  is heading to the  24 hour Walmart  and buying a few enema’s but I’m too embarrassed to.

Let’s put it this way.  The poo is so backed up that when I eat, it literally takes about 6 hours for it to  have space in my lower intestine.   And they (my lower intestine) feel so expanded by accumulated food that they are pressing up against my large intestine.  My transverse colon feels like it’s no longer located in my stomach cavity, but inside of my chest.

I am sure that I have an impaction.  And no, this didn’t happen out of the blue.  This all started with Augmentin, stress, and most importantly, quitting smoking (again).  I just don’t learn do I?  I’ll be the first person to ever die from quitting smoking – from a ruptured bowel.  Right now I want to just say fuck it and dedicate myself to smoking for the rest of my life because lung cancer in the distant future sounds more appealing than looking like I’m  five months pregnant and puking up week old undigested food.

Funny thing is that  I’ve heard of constipation arising from  quitting  smoking, but never  as bad as both times I’ve  tried.  It’s as though ALL peristaltic motion stops and never starts again.  The only thing pushing out the poo is the new food I put into the  system.  Disgusting I know but I’m at my wits end.

I went to the Dr.’s last week for an unrelated problem and she prescribed me this $30 batch of Miralax.  Said it would take 2-4 days to get my gut moving.  I took it for  seven days straight and all I managed was a few ripe farts.  Switched over to Senna 3 days ago.  Lot’s of movement but it feels like it’s  just crawling and solid as hell.  Right now I feel like my esophagus has crawled up into my neck and my heart and lungs are being compressed by a stomach full of backed up poop.  I’m more short of breath now because of the backup than I was smoking a pack a day.  There is simply no room in my cavities  anymore!

Back in April nothing alleviated this problem.   I suffered until I had gone three days without eating because I just didn’t have any more room.  I sat down, had a cigarette and within an hour was shitting.  I shit so much the first week that my poor bunghole was on fire.   But at least  I didn’t feel like I was about to pop.  Please don’t let me pop!

I have been searching the web for home remedies all day.  Just don’t want to move around or leave the house because I’m  so sluggish.  I couldn’t eat supper tonight because I’m so full so I choked down some liqui-food.   Basically yogurt infused with some sort of biological agent (Bifidus Regularis my ass!) and water.  At least the water goes down.  But right now I’m having the most painful attack of GERD (self diagnosed btw).   I decided it had to be GERD recently because of the lump I feel in my throat, the hoarseness and the chest pains.   I think my tummy sphincter isn’t closing or something or else the backed up food is holding it open. I’m so miserable and  it would be really cool to hear that I’m not the only freak of nature that is doomed to never shit again after quitting smoking.

Thank god I have  another  Dr.’s appointment on  Friday (if I last that  long).  If I haven’t gotten relief by then (tomorrow is prune juice and metamucil day) I’m going to beg her to admit me to the hospital and be surgically cleansed.  Seriously.  I know it takes  A LOT to get  me to expose my nether regions to a Dr. but this would be well worth it.  Hell, I’ve even resorted to digital manipulation today.  Ask me why…. Because I knew a guy that was paralyzed once  and his wife had  to shove her fingers up his ass to make him poo.   I figured it was  worth  a  try.  Didn’t work, just  teased me is all.  Nothing like that special I gotta poo feeling.  I  have a tear in my eye right now just thinking about what I wouldn’t give for a good case of the runs…


The Conclusion of the Lump

So where was I? Oh yes, Friday just following the super fun trip to Miles for U/S and Mammo…

I wouldn’t have my cytology report until the following Thursday and since the tests I’d had done up to that point were highly inconclusive, like the Radiologist told me, the only thing I could do at this point was see what the cells said.

By Sunday I had gone pretty much 6 days without eating.  I even went to the fair and was able to pass up the few once a year treats that I covet!!!  Friday night I still had a fever and I started to feel really weak.  (We’re thinking that this is now something new and unrelated… I’ll probably blog about this new problem as soon as I find out more from my Dr hopefully this week).

I didn’t get much sleep during the week, constantly fretting about the test results.  On Thursday I went to the Dr.s for a 3:00pm appointment.  My fever had finally broke, that was good news.  But, I had lost over 9# since the 17th.  Not good and a perfect example of what stress combined with starvation will do to your body.

I waited for what seemed like forever for Tina to come to the exam room.   When she finally did, the first words out of her mouth were… “Good news!”

The cytology report showed mainly white cells.  No evidence of atypical cells and most importantly no malignancy.  I guess the mammo had actually shown something but nothing of great value.  It was a series of calcifications near where my lump is.  I guess they interpreted this an some sort of injury response.  But seriously, my boob never got injured!

The lump is still there but is greatly reduced.  Tina said that it actually feels like normal fibrous breast tissue now.  Every once in a while I get a slight twinge where it was and get all nervous but I guess that healing might cause discomfort.  With the swelling and heat gone (presumably from the infection being over) she is no longer worried about IBC.

Her take on what happened is this…

I developed a cyst but it was small and I didn’t know it.  The cyst was located very close to my milk duct.  Hormonal changes made the cyst grow.  My dog stepped on my boob, rupturing the cyst membrane.  Bacteria somehow made its way from my nipple or a pimple on my boob up to the ruptured cyst area.  An infection set in and I developed an abscess which grew rapidly.

I do have to go back for another ultrasound in 6-8 weeks to see if it resolves itself completely.  She doesn’t think it will but wants to make sure it doesn’t change.  If it’s still concerning them when I go back in, I plan to ask for an excisional biopsy.  I’d much rather have it gone than to have to get my boobies played with by multiple strangers every month and  a half!  I don’t tolerate stress well and can’t be having this ordeal indefinitely.

I know that  a lot of you were concerned about me and I appreciate that.  I didn’t mean to overly worry anyone but I did want this written out because I think what I’ve experienced is important for you to know.  This has been a really good example of how a lump that feels serious, might not necessarily be.  I can tell you that after speaking with both Dr.’s and the Radiologist, this lump felt highly suspicious from the start.  It was solid and knotty feeling.  It not smooth, squishy or anything of the likes.  In fact, the circumstances surrounding it were strange too.  I’m not lactating, have never had kids, yet I end up with Mastitis???  How bizarre does that sound? I over-reacted and hope that (knock on wood) that if I have to go through this again – and my Dr. told me I most likely would – I learned my lesson well!

So, ladies that are like me and working your way slowly into peri-menopause – don’t fear the lump!!!! At least until you have definite cause to.

Oh, and for those with inquiring minds, when I go back to the Dr.’s this week, I’m going to ask for a copy of the Mammo and U/S pictures so that I can post.  Who knows, it might help ease some poor other persons mind if they experience something similar!

UPDATE:  The picture is my cyst as of my 6 week follow-up ultrasound.  It’s grown in size and has some friends.  If you look on the left image, you’ll see  mickey mouse.  That’s my cyst plus 2 new ones.  Actually, the report states ‘numerous’ small cysts surrounding the initial one.  I have to go back on 1/25 for another ultrasound to see if it’s grown anymore or changed.  I’m kind of thinking that I’m going to have her check my hormones that week too as I am beginning to wonder if this is something related to perimenopause.  I know that 35 seems young, however on my dad’s side of the family, a lot of my aunts started menopause in their 30’s.


The Two O’Clock Lump

The first is always the worst…

Monday, August 17, 2009 started off like any other.  That evening, just before bed I noticed that my boobs felt like they had been put inside a vice.  They were sore and about double their normal size (period had just started) so to alleviate some of the pain I squeezed them a few times with the sides of my arms.  After pressing against them I noticed that the left one felt more solid and not for one minute thinking anything would be awry, I used my hand to squeeze it.  This action was completely involuntary.  I had a pain so I touched it.  My hand nearly flew across the room because when I felt the size of the lump in my breast, I practically threw it away from my body.

A deep, gnawing sick feeling overcame me and I tried to put it out of my head, knowing nothing could be done until tomorrow.  Part of me wanted to blame it on the period that had just begun, and I reassured myself by saying that in the morning, I’d wake up and it would be gone.  Needless to say I didn’t get too much sleep that night because I felt overheated and nauseous.

When I finally did wake up on Tuesday morning, I had completely forgotten about the lump I’d felt the night before.  I was still feeling slightly feverish and the first thing I did was toss the covers down to expose my torso.  When I did this, I happened to look down at my chest and there staring at me was this giant bunch making the skin of my breast tent up.

Another round of sickening nausea and I rushed to get out of the house.  I didn’t want to alarm Dan or Santos by calling the Dr.’s from there and just desperately wanted to get to my Aunt’s house so that she could tell me what to do. Well, I knew what I had to do, I guess maybe I needed some reassurance more than anything.

I got to Auntie’s at about 10:30am and oddly enough, she wasn’t there.  Of all the days… Lindsey was however and I opted to wait after she said her mom would be back in about 1/2 hour.  It ended up being more like an hour but once Auntie walked in the door she immediately asked what was wrong.

I told her that I’d found a huge lump and asked her to feel it.  I knew she’d several scares of her own in the past and figured that if it felt like anything she’d ever had at least I could worry less.  Turns out her lumps didn’t feel anything like mine.  I was reluctant to give it  a good evaluation because to me, it felt like this solid mass encompassing an entire quadrant of my breast.  I was terrified to touch it again.  Seriously, it was huge and it’s like it happened overnight. Something that big doesn’t just appear.  It protruded from the tissue below and looked and felt much like I’d found a really big walnut to stick there. It wasn’t smooth, it was really ragged, it wasn’t squishy it was hard.

So, I ended up with diarrhea and called to schedule a Dr.’s appointment.  They told me to come in at 2:00pm and that they considered it an emergency.  Rhonda Selvin saw me and after a long while of poking and prodding my boob, determined that because of the heat, pain and sudden appearance that it might be a mastitis.

She would only give me two days on Augmentin for it to resolve before pursuing alternate diagnosis.  I was to come back at 4:00pm on Thursday to see Tina Guy.  She drew my blood, CBC and SED Rate, both coming out completely normal.

The next two days were the worse.  The fever persisted, the pain persisted, the lump persisted.  The internet became my enemy.  When you look up Mastitis the first thing you’ll notice is that it’s extremely uncommon in non-lactating women.  Secondly you’ll see little warnings saying that an extremely dangerous form of breast cancer sometimes masquerades as mastitis, IBC or Inflammatory Breast Cancer.  The kind that you have no hope of recovering from, is always fatal and where death comes quickly and painfully.

By the time Thursday rolled around I was in the worst state I’d ever been in.  I don’t even think I was as strung out last summer when Raymond shot himself to be honest.  Though it’s quite possible that the suicide experience has worn down my emotional wall and I just didn’t have much left in me at this point.

Santos was scheduled to start school on Wednesday and all I could think about was how horrible it was going to be to drag him all the way from California to Maine, enroll him in school and then have to ship him back because I got sick.  I was a wreck, unable to eat, drink or even function sanely.

Tina Guy examined me that afternoon.  The lump hadn’t changed much and she estimated it was about 2.5cm x 4cm.  Pretty large.  I explained that I wanted to know, instantly, what it was.  That waiting wasn’t an option.  She told me that she could try to get some cells out of it, but that she didn’t believe it was a cyst because it was so firm.  If she could have cut me open and ripped it out right then and there, I’d have been all for it.

She wanted to numb me up first but I refused and she went in with a large diameter needle with no lidocaine.  I only felt the slightest pinch when she broke through the skin, but nothing after that.  She told me that she felt it hit a hard edge and then pop through into the center of the mass.  After wiggling the needle about a bit, she said with surprise, “Well, it looks like…. hmmm… it’s a cyst! A big, fibrous cyst.”  She drained and drained and eventually the syringe was full and she could drain no more.  The lump was nearly gone at this point and I felt a slight bit of relief.  Until she explained about the color of cyst fluid…

It wasn’t clear and it had evidence of red blood cells.  Both bad signs when evaluating a cyst. In fact it was like a thick, greenish, yellowish, whitish color.    She went on to tell me three or four more times that it still ‘might’ be an Inflammatory Breast Cancer but that we’d know more next week.  My cytology report was due to come back on August 27th.  On the way out they set me up with a Mammogram and an Ultrasound to be done at Miles the following day.

When I got home that night I only felt better temporarily.  I couldn’t shake my nerves and not eating and the antibiotic had done a number on my system.  I was dehydrated, weak, feverish and unable to convince myself I wasn’t dying.

I went in for a Mammogram on Friday afternoon.  They did both breasts for comparison.  I wasn’t nervous about the right one and just after it’s picture got taken, she swung her screen around to show me what a ‘healthy’ breast looked like.  Then she did the left one.  Needless to say, she didn’t swing the screen around to show me that one so I immediately jumped to the conclusion that there was something horribly wrong with it.  Well, at least more horrible than a cyst!  After Liz squeezed them horizontally and vertically, she left the room and then came back, announcing that she needed to do another type of view.  Talk about stressful!  Evidently my breasts are extremely dense.  She wanted to get a view coming in from my armpit in an attempt to get more tissue to show up on the mammo.  With a third set of views done, she removed my lead apron and had me sit in the little, private waiting room.

After about 20 minutes (she had said just a few!) she came back and asked me if the woman I listed on my file was my mother.  I was slightly annoyed about this, as I felt as though it was an invasion of my privacy to an extent.  When I told her that yes, Cyndy was my mother she then told me that she was Joseph’s sister.  Yay.  My little cousins sister got to play with my boobs.  Remind me to get my mammo’s somewhere else next time.

She told me that nothing had shown up on my mammo, that it looked completely normal.  But that they wanted to get an ultrasound anyways.  I really wanted it to be over with at that moment, but she explained that since the lump was still there and the radiologist had talked to Tina, that they both felt it was prudent to do the test.

I got the guy tech.. I was hoping  for the girl.  He asked me where the lump was, I couldn’t find it.  Well, he did and instantly.  He was a busy little beaver clicking away on his machine.  I went to school to be a Rad Tech.  It was obvious that he’d found something of interest and was getting different views and measurements of it.  I became worried again.  He told me that he was done and would be conferring with the Radiologist.  I asked him if that was normal and he said that yes, they always do that, every single time.  I doubted him because I’ve had u/s before and just waited for my Dr. to call.  He also asked me to stay in the room… Ugh!

About 15 minutes later both him and a woman came in and the woman shook my hand, announcing that she was a Radiologist from the Maine Medical Center and that she would like to perform the ultrasound herself because they had found something that they didn’t quite understand.

By this time the lump in my boob was screaming in pain and I was a basket case.  After several more grueling minutes she stopped what she was doing to speak with me about what she’d found.  This is what she told me (and why my weekend sucked!)…

In the area of your lump, nothing showed on the Mammogram but on ultrasound what I”m seeing is what looks like a cyst with a hard shell that is partially filled and has either bled or ruptured in on itself.  Surrounding this looks like a hematoma or swelling.  I’ve never seen anything quite like it, but it doesn’t look necessarily malignant.  Have you ever had an injury to your breast?  No!  Do you have small animals that might have damaged your breast by stepping on it?  Yes, but I would have probably felt something this large rupture wouldn’t I?  Probably… Yay!

To be continued…

The Dog Days of Summer

dukebwDuke, my 7 year old Miniature Pinscher, has been sick lately.  It all started about 2 weeks ago after I gave him a flea bath…

Just like last year at about this time, my house has become inundated with fleas.  It seems like nothing I do will keep them at bay.  As if ticks weren’t bad enough, both my dogs are covered head to toe with flea bites and Duke unfortunately is allergic to them.  He’s developed a severe flea allergy dermatitis and chews at himself constantly.

It all began with a flea bath, or so I assumed.  I did Duchess first, lathering her up with some Scratchex Flea and Tick shampoo.  Once she was done it was Duke’s turn and he suffered through the experience stoicly.

I toweled him off and he did his ‘after bath routine’ which includes running around the house like a madman, rubbing up against anything that’s made of fabric, rolling around on stray pieces of clothing on the furniture and rooting around through piles of blankets.  About fifteen minutes after this I noticed he was acting funny.  He jumped up on the couch next to Dan and sat there hunched up and shivering.  We thought he might be cold so we put a blanket over him, which didn’t help.  He was hesitant to move and with his ears down and his demeanor so subdued, we worried what could possibly be wrong.

Since the only thing that was different about that day and any previous was the flea shampoo, I assumed he was having a reaction to the chemical in the bath.  I put him back in the sink and rinsed him for another 15-20 minutes hoping that it would remove any traces of the pesticide from his skin.

About an hour later he seemed to come out of it so I shrugged it off as a coincidence and didn’t worry too much.  He was completely normal acting the next day.  I let him sleep in bed with us as a treat and shortly after he woke up the next morning I noticed he was acting funny again.  He had similar symptoms from the first night except this time he was panting and acting as though he was in pain.  Dan held him in his lap and a few minutes later he began crying out in pain.

I panicked and called the vet.  They asked us to come in that afternoon and even though we had a few hour wait, I agreed.  About 15 minutes before we were due to leave for the Vet, he started to act normally again.  We went anyways as a precaution and during the examination the Vet found nothing out of the ordinary.  She told us that he was probably having a neurological reaction from the pesticide and to watch him closely for any sign of deterioration.

The following day he was fine and I think even the next.  On Monday he was having episodes again.  The attacks had worsened and he would literally be writhing around in pain for 30 minutes or more.  It looked like he was having a muscle spasm that started on the left side of his neck and traveled down his shoulder and into his paw.  His attacks would start with a change in posture, then lifting that leg, then he would become rigid and starting screaming.  Depending on the severity of the attack, he’d either just scream or sometimes he’d lift both his front legs straight out in front of him, arching his back back with his head pointing towards the ceiling.  It was heartbreaking and terrifying.

A trip to the vet that afternoon revealed that the pain he was suffering from originated in his neck along with the fact that he had a slight case of pancreatitis and dehydration.  He showed no sensitivity to having his abdomen touched.  The vet declared that he had a slipped disk and that he’d need a myelogram or an MRI; both having to be performed at a referral clinic and both more than likely resulting in a very costly surgery.  She sent us home with Prednisone, Morphine and something to protect his stomach.  I felt like she’d sent him home to die.

Over the next few days he got worse instead of better.  I placed numerous calls to the vet who kept telling me that if it was his disks he should be responding to the steroids.  Nothing we gave him seemed to help and the attacks that were happening once a day became three or four times a day.  He stopped drinking and eating, increasing my anxiety exponentially.

One night, in desperation, I even called my Dad begging him to come with me to the vets so I could have him put to sleep.  I couldn’t bear to see him suffering so much and felt like it would be a cruel existence for him to  suffer like that every day of his life.  Daddy told me that although he didn’t want to see Duke suffer, that I had to give him at least a chance to get better.  He explained how he’d had back problems that had been excrutiating, but that it took time to heal.  I’m so glad I had that conversation because I was convinced that I had no other choice.

The past few days have been a little bit better.  Confining him to his crate, while upsetting his willfulness, seems to be the key in regulating these attacks.  We got sly and would fill his water bowl with water and just drop in a few nuggest of food.  In order for him to eat, he’d have to drink too.  His lethargy has decreased since he’s been taking fluids and he’d resumed regular bowel movements and peeing.

Internet research has helped turn up some other possible causes which we’ll be exploring this upcoming week.

My last conversation with a new Vet was enlightening.  She explained that if in fact he had disk disease severe enough to warrant the amount of pain he seems to be in that he’d more than likely be displaying other neurological symptoms like rolling his paws when he walks, being unbalanced, even incontinence.  Duke isn’t experiencing any of these accompanying symptoms.

Which could possibly point towards another culprit, Lyme Disease.  Though many websites will portray Canine Lyme as being an arthritic, inflammatory process, I have found many Vets that say a lot of dogs diagnosed with incurable disk disease actually had Lyme.  That it can cause extreme muscle pain due to cramping.  This is almost exactly what is happening to him.

Duke is very young and it seems unlikely that he has either disk disease or arthritis.  We do however, live in an endemic area, with over 5,500 canine Lyme Disease cases reported just between 2001 and 2007.  Though  we obviously would rather he not have anything wrong with him, we hope that it’s Lyme as opposed to Disk Disease.  The latter being a death sentence.  At least Lyme can be treated with antibiotics that I can afford.  Sadly, I cannot afford between $1000-$3000 for just an MRI and another $3000+ for neck surgery.

I’ll keep you posted and in the meanwhile, you keep your fingers crossed.

Attn: Cavemen, Housework = Sex

The Caveman’s Guide to Getting Laid

Let’s face it, housework simply does not require any significant prerequisite skills. If you can grasp objects and move your hand around in circular motions, you pretty much have what it takes to be effective. The problem is translating what you already know into cleaning habits that will not only keep your wife happy, but help prevent the spread of disease.

Most houses have a similar set-up. There is a kitchen, a living room, bedroom/s and bathroom/s.

For super-cavemen only: kitchen=place we store food, cook and eat; living room=where we watch tv and entertain guests; bedroom=where you jerk off while we sleep; bathroom=where people go if they want to be clean or to vacate their bowels.

For the sake of simplicity, we’ll proceed under the assumption that these are the only room archetypes you have in your house. Each room will involve a slightly different cleaning technique and I will go through them one-by-one. If I’m successful in teaching you basic housekeeping skills, you might just get laid tonight (but don’t count on it).

The three most important rooms to keep picked-up are the kitchen, bathroom and living rooms. Bedrooms can take a second seat as the doors can be closed and no one has to see what lies beyond. Because food preparation is something that happens everyday, it’s good to keep the kitchen on the absolute top of the list. A clean kitchen means easier cooking, less diarrhea and a place to eat in peace.

Before you Begin

You don’t need fancy rubber gloves, technologically advanced sponges or special chemical solutions to clean, at least in the manner that I’m about to teach you.  Grab whatever is handy.  If you need something to wipe or scrub with any sponge, rag, paper towel, even sock (clean) will do.  Cleaning agents YOU will be using come in two forms: multi-purpose and glass.  If you’ve mastered basic cleaning, you can try this same tutorial using the following more advanced tools:

  • Swiffer Duster
  • Swiffer Mop

Now that you have your weapons, let see what you’ll be attacking.  Treat it like it’s a war, a video game, a video game about war, whatever it is that you need to visualize to get you through this experience.

Cleaning the Kitchen

Men often clean in a manner that suggests that there is a bomb ready to detonate at any moment. They hurry through the process, skipping the most important parts and dive for their fox holes the moment a singular clear spot is visible on the counter. This is not how it’s done boys!


Dishwashers were designed to take many dishes and clean them all at once.  Amazing, I know!  Try to avoid loading this appliance with only a handful of items.  You will not gain any appreciation for all your ‘hard work’ along with the fact that you will drive up the electricity bill in vain.

Empty and Pre-rinse

Before you put one goddamn thing in the dishwasher, remove any clean dishes and put them away.  Nothing drives me more insane than watching some walking penis put dirty dishes on the top shelf of a dishwasher while clean dishes are still below.  Yes, I saw it happen last week in fact!  GRAVITY MAKES GROSS THINGS FALL.  Usually dishes go in cupboards – if you can’t find the proper cupboards, ask your wife to label them for you or give you a quick run-down on where to place cups, plates and silverware.  After all clean items are out of the way, begin to pre-rinse the dishes you’re about to put in the machine.  This isn’t difficult, get out a spatula or butter knife and scrape off large food particles while you run the item under water.

Load Sufficiently

Put large items on the bottom and stack those dishes in tight.  Don’t overlap as the item on top will often not get cleaned.  And finally, since in  most machines  the water jets from below, don’t place any concave item with the curve facing down.  Yes I’ve seen this too.  Ask Santos about how clean the dishes got the day he put them all in upside down.  When you’re done you should see that the dishwasher appears full yet nothing is stacked two-deep.  Good Job!

Making it Work

Now for the most strenuous part of the five minutes you’ve been cleaning.  Squirt some detergent in the specifically designed slot and close the door on your dishwasher.  If you’re like most cavemen I know, a mere apprentice housekeeper, you’ve probably done something incorrectly.  To ensure that as many dishes are washed as possible, use the heavy duty cycle – it might be called that or ‘pot scrubber’ or something similar.  Just look for words that imply that your dishes are truly disgusting and need extra attention.  Good Job!

Hey, guess what?  It took you probably no more than 10 minutes to rinse and load the dishwasher.  That’s ten minutes that your wife won’t have to spend doing it after she comes home from a long day at work.  I can’t be certain but I believe that I’ve read somewhere that the time men put into housework is directly proportional to the amount and length of sex they’re offered.  Think about that long and hard.  You can’t turn your wife into a dirty little whore just by letting the house go to hell; it doesn’t work like that.  Different kinds of dirty, retard!

Don’t Stop!

Most cavemen will stop there.  I know, you’re probably exhausted and I feel for you.  Ha! But keep focused because there’s a few more things you need to do before you sit down for your first breaky poo.  Don’t neglect the sink.  Grab a sponge, squirt some detergent on it and give a quick scrubbing.  Rinse it down and you’ll notice that the room is already starting to sparkle!

The Surfaces

Keeping the momentum, you will now launch an assault on the surfaces (counter, table, stovetop, breakfast bar, etc – if it’s flat and horizontal, it’s a surface).  Throw away any wrappers, lids, scraps or garbage you find.  This doesn’t include rings, important papers, or pets.  Use your brain caveman.  Oh, sorry… I forgot to say to put the refuse in a garbage bag.  Don’t try to stuff it down the drain, feed it to the dog, or toss it in a pile on your porch or lawn.  Garbage bag are gooooood.

  • Counters
  • Stovetops
  • Tables

Under the counter or in the section where you’d normally find cleaning implements hunt around for an all purpose spray cleaner.  Some words to look out for will be Lysol, Pine Sol, Fantastic, and of course… Clean.   Make sure it’s okay to be used on counters.  When I say this I mean, don’t just randomly grab for the first item that sprays, you could accidentally use Raid or Pledge and neither of those would help you complete your objective.  Be smart about this if it’s at all possible.

After the counter is clear of large debris, spray it down with the cleaner and using a rag, sponge or paper towel, wipe it off.  Make sure you get BEHIND the sink faucet and under counter top appliances as well.  These are two areas that most men neglect and this drives women nuts!

At this point you should also give the stove surface a quick rub and scrub.  Don’t start panicking, we’re not looking for perfection, just EFFORT.


The last thing you’ll really need to clean is the floor.  If it’s like most kitchens and is a hard surface (not rug) you will need to sweep it first.  If you haven’t done this activity before, get a broom.  You know, the vehicle that you like to envision your wife riding around on during the full moon.

Spot Clean

Notice I said spot clean?  Well I didn’t want to wear you out or anything so I thought I’d be easy on you.  After all this is just a 100 level class.  Most men couldn’t do a 200-400 if they tried, well at least straight men…  Spot cleaning is where you grab a sponge and spray cleaner, targeting any areas that you see scum.  Spray the spot, wipe it, move onto the next spot. Wax on, Wax off, Grasshoppa’.

Just to give you an example of how long I believe this would truly take, I did the same this weekend in my own house.  From start to finish, and this even included a couple of loads of laundry in between, I spent a total of 1/2 hour quick cleaning my kitchen.  This half hour could potentially lead to double that amount of time in grateful, energetic coitus.  And besides, what’s a half hour if you’re home all the time anyways.

Side note: Studies show that the ability to see dirt is related to how intelligent and in touch with his feminine a man is.  Researchers have placed cavemen in the same room as homosexuals and surprisingly enough, the gay men were able to see approximately 300% more dirt.  Participants were asked to determine which items needed cleaning – the cavemen were reluctant to choose any at all, while the gay men, on average, selected at least three items desperately needing a douching!  While this doesn’t necessarily prove this  that sexual preference is a determining factor in cleanliness, it does go to show why straight men are usually disgusting pigs and gay men attract women like butterflies to honey!

Living Room

Most houses are set up so that the first room viewed by any guest is the living room.  If not the first, then the second anyways.  Because of this, you need to keep this room picked up at all times.  No woman wants to get caught unawares and have her surprise guests think she’s living in a pig sty when what it boils down to is that she’s the only one working in the household and all the men living with her are incapable of pitching in during their seven days off each week.

Living rooms are easy to clean.  Make sure the couches are cleared off, blankets on them are folded.  Use a swiffer duster to get cobwebs out of the corners and dust off the visible furniture surfaces.  Usually the focal point of this room is a coffee table, therefore it should remain cleared off.  If clutter is the issue, get some fabric covered boxes.  They are decorative and you can toss a lot of junk in them when you need the appearance of clean.

After you’ve de-cluttered and tidied up, vacuum.  If you have hard floors, spot mop (just like in the kitchen).  Voila, you’re done and I bet it didn’t even take you 15 minutes this time!  If this is the first room your wife sees when she comes home from work, multiply the amount of time it took you by 3 and that should be the extra time she’s going to want to bang on you for doing this really awesome thing for her. If it’s the second, multiply by 2 but don’t forget to add in the extra whoopie time for the spectacular job you did in the kitchen.

Things to avoid…

  • Stuffing crap under, behind or between the cushions of the couch.  Big no no.
  • Piling.  Clutter arranged neatly into a giant pile or stack or statue is still clutter.  Find the room it goes in or stick it in a box.

subliminal message…dirty socks are equal to dirty diapers… don’t leave them lying around… it is gross… they are not decorative… put them in a fucking laundry basket or risk losing your testicles…

The Bathroom

Oh, double dread, I can smell your fear!  In all honesty, you should be happy about this room because cleaning it really doesn’t take that long and if it’s summer-time and you have no air conditioning, it’s usually cooler in here.

Let’s go over the major components of a bathroom, or at least the ones that you want to clean.

  • Counter/Sink
  • Toilet
  • Floor
  • Tub
  • Mirror

I’ll add one more item to this list, one that I would normally tell you to ignore, but in the case of the white bathroom, trim boards (mop boards to some) look grungier here  than in any other room for some reason, make sure you wipe them off.


The best cleaning agent ever invented for tub cleaning is Pine Sol.  I’ve bought more expensive, more fancy, special sponges and never had as good of a result as I have with this chemical.  It will devour soup scum and get almost any other stain out.  Buy some.

If you have a shower curtain, pull it closed.  Closed on the inside of the tub unless you have one of those retarded iside outside deals.  If  you can see any part of the tub exposed, wipe it off.  Usually this will just be the corners.  Wipe the front of the tub too for shits and giggles.

Things to remember about tubs:  clean up your snot-rockets.  I’ve lived with a few men in my life and every single one of them admitted to blowing nose chunks into the tub during shower-time.  This is nasty and inexcusable.  Inspect this fucker before you leave the room and remove any boogies you’ve left behind.

We don’t drop chunks of clot and uterus in the tub and leave it there for you to step on, so don’t make us stand in your mucus!


Using a GLASS cleaner, make the mirror shiny and clean.  While you might not care about your appearance or only visit this room to shit and then once every two weeks to shower, your wife has to work and as a result will probably want to look at herself while doing her hair and makeup in the morning.


Using an all purpose cleaner, wipe up the counter and sink.  DON’T FORGET TO CLEAN BEHIND THE FAUCET.  That was God saying that, not me.  If it’s in caps, you know it’s him laying down the law.


Toilet’s are tricksy.  Unless everyone in your household is completely bald or has white hair, you’ll notice that no matter what you do, there are always pubes clinging to the toilet.  That’s because…well, I  really don’t want to get into it, but suffice it to say pube plus damp equals cling.  (Same reason your chest hairs will always be found stuck to your wife’s chin, neck and boobs after sweaty sex)  This concept does NOT however involve how Spider Man is able to cling to buildings…

Use paper towels for toilet cleaning.  Clean the ENTIRE toilet, not just the surface you can see when the lid is down.  Lift the lid up and wipe down any piss you’ve left because  of your poor aim (or small dick, same difference).  Wipe the sides of the toilet and particularly the area around the two little bolts that attach it to the floor.

If you’re too squeamish to use the toilet scrubber to clean the interior, at least dump some cleaner inside to make pretty bubbles that will hide the scum.


Because bathrooms are usually filled with hair, the floor here might need more than a spot cleaning.  I’d suggest a quick vacuum (with the hose) and then touch-ups.  Not quite as quick but twice as effective!

Now that the bathroom is done you will find that you a) have about 6-7 more hours before your wife comes home from work or b) are excited about doing some additional activities.

Though I hardly doubt the latter, I will give you a few hints on other projects you could be doing (all in the name of sex mind you).

  • Laundry
  • Yardwork


Cavemen treat laundry like it’s a big mystery.  As though the clothing is entering some multi-liminal dimension, being whirled around in the amniotic fluid of some alien goddess and then spat back out, limp, damp and miraculously clean.  For whatever reason, maybe a short circuit, a genetic malformation… men are incapable of performing the simple task of moving clean clothing from the washing machine to the dryer.  Usually this is because there are already clothes in the dryer and if the washing machine was the first big mystery of cavekind, then the dryer is the second.

Clothing is not dried with gamma radiation.  Touching the freshly dried items will not cause you to assanguinate, arrest, or lose your penis.  It’s perfectly okay to reach into the device, remove the clothing and place it either on top of the dryer or into a laundry basket.  Most women are more concerned about the volume of laundry as opposed to the perfection of the end product, so I’d suggest that if you don’t feel as though you’re capable of folding it (and I’m sure that you’re not…) to just get laundry DONE and get the clean stuff in a laundry basket.

ps:  Here’s where the bedroom comes in handy.  To give the illusion of a super clean laundry area, take the clean laundry in baskets and place them on the bed.  Since they’ll need to be folded and put away eventually, you’re just getting them closer to their ultimate goal.

A couple of pointers for the small-minded…

Never put dish detergent in your washing machine.  It wasn’t designed to be used for clothing and will flood your house in bubbles.  Bubbles might make children laugh, but not wives.  Same goes for dishwashers; use Dishwasher Detergent not the liquid Dawn type stuff.  If you do, same thing will happen.  Bubble-grenades… Not good!


Don’t mix bleach and ammonia. Unless you’re committing suicide that is.  The two chemicals combined will create mustard gas.  This is deadly and several times a year, dumb cavemen like you do just this and die horrific deaths as a result.  Don’t let housework kill you!


This is typically the  mans domain, but from what I can see, they are NOT the master of it.  Just a few observations to help you be more effective.

  • When weed whacking, it’s usually preferable to whack all the weeds in a specific area. I.e., if you’re whacking a line of weeds along the edge of something, don’t do every other foot because it makes it look like you didn’t whack it to begin with.
  • When mowing, try not to a) mow in a decreasing spiral and b) skip around like your lawn mower is leap frog and your mowing from pad to pad.  Mow like you mean it, finish the area you started first before going elsewhere
  • Run over any and all snakes that you see! Very important
  • You will usually notice that a garbage can is provided for your ‘using’ pleasure.  If you see a bit of garbage on the ground, pick it up and throw it away.  Don’t always leave shit like this for your wife to do, it’s annoying as hell and doesn’t score you any brownie points!

One Last Gripe

Gooooood Job!  Fantastic!  I’m proud of you.  Even if you totally fucked it up, I’m still happy that you made the effort.  Every time you practice cleaning it gets easier and easier.  Soon you’ll develop what’s called a “routine” and once you’ve established a good rhythm, you could cut down your cleaning time by minutes and minutes and even seconds!!!  But seriously, all of these things should have taken you no longer than an hour.  No, I don’t jest.  If this took you more than an hour, here’s the problem.


Don’t get mad at me, take your complaints to God.

Your job as a caveman who has been blessed with some (probably very lonely and desperate) woman that for whatever reason wants you in her life is not to make sure that the furniture doesn’t float off into outer space. It’s not to sample all the food in the fridge.  It’s not to keep the computers heated up.

Housework is like rabbits.  If two of them get together, they fuck like crazy and you end up with a whole housefull of shit to clean up.  You need to keep them apart.  If you have a teenager daughter, treat the housework like you do her.

If your house cannot be speed-cleaned in about an hour you have allowed it to accumulate too damn much.  And yes, I hold you personally responsible because it is you after all that enjoys the bulk of the time in the house.

What Should You Being Doing Now?

Well, for starters, you need to become at least somewhat desirable.  This is where you will employ personal hygiene skills.  If you have none, please see the following list to help you through the transition:

  • Brush your moss-covered teeth
  • Take a shower
  • While you’re in it wash your filthy, greasy hair
  • Shave that god-awful scruff.  Yes when you first started dating she said it was sexy, but that was back when your stubbly chin actually came in contact with anything below her waist.  Now that you no longer venture to Australia, it’s not so hot.
  • Put on deodorant.  Many cavemen think that just because they shower that they will stay fresh and clean smelling.  You are seriously mistaken.
  • Put on clean clothes.  If you have none, refer to the section entitled Laundry.

There, now you’re at least half-way normal looking.  With a little luck, all the cleaning you’ve done (both to the house ad yourself) will get you some pussay tonight!  Oh, one last little reminders (sexually speaking).

Your body is not a fishing pole and your dick is not a lure.  Please don’t use it as one.  Just as fish laugh at fisherman who dangle pink rubber bouncy things in front of them, women laugh at men who use their dicks in this same manner.

Copyright 2009 Stacy Lash