Wednesday, May 25, 2005
A few months ago I got some water trapped in my right ear after one of my extended masturbatory sessions lolling around in a steamy bathtub.
In the past, I've been able to free up waterlogged ears merely by pouring a capful of rubbing alcohol into the offending auditory canal and letting it drain. Not this time. My hearing in that ear was mildly muffled, but I wasn't so uncomfortable that I'd waste money going to see a doctor about it. I'm one of the uninsured millions that Bill Clinton promised to help and didn't. I don't go to doctors unless I'm having trouble sewing the limb back on myself.
About a week ago—just as my hearing seemed to suddenly clear—a low, throbbing, dentist's-drill-on-an-open-nerve PAIN invaded my right ear. By last night, the pain was so intense I felt I was going to vomit.
Being the worrisome Jew that I am, I'd already searched the word "earaches" on the Web and was convinced that a simple infection had progressed into mastoiditis and would eventually spread to my cerebral lining, causing permanent brain damage and certain death.
This morning I finally poured my pulsating wretchedness into my vehicle and motored toward the nearest emergency room. A female attendant with a decent ass looked at my ear and prescribed antibiotics and Vicodin. About an hour ago I popped two 500MG Vicodin tabs, and WHOOSH!—the pain sailed away like a feather floating in the wind.
No wonder people become drug addicts.
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Enjoy some yahoo! fetish groups: part 1 and part 2.
Posted by jg @ 03:47 PM PST []
Sunday, May 1, 2005
The sub-Nordic blood that rockets through my veins is warmed whenever I'm made aware of a woman who refuses to succumb to the mental afflictions, character flaws, and logical deficiencies which typically plague and immobilize her gender. Momentary wisps of happiness emanate from my boxer shorts when I discover a gal solid enough to stand up for her Old Man in a case where The Man is tryin' to string his ass up on some bogus charges.
Such a gal is Debbie Rowe, ex-wife and baby-makin' partner of razor-nosed accused chomo Michael Jackson. Mannish and square-jawed in the manner of announcer Shadoe Stevens, Rowe hoodwinked prosecutors into believing she'd help their case. Instead, she described her ex as a good father and a decent man who is being victimized by greedy "vultures" seeking to feast on his dwindling wealth.
What's remarkable is that Rowe isn't permitted by Jackson's phalanxes of attorneys to even VISIT the pair of children she plopped out of her snatch on his behalf—the little girl and the baby Blanket boy—for more than eight hours every 45 days. Essentially, he stole her children from right out of her muscular Caucasian vagina, and the woman STILL is able to suppress her maternal instincts, get up on the stand, and refuse to drop a dime on Michael Jackson.
Some have suggested that she must be receiving hush money, but that doesn't make any sense to me, because, as you know, I'm not materialistic.