All my life, for as long as I can remember, I would get nauseous if you poked me in the belly button. Throw something to me and it hits me there? Nauseous. Dog jumps up and his front paws get me in just the right place? Nauseous. Goofing around with the cutie from the other side of the dorm and she sticks a finger into my navel? Nauseous. It never occurred to me to ask if anyone else experiences this, I just thought it was normal and everyone was like that. Turns out, it's not. About eh, a year ago, I kind of sort of maybe noticed that my innie was gradually turning into an outie. I thought it was my imagination at first, because seriously, whose fucking bellybutton changes shape? Then one day I decided to power past the nausea and stick my finger in there and push... blooop I had an innie again. Weird. And then an hour later, blooooooooop, I had an outie again. Really weird. This innie-outie phenomenon continued for the better part of a year, although now looking back I would have to admit that as time progressed, my outie kept getting a tiny bit bigger.
Through dumb blind luck, I had a conversation with someone else who happened to mention they once had an "umbilical hernia." The lightbulb went on! it never occurred to me that a hernia could happen anywhere else but down by your nuts, so with some quick searching I was pretty sure that's what I had. The general consensus is as long as it's not causing any discomfort and always 'goes back in' when you lie down flat, there's no need for intervention and to just keep an eye on it. In other words, sit back and do nothing. Perfect!
Scooby, as my umbilical hernia would come to be known as, has always been well mannered and has accompanied me on many an adventure over the last year. He went to last year's Halloween Horror nights (although he was just an adolescent then), he visited my family this past Christmas, he's gone kayaking, he's helped to pull weeds and power wash and carry bags of mulch. And each night as I lay down in bed, I'd use the tip of my finger to tuck Scooby in for the night. "G'night Scooby," I'd say. "Good night Ernie," he replied, "see you in the morning." Bloooop And that's how it went for the better part of a year. I was Shaggy and he was Scooby. And we were best of friends. Like peas and carrots, as Forrest Gump might say.
And then one day right before my vacation this past August, I woke up one morning and for some reason, Scooby was very angry. I hadn't done anything to make Scooby angry, so why was he so upset? "What's wrong Scooby?" I asked, pulling my shirt up in front of a mirror. "Hey move over," came a strange voice that I hadn't heard before, "you're crowding me." I was confused. There staring back at me, just below and to the left of Scooby was a second outie bellybutton. "Huh," I said, "Who are you?" "I'm Scrappy-Dappy-Doo!" came the immediate reply in that unfamiliar voice, "And it's too crowded in here I want out." I reached a finger up and touched Scrappy on the head, he didn't feel soft and squishy like Scooby at all, he was very firm and very sore. "Go away." I said, and began to push Scrappy back inside, only he didn't go away like Scooby would have. No he didn't want to go and he fought me, bobbing and weaving from side to side so I couldn't get a good bearing on him. I kept pushing harder and harder and finally he disappeared, only not with a gentle bloooop like Scooby, but with an alarming POP instead. And it hurt, too! "Who the fuck was that, Scooby?" I asked, "Who invited him? I sure didn't." But Scooby didn't want to talk. Scooby just wanted to rest.
And that's how the last two months have been for me. me and Scooby having a good time, out enjoy the sunshine and riding the scooter. And then that asshole Scrappy comes and ruins everything. He doesn't let me and Scooby enjoy any of the things we used to do, because all he does is whine, whine, whine. If I bend over and stand up too much -- for example if I were to try and pull a bunch of weeds -- Scrappy gets mad and cries. When I try to unload bags of much and sod out of the back of my truck, Scrappy whines it's too hard. And when I cough? Oh boy you better know I have to keep one hand over Scooby or else he goes all apeshit on me. And what's worse is, Scrappy's bad attitude is slowly starting to wear off on Scooby. Now sometimes they both start howling if I do something wrong; one time last week I lifted the back end of my scooter up on a wooden plank and both of them wouldn't shut up for the next day and a half. But perhaps the final straw is I think they're planning to invite yet a third person to our little gang; some dude named Clifford the Big Red Dog . And I just don't think there's any more room.
So this morning I went and spoke with an doctor who specialized in this sort of thing and he says that because of that poke-bellybutton-nausea thing, odd are I've probably had that little hole that Scooby poked his head through, for most of my life. Some people's umbilical stubs just heal weird and leave tiny holes there; sometimes it manifests into a problem later in life, and sometimes it doesn't. But since Scooby and Scrappy were poking their hads through, we'd have better take care of the problem before Clifford gets here. Then I'd be in real trouble. So sometime real soon he's going to put Scooby and Scrappy back in their crate and seal up the door. It'll probably be after next week, so Scooby can enjoy one more final hurrah; a trip to Orlando. I just hope Scrappy doesn't turn into an asshole while we're there.
As seen on the street here in Toronto. Stan
Ernie - I work for a local Telephone/ISP and got these pics. You may or may not know about the law requiring you call for utility locating before you do any excavation. The pictures below are a result of a guy using a post hole digger with out calling for "locates" and he hit an underground cross county gas pipe. This happens all the time, just not to this extent. This is what a high pressure gas main is capable of. I remember one guy was just driving in a fence post and hit a telephone line. "It was only a fence post." Dumbass, call first! Anyway, this gives a new meaning to Call Before You Dig. Happy New Year and keep up the good work. Nick
So what's on tap for me when I get back? A shit ton of Xbox 360, for one thing. But no driving, so looks like I'll have to hodl off in my plan to drive a Lexus at the racetrack.
Smoking stains on teeth can be unsightly and embarrassing. Getting rid of them doesn't always have to involve expensive whitening treatments in a dental office. The first step in both removing and preventing tobacco stains on the teeth is to follow a strict and thorough oral hygiene regimen. By removing tartar and plaque from the teeth, cigarette stains won't adhere to the enamel as easily. When tartar is on the teeth it creates a sticky film, which provides a better environment for bacteria to grow and staining agents to settle on. As the tartar hardens, it will permenantly stain teeth and need to be scraped away rather than brushed and flossed away.
Also, that dickhead Bloomberg seems to have bought himself a Senator. And while I don't think Cory Booker is the worst guy in the world -- remember when he rescued this dog and then this dog -- I just wish he'd keep his fucking nose out of other State's business.