It started out like any other Tuesday morning - and by that I mean, like shit.

The alarm clock went off at 7:00 and my half asleep, half awake, half pissed off ass crawled out of bed and stumbled like a rum-soaked, Karlof-legged mummy to the bathroom.

And yes, before you say anything, I am fully aware that the universal concepts of math make the idea of three halves impossible.

My response is simple: fuck you.

At 7:00 in the morning two plus two can equal fifty-forty, eight minus nine can equal plurdteen and Dane Cook can be the funniest comic in the history of stand-up for all I care.

At 7:00 in the morning the impossible becomes possible and until my bladder is emptied the possible becomes the truth.

When I entered the bathroom I clicked on the light, looked into the mirror and nearly dropped a shockload into my Spiderman boxers.

Oh crap.

My chest, face, and legs were covered in peanut shaped, light-pink spots. I pulled out the waistband of my boxers and checked on my little buddy. For the most part he seemed okay. Unfortunately the area surrounding him was covered in the splotchy red weirdness as well.

Oh poop.

When I went to bed the night before I looked perfectly normal and I woke up resembling a male version of little orphan Annie.

Oh sheet.

I returned to the bedroom and nudged my wife. When she didn't move my nudge transformed into a shove and I nearly rolled her off the bed. This got her attention.

"Is it just me, or am I covered in spots?"

Half awake, half asleep, and half annoyed, she reluctantly crawled out of bed and asked me to step into the light of the bathroom to confirm what I was seeing.

Her index finger reached forward and poked me in the chest. "Yeah. Yeah, it looks like you are."

When she was done poking me, she poked me again. Her eyes narrowed and her nose scrunched. I swear she looked like she was examining some sort of weird half-dead hobo corpse stumbled onto in an alley. "You know what Steven, we should take you to the emergency room."

Emergency room? I didn’t like the sound of that.

I'm not a huge fan of doctors and I’m even less a fan of the word emergency.

"You think? I don't know…"

"Steven, come on…this isn't normal. You need to have it looked at."

Her lips curled and she started poking me again. A part of me expected her to disappear into the other room and return wearing one of those giant white suits with the gas masks for the face. You know, the ones those sons of bitches that killed E.T. wore.

Damn E.T. killing assholes! Why could you see that the little bastard just wanted to get home!

I insisted on taking an extremely quick shower and then called work to tell them I was heading to the emergency room. Fifteen minutes later we were there. An hour after that I was sitting on one of those annoying crunchy, paper-covered tables with my shirt off, while the doctor examined the spots on my chest much the way my wife had earlier.

Under normal circumstances I think it might have been sort of hot to have two women poking at me while shirtless before 9:00 in the morning. Unfortunately these weren’t normal circumstances.

Plus they were both fully dressed at the time – and seemed a bit grossed out by me - and had no interest in pleasuring my genitals.

I really wish more women had interest in pleasuring my genitals.

Actually, I found myself fighting the urge to pop both of my poke-happy ladies in their respective jaws and let them discover what teeth taste like when they’re rolling around in your mouth.

The doctor’s eyes narrowed a bit behind her glasses. She shook her head and sighed. "Hm. Give me a second. I'll be right back."

She returned a few minutes later and he shot me up with something while explaining that I was having an allergic reaction to the penicillin I’d been given the day before. This was strange, because until that very moment I’d never been allergic to penicillin.

In my head, I blamed my wife.

I'm not sure why.

Maybe it was because I was pissed off about the entire situation, or maybe it was because of her shifty, shifty eyes.

She knows she has shifty eyes.

I’m not saying anything she doesn’t already know.

The doctor left the room again, but not before telling me that I needed to remain where I was for fifteen or so minutes so they could monitor me.

The moment she was gone some pretty white clouds fluffed to life on the interior walls of my eyes. The world turned wobbly. The walls bent like a droopy wiener and the floor wrinkled like chilly nutsack. My breaths felt deeper. They were more airy. A clown danced into the room, attached a tube to my head, and began to fill my brain with helium.

It tickled.

Within minutes I was swaying back and forth like a doped up slacker at a Phish concert. A crooked smile stretched itself across my face. If I’d known any Peter Paul and Mary songs, I might have started to sing them.

Apparently, whatever the doc shot me up with was taking effect.

I was feeling good. I was feeling really good and I was enjoying it. I felt so good that if a three hundred and fifty pound guy calling himself “Stabber” would have raped me on the floor like a bitch lifer in a prison shower, I might have been okay with it. 

Hell, I might have even enjoyed it.

Suddenly nothing mattered. Suddenly everything was pretty.

Suddenly even my wife’s eyes didn't seem so shifty.

After another fifteen minutes the ladyDoc told my wife it was okay to take me home. She also gave us a prescription, which we decided to drop off at the Walgreens a block away.

When we pulled into the parking lot my wife tried to convince me that I needed to wait in the car. I insisted that I go in. I really wanted to step outside and get a look at all the pretty new colors in the sky. I also wanted to figure out if there really was a unicorn on fire darting in and out of the clouds.

Poor stupid unicorn - I bet a leprechaun lit him up.

Leprechaun’s are jerks.

The girl at the prescription counter took my information and started typing something in the computer. I thought this was hilarious. She stopped for a minute and looked at me like I was from another planet - or one of those creepy thirty-five year old, mother of three Twilight fans with Bella tattooed on one arm and Edward on the other.

"Is he okay?"

I'm not sure why, but I also found her question hilarious. In my drugged addled state the prescription woman seemed as funny as Louis C.K. She was cracking me up. In no time at all I was laughing and I was laughing loudly. Not only that, but I couldn’t stop.

It was getting out of hand and it was more than a little weird. The prescription lady was getting uncomfortable. My laughter was like flying a kite at night, or eating a bowl of Captain Crunch with soymilk. It was unnatural and it was gross.

Laughter on the level of the laughter pouring from my mouth hadn’t been heard since Charles Nelson Riley and Bret Butler were regulars on Match Game.

Or, wait. No. Maybe that wasn’t the best example.

Once our business with the girl behind the counter was done, my wife dragged her chuckling idiot of a husband from the store by his arm and shoved him into the car.
The flaming unicorn was gone from the sky.

The leprechaun’s were roasting him over a fire in the parking lot of the Target across the way.

Damn leprechaun assholes.

On the way home I looked at my wife and playfully nudged her shoulder. “Hey you.”

“Hey what?”

I nudged her again, smacked my lips and rolled my tongue across them awkwardly. "You know what? When we get home, we should totally screw. Howzabout it? Wanna screw?"

She looked at my peanut spotted skin and my faraway stare and the drool dripping off my chin, and rolled her eyes.

I have a feeling a part of her wished that she;d just let me go to work - even if it meant me dying.

When she didn’t screw me, I screwed the leprechaun’s instead.

Leprechauns are such perverts.


  1. Well, lets not go nuts. It was chuckle worthy though.

    I'll accept chuckle worthy. ;)