What an amalgamation of topics to write about. First things first: for all the men in the world, if you have porn, don't leave it in the VCR for your partner to discover it. I know, I know, it's hard to remember your own middle name after you've just blown a load, but to save future embarrassment, press eject and put it away in your secret hiding place.
I came home from work one morning last week, and dropped like a log. Completely forgetting that I emptied the pipes last night, while Jo was watching a movie with her friend. Then I left the tape in the VCR. Incidentally, I find it surreal that while Jo and her bud are watching "The Notebook" and crying their eyes out, I'm spanking my monkey to a couple of fake lesbians. I guess I can't put my finger on it (although those "lesbians" definitely could, if you know what I mean), but porn should be on the menu for a healthy full-blooded, 2 testicled man. Married, single, gay, straight, legless, and even Stanford grads need to blow their load once in a while. I'm not so sure that hard core porn is the best thing to watch, though, because a lot of men start to get the idea that most women like it that way. Not really. They like sensuality, and foreplay, and passion, and clitoral stimulation. And sometimes, they just like to do it doggy style. But mostly the former.
I'm a lucky man, though. Because when my wife discovered said porn in the VCR, she asked me if she could watch some more. Suh-weet. Just kidding.
Sometimes, when I'm in midstroke, I think to myself if what I'm doing is really a dirty little act, or just a normal part of sexuality. Guys have it rough. There is absolutely nothing erotic about the vision of a man masturbating. It's pretty disturbing really. But, women, on the other hand, can be pretty damn sexy when they masturbate. So much so that women AND men can get off on it. Just when I think I'm a dirty old man, I think of Michael Jackson. No, not in that way (and definitely not while I'm in midstroke; that could damage a man for life). But in a comparative way, I'm only as dirty as a one-day old sock. MJ's a darkened sock with holes and no more elastic that hadn't been washed for months because it's been missing in the sofa cushions.
Even if the freak isn't molesting young boys, thinking that having slumber parties with young boys and sleeping in the same bed is appropriate is pretty damn mental. Yet, he exudes this appeal that transcends generations. Two of my buds who I used to work with at Baskin-Robbins had this obsession with him. Granted, it was mostly one of them who had the obsession, and the other had an obsession with him, which meant that he had an obsession with Michael Jackson (by order of congruence; I remember my Geometry, fool). In fact, there were rumors that they have tried anal sex with one another, even though one is married and the other has an on-again-off-again girlfriend. They're about 30 years old right now. One of the kids in the group home (let's name him Bobo) is also obsessed with MJ. He tried to dance like him, sing like him, and even told one of our counselors that he would like to have white skin (he's African-American). LIttle does he know that the reason why he's in the group home in the first place is to keep him away from the same type of psycho like MJ that caused him to have PTSD in the first place. Ah, the irony.
No easy transition from the king of pop to my recent diagnosis of having severe obstructive sleep apnea, so I won't even try. In my sleep study, I had 31 events of cessation of breathing or dangerously low oxygen levels per hour. My doctor told me to get surgery right away and/or go on a machine called the C-pap that forces oxygen into the pharynx. I've always snored like a hippo all of my life, and I'm not too terribly overweight. Finally, my first ever primary care physician (who is very good at what she does) noticed my tonsils were the size of grapfruits. I went to an ENT (ear, nose, throat doctor), and he confirmed her findings. Then I got a sleep study done on me, and walla!! I have severe obstructive sleep apnea.
The surgery entails getting my uvula cut off, my tonsils sliced, my adenoids chopped, and part of my soft palate erased. Also a small possibility of jaw surgery or even tongue surgery, and maybe turbinate elimination in the nasal cavity. I got problems, homeskillet. Right now, I'm taking flonase to open up my nasal cavity. I should be on the C-pap machine within a month. As for surgery, we'll see. If the C-pap machine is good enough, I don't mind sleeping with it. Sure, that's what I say now, but what if it's the size of a dialysis machine and as noisy as a jetliner?
It ain't no laughing matter, so I advised my Pops, Moms, and bro to get it checked out. We all come from a certain subspecies of human termed
Homo Sapiens snorelikeahippomotis. When we were all in the same house, it would be a symphony of snorts, whistles, and bells. My other bro, Mig, wasn't immune to sleep problems wither. Even though he didn't snore, he would often sleepwalk and talk in his sleep. He would also roll around in his bed like a badger on crack. When I had the misfortune of sleeping in the same bed with him, I woke up in the morning bruised and battered. My sleep care doctor said that SOSA (not Sammy) could lead to an enlarged heart, high blood pressure, obesity (therefore acceleration of cancer), chronic fatigue syndrome, depression, mood swings, and forgetfulness. No wonder I'm such a mess. Here's hoping that whatever ails I have are treated in the next 6 months! Sleep well, everyone.
