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Ernie's House of Whoopass! February 16, 2016
February 16, 2016

Examination Under Anesthesia.

"Being a healthy white male nearing 30, I didn't think about my asshole too much until recently. It's an oft neglected part of the body; wiped and washed when needed but otherwise left alone. Thing for me changed significantly over the last 3 weeks, and I've learned to never again ignore it. You see, about two years ago, I was diagnosed with IBS, or Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I had been experiencing incredible cramping sensations, the rectal/colon equivalent of dry-heaves, in the mornings when I awoke. It would often take hours for them to end. Doctors told me it was diet related, and that made sense. I had lived the previous 8 years on a diet solely consisting of red meat, imported beer, and the occasional starch with wine. This had been the problem, and a change was the solution. I was prescribed some Levbid anti-spasmodic drugs, told to eat right, and sent on my way. If only had that been the end...

Damage from IBS can come about in many forms. From sitting on the can for up to 2-3 hours at a time, and pushing when nothing was to be pushed, I had sprung an external hemorrhoid under the skin right next to my sphincter on the left side. It felt like a lump in my ass, and it hurt. I suppose it showed up initially about 4 years ago, and had gone through many stages of healing and re-emerging until recently. Over the last 10 months, it moved lower, deeper, and got bigger. It seemed to enter deeper into the flesh, protruded less, but increased in mass and size. Every so often, I'd find that it had swollen to massive dimensions, and upon a little push, "something" burst inside and I'd find blood and puss everywhere on my ass. Yum. I hate doctors. I hate hospitals. It takes a life-threatening injury to get me anywhere near either one. On more than one occasion, I very nearly passed out from pain on the commute to work from this lump, so I decided to get it checked out. Doc sends me to specialist, whom I will now refer to only as Sgt. Ass.

Sgt. Ass was a US Army Flight Surgeon before he took up the cause of small-town ass care. He's brutally honest with me from day one, and doesn't pull punches. Sgt. Ass proceeded to order up a colonoscopy, with an EUA (Examination Under Anesthesia) for the lump. My pics for the colonoscopy are still online. Trust me when I say you never want one. The prep includes drinking a massive amount of PowerShit(tm) laxative that cleans you out 100%, and spontaneously. All turned out OK with the colonoscopy, a pair of small internal hemorrhoids and a polyp (tested, benign), but the EUA didn't find my lump. How he missed it, I'll never know. On the follow up, 6 days later, I tell Sgt. Ass my ass still hurts, and the lump is swelling again. He looks, pokes, hears me shout "OW, FUCKER!" and thus orders me back into surgery the next day for another EUA and excision of this lump. Fucking great. Next day. I spend the morning sucking saltwater in the IV feed, and the early afternoon I'm wheeled back into the OR. All the staff look as if I've been there recently. I have. I'm given another dose or three of some complicatedly named drug concoction, and am out like a light.

An hour and so rolls by, and I am awakened by an urge to piss like a racehorse. I'm on my belly, and in my room at the hospital. I stand up, get to bathroom, and notice I'm wearing cotton mesh briefs as underwear. I knew this was going to get bad. I stand, can't piss, and overhear the nurse talking to my wife. "OH! Now I know why he thinks he needed to go, he had a catheter in OR." Oh, loverly. I don't piss, grumble something about anesthetics, and crawl into the bed on my belly. There is 60' of gauze packed into my crack, all held in by these mesh briefs. Doc comes in, expecting me to have a single shred of coherence. I don't, and depend on my wife to recant for me later. He has removed the lump, and some surrounding infected tissue. I'll notice some holes when I get around to it, packed with a little gauze. The gravity of this statement doesn't hit until the next day. I'm in serious pain, nurses come in and shoot me up with copious amounts of morphine. After wretching up my liquid diet lunch, Sgt. Ass decides I should stay overnight. Fine, I feel like shit anyway. My first piss finally happens, and hurts like hell. Catheter, I think. They were working on my asshole, not my dick. Well, the night was spent on Demerol and an anti-nausea drug. I barely slept, but did finally.

Sgt. Ass comes in the next AM for a follow up, looks me over, says I'm A-OK to go home. "Take that gauze out in a warm bath today," he says. Fine, let me the fuck out of here. I endure a rather mystical journey home, an hour drive and I'm holding my ass off the seat with both arms and legs. The drugs they have been pumping me full of are wearing thin, but I get home without killing my wife or anyone else.

Zoom to four hours later. I'm popping Codeine like they're Flintstones Chewables, and decide it's time to check out the damage and remove whatever Sgt. Ass left behind. I grab the hand mirror, hop into the bath, spread for the money shot and looked closely. This is the most disgusting and un-nerving thing I have ever seen in my life. I am missing ass. Missing. Gone. Outta here. Imagine an ice cream scoop about the diameter of a quarter. Imagine that scoop being used to gouge out 3/4" deep a 1.5" long football shaped hole about 1/4" to the left of the starfish. Another, much smaller hole is below, about dime sized. Both are packed with long strips of gauze. I nearly scream. It's obvious they are packed tightly with gauze, and it's time to pull them out. The next 45 minutes are spent between moments of blinding white pain when I pull the ends, and pauses where I curse the name Sgt. Ass and breathe deeply for a few minutes regaining composure. One and a half FEET of gauze comes out the first hole, about a foot from the second. What are left are gaping open wounds, bleeding and as tender as 3/4" deep gaping open holes would be. I spend the next few minutes thinking about how not to leave the bathtub, and then getting out. I go to the couch, pass out belly first, waking up only for another bath 6 hours later. Repeat for 5 days.

Today, it's been nearly 2 weeks. I'm finally sitting down occasionally, the drive to work is pretty rough. The holes are healing, mostly filling in where he dug UNDER the skin, but I can tell they are healing well. Last follow up was a week ago, Sgt. Ass says I'm to continue as I am. I wash my ass 4 times a day in the bath tub, and vigorously after a dump. I have half a Kotex Medium Day pad crammed into my crack to absorb blood and goo from the wounds. Every day, I change it 4-5 times. My wife laughs that we share now, I'm not sure how to retaliate for such insults at this time. Every so often, the healing wounds will heal too much, and I'll move and split one open. Anyone ever having "Road Rash" would know this feeling. I've never felt such an acute and painful sensation, but it's all a part of the healing process. Sgt. Ass claims I will be as good as gold in another pair of weeks. I'll never have my asshole shown in films, but the scarring is gonna be pretty light. Fortunately, I am a fast healer and am sticking to the regimen. Let this be a lesson to all who have an ass issue. Get it fixed before you have this kinda bullshit happen. Eat your fiber, vegetables, fruits, and try to keep the booze down to a 6'er a day." -- Goatmaster

Hey Ernie, Your Fire Truck is in Los Angeles here. More of her tattooed snatch here. BTW her tattoo says "Daddy's Girl" WTF?!? Also, your 405 Freeway sign is in Mission Hills, CA, right about here. More pics of the beav here. Keep 'em coming, Tim

A ream of paper is a quantity of sheets of the same size and quality. International standards organizations define the ream as 500 identical sheets. This ream of 500 sheets (20 quires of 25 sheets) is also known as a 'long' ream, and is gradually replacing the old value of 480 sheets, now known as a 'short' ream. Reams of 472 and 516 sheets are still current, but in retail outlets paper is typically sold in reams of 500. As an old UK and US unit, a perfect ream was equal to 516 sheets.

Shared workspaces are becoming more and more feasible as a business model, as more and more people join the army of freelancers that keep the world's supply of content flowing harmoniously. The typical customer for one of these places is usually someone on enough of a budget to not be able to afford traditional office space, but Thompson Square Studios is a new luxury shared workspace in New York City that caters to wealthy, upscale clientele.

Ernie, Our bambina caliente is reading the Spanish language version of Stephen King's "Gerald's Game". As per Wikipedia: It's the story is about a woman who accidentally kills her husband while she is handcuffed to the bed as part of a bondage game, and, following the subsequent realization that she is trapped with little hope of rescue, begins to let the voices inside her head take over. Keep em' coming - John

The banjo is a four, five, or occasionally six-stringed instrument with a thin membrane stretched over a frame or cavity as a resonator, called the head, which is typically made of plastic, although animal skin is still occasionally but rarely used. The frame is typically circular. Early forms of the instrument were fashioned by Africans in America, adapted from African instruments of similar design. Historically, the banjo occupied a central place in African American traditional music, before becoming popular in the minstrel shows of the 19th century.

The MTM Survivor Ammo Can is designed for underground ammo storage and a 101 other uses. This three piece ammo can system allows you to store your valuables for another day. Every Survivor Ammo Can comes with a Vapor Corrosion Inhibitor plastic bag to line the ammo can along with desiccant pack to help with humidity control. Great for stashing: ammo, documents, survival gear, coins, food and water, purification means, emergency cash, time capsule, basically anything you want kept private. Size wise, the Survivor Ammo Can holds up to 500 rounds of .45 ACP or .223, or sixteen 30 round metal AR magazines, all for the bargain price of $16.99.

Sorry, other than the reflection of palm trees -- which could indicate Florida or the southwest -- there's not enough information to go on to locate this Autozone. So instead, I'd like you to show me where these red and white bicycles are parked.


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