The White Horse

The White Horse, AKA - The Ho - for those in the know.

I am a man. Maybe not a man’s man, but a man nonetheless; a man who shares far too much about himself.

I am a friend. I have friends of all shapes and sizes, beliefs and colors; including the gay color which is a rainbow.

I am a husband. I am married to a woman. I enjoy having sexual relations with her, and despite my uncanny ability to arrange flowers, pick out the cutest postcards and critique the hell out of Project Runway—I am not gay.

I am a father to a couple kids, one of whom is in preschool. That means she has teachers. As fate would have it, I am also the father that went to the gay bar and ran into his daughter’s teacher.

My buddy was in town, and we wanted to go out with our mutual friends. They’re all gay, and I’m just a free bird, so we went to the White Horse—Oakland’s gayest. It was gay, and I mean that in a yabba-dabba kinda way. We were having a blast.

A few drinks in, I approached the bar and locked eyes with a young lady. We were deep in one of those, “I know you, don’t I?” kind of stares, when suddenly I realized I was in a stare-down with my daughter’s preschool teacher. I should have gone to the bathroom, or gone home, but instead, I went and said—”Hey Lucy’s teacher, what brings you here?”

The obvious answer was, “I’m here to be gay and drink alcohol.” What I didn’t realize when I opened my mouth (I might have been drunk, but you can’t prove it) is that when you ask someone, “what brings you here?”—well, the other person could ask you the very same thing.

It got weird.

Teacher: Hey Lucy’s dad. Funny seeing you here.

Me: Yeah—funny. I was just laughing, ’cause this situation is funny.

Teacher: Boundaries are kind of weird. I didn’t expect to run into you—not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Suddenly I was in a bind. She assumed I was gay. And because I assumed she was gay, it wasn’t like I could set the record straight by saying, “Just so you know, I’m not gay.” At least, not without coming across as homophobic. So I just went with it.

Me: I’m having a fabulous time.

Teacher: Oh yeah?

Me: Yeah, I’m here with these four guys, having a good time. Just drinking, you know—doing adult stuff.

I don’t think that cleared anything up.

She went into a talk about boundaries and frequently used words like “normal” and “surprised” and made comments like, “I had no idea”—to which I made no clarifying remarks. I was in the thick of a sexually confusing situation. Part of me felt like explaining myself, and the other part of me felt no need. I wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed. To the contrary—I’m quite comfortable in the gay bar setting (with the lone exception of the bathroom at Moby Dicks’ where a penis-high mirror hangs above the urinal).

So I just told her to pretend like I wasn’t there, and to go have fun, and maybe I would see her on the dance floor. And that if I broke out the worm or the white-guy robot, I hoped she would cheer for me. She cracked a smile, which eased the tension. But that didn’t last long.

I returned to me buddies and explained the situation, which they obviously thought was awesome. Moments later, the teacher returned with ANOTHER teacher from her school, as if I was an exhibit at the zoo. I tried to steer the conversation toward my daughter:

Me: So, how’s Lucy doing at school? Still peeing her pants?

Teacher 2: No. She’s great. But I don’t really like to talk about students at the bar. Are you having (pause and scanning look to the 4 gay men at my table) a good time?

Me: Best time of my life.

<crickets>

Teacher 2: Well, good to see you.

Me: Yup.

At this point, I had a decision to make—overtly display my heterosexuality and make comments like:

I sure love having sex with women; I mean my wife—who’s a woman. ’Cause that’s what straight guys do. Love, absolutely love BJs from women.

Or,

Can I get you anything? I’m gonna get a chardonnay.

Or, even more fun:

Me: So, teachers—don’t tell my wife about this—let’s just keep this between us.

Instead I came with the ambiguous—”See you on the dance floor. And if Prince comes on, forgive my shirtless ‘Hammer dance.’ It’s just how I do.”

The next time my wife was at the school, she made a point of approaching the teacher to say, “Heard you saw my husband at the bar?” I’m most comfortable in uncomfortable situations, so I encouraged her to say something like, “I love him no matter what he masturbates to.” But instead she simply said, “He told me he had fun. Then we had straight-people sex.”

She didn’t say that, but it would have been great if she did. Oh well, I love her anyway. You know. Because I’m not gay.

Love,

The Hetero-cado

Thoughts on Valentine’s Day

WARNING: This post contains explicit material.
If you are an in-law – PLEASE, STOP READING. PLEASE. OH HEAVENS PLEASE .

St. Valentine's Day. Don't hate.

So, hating on Valentine’s Day feels a little played out—and frankly, I don’t get it. I hear the standard, “It’s a made-up holiday,” or “Happy Hallmark Day,” or my favorite, “I love you every day so I don’t need a holiday to show it.”

To me, Valentine’s Day means something completely different. It’s an opportunity to get some sex. Yeah, I’m married, and yeah, I’ve got two kids, so science would reason that I’ve had sex at least twice. And this isn’t to say that we don’t have a healthy amount of sex, but a holiday designed to give me a freebie? Sign me up.

Think about it—a romantic holiday. Romance is synonymous with sex. Ergo, a sex holiday. And to think people have the nerve to bitch about it.

“Woe is me, I have to trade some flowers and chocolate for a BJ.”

“Corporate America is capitalizing on my relationship.”

Uh, what? Granted, it’s not quite as straightforward as Steak and a BJ Day (March 14, coming up!)—but it’s not too far off either.

Now, to be fair—I am being a little hypocritical here. In years past I was Mr. Poo-Poo when it came to the festivities.

Me: You didn’t get me anything for Valentine’s Day, right?

Wife: No. I’d ask the same of you, but I’m sure I don’t need to.

Me: Isn’t it sweet how well we know each other?

Well, this year I flipped it on her. I arranged all the necessary festivities required to get me a blow job romantic evening.

First, I bought a gift (cue the  Big Pun “I’m Not a Player” music)—sunglasses to shield her pretty eyes from the shine of my game. Next, I made a chalkboard-sized Valentine card:

Do art. Get sex. Easy-peasy.

 

Upon receiving her gifts she started to cry.

Me: Baby, it’s just some shades.

Wife: I know. It’s just that you’ve never gotten me anything for Valentine’s Day before. You’re the greatest Valentine ever!

(Obviously, in the 15 years we’ve been together, I’ve set the bar really low.)

But who cares! Check and mate! I totally got some! In your face everyone who didn’t!

If you take anything at all from this post (aside from the fact that I’m a mack-daddy and you’re a buster, and bragging about sex never gets old, even if you’re married), take this: never, nevernevernever look a gift horse in the mouth. I don’t know what a gift horse looks like, but if you ever meet one keep your eyes averted. And if someone makes up a holiday to help you get some sex, quit your bitching. Don’t pay for sex. Pay for overpriced roses and chocolates and trade it for sex.

You’re welcome for the wisdom.

The Big Romanti-cado.

How to Talk to a Guy Whose Mom Just Died

Way back when

This is a blog intended to bring the funny. I’m at a weird point in my literary career in that my mom just died, and that really isn’t too funny. She was an amazing woman whose life should be honored and appreciated. She was my number one fan, and the real reason anyone actually reads this stuff. In her honor- I will attempt to make lemonade.

When dealing with a person whose just had a monumental loss in their life (my mom’s passing), interactions can become increasingly complicated and difficult. In the this post, I will attempt to educate you on how best to deal with me. I’m a big fan of the top 10 variety of informational teaching tools, so without further ado – the 10 best ways to deal with me.

10. Do your best to avoid “yo mama” jokes.
This is a tough one, because, as we all know – “yo mama” is an invincible comeback. For example:
“Your breath smells.” Retort: “Your mama’s breath smells.”
“Your face is ugly.” Retort: “Your mama’s face is ugly.”
“I disagree with your opinion.” Retort: “Your mama’s an astronaut.”
It kinda feels like cheating for you to hit me with a “your mama” diss and have me respond with, “my mom is dead.” So, let’s just avoid the whole topic for the time being.

9. Think and pray about other stuff.
I have been blessed with a wonderful support group of family and friends. To a person everyone has told me that their thoughts and prayers are with me and my family during this difficult time. In response – thank you. In further response – when thinking about me think thoughts like – damn you’re handsome; or, man despite the dead mom thing, I wish I was you cause you’re so awesome.

8. Fuck flowers.
Flowers die, and then I need to throw them out. Also – I should thank you for sending them, but I probably won’t. Instead, send a donation to Playworks/eastbay. I don’t think I’ve worked for about 3 months. I can’t believe I still have a job. The only reason they keep me around is because people give money to the organization I work for. Sooooo, help me keep a job – and make a donation. Besides, you’re an adult – and adults make donations. Act your age.

7. Don’t be awkward.
There is nothing more awkward then trying to find the right words for “shit – your mom is dead and I feel bad for you.” Actually – those words are pretty solid. Say it early, and let’s move on . No need to wait for an appropriate moment – a quiet corner of a room, an intimate setting. I know you’re waiting to say it. I know you know I’m waiting to hear it. Get on with it. It’s not that I’ve moved on, but we might as well move on. I suggest we do it over a beer/whiskey/your drink of choice. And don’t forget to pay for it.

6. Laugh a little.
Dark humor was the cornerstone of my mom’s battle with cancer. As soon as news broke 3 years ago – the family asset liquidation began. Dibs on jewelry, furniture and accessories immediately ensued. It’s how I deal with things. (See this blog for reference.)

5. A little nostalgia works for me.
I like stories about my mom. I like to tell stories about my mom. You got a good one – hit me with it.  Memories are what remains. I won’t experience new ones, so lend me some old ones. Shit – that one was depressing. My bad.

4. Teach my dad stuff.
My dad, a world class guy, doesn’t know doo-doo about surviving on his own. He recently made a list of devices he would need to learn how to operate. These items included the stove, the answering machine, the washing machine, his cell phone, “the interweb” and other technological marvels many of us take for granted. I spent the greater part of last night remotely explaining how to print an email. Old dogs can learn new tricks, but he’s kind of really old – so be patient, and give him a good scratch behind the ear when he succeeds.

3. Be selective with your empathy.
It’s not that I don’t care about your problems, it’s just that I don’t care right now. And I definitely don’t care if you had a family member survive cancer. If you’re going to start a sentence with something like, “my mom had cancer,” the next line should end with – “she’s dead.” Lot’s of people survive breast cancer. Save the stories for someone else, cause I sure-as-shit am not down to hear about it right now.

2. Tell me how great I am.
I  was raised by the type of mom who loved and adored every single thing I did – even the stuff I sucked at. Bad art – displayed around the house; posted on the fridge. Dumb jokes  - laughed at. Insignificant accomplishments – embellished and retold. Mistakes – apologized for. Bad haircuts – well – she usually gave them to me, so I guess that was more for her sake then mine, but in general – compliment my overall appearance. Shortcomings – ignore them. Especially the extra pounds I’ve put on. Although, the more I reminisce – she didn’t ignore that one too much. That’s not to say that you can’t though…

1. Have some fucking fun. And don’t curse.
If there was one thing my mom loved, it was having fun. It was central to everything she/we did. She’d hate the thought of a bunch of people sitting around sad-faced grieving over her passing. She loved champagne. Go drink some. She loved riding her bike. Go ride one. She loved her family and friends. Continue that trend. Go to a dog park. Take a vacation. Re-post this blog (honest to god – she thought I was the funniest thing since the whoopee cushion.)

In closing, when dealing with me, let’s just have some fun. She loved living more than most, and that spirit will live on with me.

Love always,

Karen Percy Fox’s son – Stephen (with a “ph” – don’t fuck that up. That always pissed her off.)

AKA The Big Avocado

p.s. If we’ve already spent time together, and you haven’t followed these rules – no worries. And thanks for the flowers. They were beautiful.

p.p.s – here’s the obit:http://m.legacy.com/obituaries/jsonline/obituary.aspx?n=Karen-Fox&pid=155267328#.TwDO22R6-yc.facebook

Baby mama, or rather, mama as baby

Growing up: The Debutant

Grown

Happy Family

Loving wife

Rest in Peace. We love you.

The Turtle Neck

The baby watch continues. Mama Avocado is 5 days overdue. The list of things to worry about in my life is growing, rapidly and dramatically, but nothing worries me more than the following decision–should we circumcise the baby?

Turtle necks: Sexier than turtle heads.

We didn’t find out the sex of the baby, so we don’t know if it’s going to be a boy or a girl … but I remain convinced it’s a boy. It’s not that I’m rooting for a boy–I just think it is, and I’m almost always right about everything, always.

So what do we do? Some people feel very passionate about this decision. I am not one of them. I don’t like the idea of my child enduring what I have to assume is obviously a traumatic, incredibly painful experience so early on in his life (have you heard the way they scream?!). Then again, I don’t like the idea of my little guy getting clowned in the locker room for sporting the old “dick-sleeve.”

We have turned to our midwife for advice. She has shared the following facts with us.

1. There is no medical reason to curcimcise your child.

2. Over 50% of boys across the country are uncircumcised.

3. In the Bay Area, 75% of boys are not.

4. Barring religion, the number one reason most parents choose to circumcise their child is because dad wants his kid’s “thingy” to resemble his own.

So my midwife says to me, “Are you going to have a hard time relating to your child when he says, “dad, why does your wiener look different than mine?”"

Me: Well, I’ll tell him that mine is bigger cause I’m a full grown man.

Midwife: I doubt that’s why he’ll ask.

Me: Hold up–you’ve never even seen mine. I’m pretty sure it will be bigger than his.

Midwife: No–I mean he’ll ask why yours looks different because his is uncircumcised and yours isn’t. Will you have a problem relating to him?

Me: Oh yeah. No. I won’t have a problem with that. My real concern is that it won’t look as good.

Midwife: Because it’s different than yours?

Me: Yeah, but also because I prefer my penises to be circumcised.

Midwife: Your own?

Me: No, the ones I look at.

<Crickets>

Me: You know–in porno.

Midwife: Ok. Ummm, I can’t say that I’ve heard that reasoning before, but I’m not here to judge.

This medical decision had quickly taken an awkwardly sexual turn. It’s not that I wanted to clip my boy’s dick-skin based on my pornographic prefrences, I just didn’t want him to be the butt of  the type of ridicule that I myself would have laid upon him when I was young and immature (whereas now I’m just old and immature). I had a hockey coach without the “tip trim,” and his nicknames included turtle neck, the ant-eater, funny dick, the fore-father, etc. etc. etc. (etc. etc. etc.). I just want my young man to feel comfortable with his nether regions.

I’ve heard it said that men with foreskin experience 20% more pleasure than men without. I masturbate at least 20% more than the average man, so I’m pretty sure I’ve accounted for the discrepancy–but I don’t want my son to have to follow the same hairy-palmed approach as his old man.

Then again, I’ve also heard that sneezing is also the equivalent of 1/5 of an orgasm– so maybe I’ll just keep lots of pepper in the house.

Ultimately, I think I’m going to let the skin stay. At the end of the day, women think dicks are kind of ugly no matter what. So to my unborn kiddo–you’re welcome for the 20%,  and I apologize for the jokes I’ll other kids might make. You’re perfect the way you are, and we’ll leave you as such. Plus, if you just wear a condom, girls probably won’t even know.

Love

The Big Avocado

Press Conference

Avocado fan club, I’d like to begin by apologizing for my extended absence over the past couple months. I’ve been busy. Doing stuff. Also: Doing things. I have fielded numerous calls (one) and received countless messages (also one) inquiring as to my whereabouts and intentions for the future of this blog. Let me begin by unequivocally stating my masturbation habit has not gotten in the way of my work, and I place all blame of my hiatus on familial responsibilities. (What’s the point of having kids if you can’t blame them for things?)

Over the past two months I have gone on vacation with my family, performed a wedding ceremony for my brother, watched my wife’s boobs grow pregnancy blossom, and moved. Normally I try to put my readers’ needs ahead of my own, but this time I have failed. Despite a decline in written materials, funny things continue to take place, and I have every intention of embarrassing my friends, family and self to satiate your appetite for Fox family humiliation.

At this point, I would like to field any questions you might have.

Q: Who exactly do you think reads this blog?

Me: Mostly people my mom forwards this blog to. She’s very persistent.

Q: And you believe this contigency actually misses your blog?

Me: Who invited this asshole to the presser? Yes. F-yeah. People love my blog. Just ask my mom—she’ll tell you.

Q: You’re about to have a baby. Have you picked out any names?

Me: Yes. I presume you would like to judge my decisions? Well, here you go. If it’s a boy he will be named William Percy Fox, and we will call him Percy. William is my dad’s name, and Percy is my mom’s maiden name.

Q: Percy? Do you expect he will be picked on with such a wimpy name?

Me: I expect he will look like me, and therefore attract many beautiful women.

Q: Isn’t Percy kind of a country club-ish name?

Me (with aggressive sarcasm): Yes, he will also excel at golf and racism.

Q: And if it’s a girl?

Me: We have decided on Kaya.

Q: As in “weed,” a la the Bob Marley song?

Me: Yes. Reefer didn’t sound feminine enough. Marijuana— too clunky. Grass—a little dated. And Cheeba, well, it was a little too “foreign” for my parents.

Q: But they are good with Kaya?

Me: They are rooting for a boy.

Q: Tell us about Hawaii.

Me: I spent most of my time getting red.

Q: You mean getting high?

Me: No, I mean getting red. I tan in shades of red.

Red man

Q: Are you familiar with sunscreen?

Me: Yes. I’m good at putting it on, too. Please see next slide for evidence:

Come and get some - sun.

Q: This feels like a slide show of someone’s vacation. You are aware that no one cares about your vacation, right?

Me: Well, what if I tell an embarrassing story too?

Q: Please proceed.

Me: Well, I recently went to Hawaii, and had this interaction over the phone with my mother:

Mom: Are you having fun?

Me: We are having an A-mazing time.

Mom: And what about you and Marie? Are you getting to spend some time together?

Me: All day every, every day.

Mom: I mean, are you two getting to spend some time alone?

Me (seeing where this is going and trying to avoid the conclusion): Yup. Great time. We are having a great time.

Mom: But, are you having some special time?

Me: Are you really asking me if I’m having sex with my wife?

Mom (awkwardly laughing): I just wanted to know if you two are having some time to yourselves.

Me: We are having lots of sex.

Mom: I don’t need to know all that.

Wife: What are you guys talking about?

Me: My mom wants to know if we are having sex.

Wife: <Stunned silence>

Me (shoulder shrug): Yup.

Me (to mom): Do you remember the time when I was in 3rd grade and you told me that if your bedroom door was closed I wasn’t allowed to come in?

Mom: I didn’t tell you that.

Me: Yes you did. And you know what? I was fine imagining that you needed the sleep. Let’s just leave it at—I have gotten plenty of sleep this vacation. We are going to the beach. And by going to the beach, I mean going to the beach. I’ll try to forget this conversation happened.

Mom: Have fun, and call me when you’re back. I can’t wait to hear about it.

Me: I’ll send you a postcard.

Q: Is this press conference a way for you to combine a bunch of half-assed blogs into one “catch-up” blog, thereby excusing you of a two-month silence?

A: Next question. Nobody? Great. See you all soon. The baby is due September 28th, so by soon, it’s quite possible I mean much later. Y’all bitches be good now, ya hear?!

<Exit to James Brown “Living in America.” Release balloons. Enter cheerleaders.  Beat-Box into mic. Peace signs extended. Collapse onto stage. Get draped in American flag. Jump up. Do the Running Man followed by the Jerk. And then the Dougie. Exit stage left.>

Hot Dog! My brother’s getting married.

Q: Who says romance is dead? A: The girl getting the face wash.

Getting married is a piece of cake. Only a few things need to fall in place for a relationship to turn into a “forever” type a thing. First, find a girl and fall in love with her. Next, propose. Then have a bachelor party. Everything else should work itself out.

My brother Michael took care of step one when he found his wife to be, a cute little girl with bad knees and a great sense of humor, an adorable face and erratic nocturnal behavior. Yes, erratic, not erotic … unless you think sleepwalking with knives is sexy.

She can be a bit shy, so when my brother told me he planned to propose on the Jumbo-Tron at an NBA game I thought to myself, “I wonder if he actually likes her?”

Brother: I talked to this guy with the Bucks. He says he can get the camera man to put me on the “Kiss Cam” at the end of the 3rd quarter, and I can take a knee and propose!

Me: To Lindsay? I thought she hated being the center of attention?

Brother: She does! This is going to be so awesome!

Me: Have you considered smashing a pie in her face right after?

Brother: I’d never be able to sneak a pie in and not have her notice.

Me: Good point. Maybe just a Coke over the head?

Brother: So you don’t think I should do it?

Me: I didn’t at first, but the more I think about it, you absolutely should. I’ll sit next to you and point and laugh. You’re right. This will be awesome.

Long story short, my brother arranged for it to happen but spoiled the surprise by leaving the ring out in plain view earlier in the afternoon. He spent the first three quarters of the game asking Lindsay to give him the ring back in order to reenact the scene for 16,ooo people at the game. She relented. I pointed and laughed. She said yes.

Michael: If only I had a pie this night would be perfect. Lindsay: Is this really the pinnacle of my love life?

All that remained was a bachelor party. We went to the Wisconsin Dells. (Think Las Vegas on estrogen mixed with a healthy dose of trash.)

The town’s claim to fame is water parks. We went to a strip club instead, a very classy establishment.

Young Lady “working” her way through college: You want a dance?

Bachelor: Uh, not really.

Young Lady: I’m going to stand here until you change you mind.

Bachelor: <silence>

Young Lady: <silence>

Bachelor: <silence>

Young Lady: Give me $40.

Bachelor: Okay.

*They retreat to a somewhat private room*

Young Lady: You smell like hot dogs.

Bachelor: What?

Young Lady: Were you eating hot dogs? You smell like hot dogs.

Bachelor: I bet you say that to all the boys.

Young Lady: Only the ones that smell like hot dogs.

Bachelor: I wasn’t eating hot dogs.

Young Lady: Maybe I just smell kielbasa. Is that what you were eating?

Bachelor: No, but would that have been better?

Young Lady: It’s probably your cologne.

Bachelor: Hot dog cologne? You’re pretty fun to talk to.

*2 songs later*

Bachelor: Let’s hit the road fellas. That was fun. Except that it wasn’t.

Group: How was your lapper?

Bachelor: Kind of weird. She told me I smelled like hot dogs.

Group: BWAAAHAHAHAHA! OK HOT DOG -Let’s go.

Bachelor: I immediately regret sharing that piece of information with you.

Well, with Step 1 and Step 2 of Happily Ever After done and over with, all that’s left is get married. Everything after that is easy peasy. Good work little brother. I love you.

–The Big Avocado

A Shitty Day

In anticipation of this post, my parents both dug graves, got in, and proceeded to roll. There are some stories better left untold. However, my filter for such things is currently broken, so without further ado: The story of me pooping my pants at work.

The day started in totally normal fashion—feeling good, ready to be productive.

Typically, I spend my day making busy-at-work faces at my monitor. This day was no different. I was somewhere between my morning ritual of reading email and checking my fantasy football team stock portfolio when I felt a run-of-the-mill fart come on.  I was expecting a French horn D-flat; you know, a little musical note—but instead I got a silent guy … with what seemed to be moisture?

Me (to self): Uh, I think something awful just happened.

I immediately reached for my coat to wrap around my waist and did the clenched-butt-cheek-shuffle to the bathroom. A bead of sweat formed on my temple. I caught a glimpse of my face before I entered the stall—paper-white.

Me (to myself): Please, Lord, let my butt be dry; and if not, please let it be contained to the body and not my clothing.

God: Sorry buddy. This isn’t the typical emergency I respond to. You’re on your own.

I had pooped my pants. Shit—literally. Code red alert sirens were sounding in my head. A quick bottom-half disrobing confirmed my greatest fear—my costume would need to be changed. Immediately.

I checked my pockets and found no car keys. Fuck! I would need to go back to the office before making my escape to my house to address my wardrobe malfunction. I returned to my desk as casually as possible, waited five seconds, then pulled out my phone and began an urgent and totally fake conversation.

Me (to no one, and at high volume): You’ve got be kidding me! Are you serious? OK, I’ll be right home.

Office guy: Is everything ok?

Me: Yeah. I mean no. I’ve gotta run. I’ll be back soon. Just a shit I need to deal with. SOME shit. Just some shit I need to deal with. I’ll be back soon.

I awkwardly speed-walked to my car and drove home. It was a strenuous drive, partially squatting (much like I imagine girls do in porta-potties) so as not to jeopardize my car seat. Fifteen minutes later with thighs all aquiver, I arrived at my house. And then I remembered the nanny was going to be there. F-bomb again! How was I going to explain this away?

Me: Hey nanny—I’ve got to change clothes real quick. Important meeting I forgot. You should go to the park.

Nanny: We were on our way out.

Me: Why are you looking at me like that?

Nanny: ?

Me: Just kidding—you look normal. I like to make awkward jokes. Have fun at the park. Seriously—you guys should go now.

Nanny: Just going to pack a snack and go.

Me: Unnecessary. She’s looking pretty well fed. If anything, she’s getting a little fat. Just go. JUST GO. And have fuuuuun!

They left and I got down to stripping. I didn’t even bother to try to save my clothes—they hit the trash, and I showered and got dressed again. I replaced my gray corduroys with gray jeans so as not to draw attention to myself. I’m pretty much a shit-on-yourself genius.

I rushed back to the office. Crisis averted, lesson learned. No fart is innocent. A zero-tolerance policy was implemented: The remainder of the day would be fart-free. And then, it happened again. An immediate butt clench came half a second too late. A quick pelvis thrust attempted to spare my gray jeans of the same fate my cords had just suffered—again, to no avail.

WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?

At this point, I’m reevaluating my life. God is doing this to me. Why has he forsaken me? What did I do to deserve this? I announced a sudden onset of the flu, wrapped a jacket around my waist, averted my eyes and shuffled out of the office.

I can’t explain the medical situation I’d encountered. I was symptom-free (aside from the obvious) and yet I was experiencing the single worst ailment of all time. Ever.

When my wife got home I detailed the day’s events.

Me: I know this will limit my sex-having ability for some time to come, but I can’t stop pooping on myself.

Wife (dumbfounded): Poop-ing? As in multiple times? Did you eat something?

Me: Regular food. I have no explanation. I think I’m being punished for being so handsome.

Wife: I want to feel bad for you … but I don’t. I mean, seriously. Stephen. You’re an adult.

Me: Don’t judge me. I videotaped your birth, Miss I-Live-In-A-Glass-House.

Wife: There are a lot of things you could have just said. That might not have been your best choice. I’d like to send you to the couch for the night, but I’m not sure that would be a very prudent decision. That couch was expensive.

With jeans in short supply I went to sweats. Had a glass of water, had another … accident.

I slept on a towel that night. In the bathroom.

Next day? Totally fine. The entire event remains a mystery. I guess it could have been worse. But, let’s be real – who hasn’t experienced this EXACT same experience?

<silence>

No one?

Liars.

-The Rotten Avocado.