“Hello? Down here! I need to talk to you!”

***Ok, disclaimer right from the start… i wrote this on Sept. 28, 2000 on my favorite product review site where i would massacre the topics with my ramblings that had nothing to do with the category, except maybe a similar word or theme that i derived from it. the topic here was a book called “Letters From A Nut.” well, i took it in a whole other direction. if you get offended easily, please please please do not read… especially since this one starts out right from the beginning with questionable material. it was written with good intentions, but, as with most of my writing, takes a horrible road to get to the message. again, i am sorry.

Without further ado…

 A guys nuts: Dangly little fellows hanging out in their fleshy home. Most of the time, you don’t even know they’re there. When they do make their presence known however, you know you have a problem. This is exactly what happened to me about a month ago.

Men are advised by their doctors to check their nuts about once a month for lumps or any other oddities, just like women are advised to check their boobs. Well, righty felt weird, kind of like he got kicked. I probably don’t need to explain to any of my readers what it feels like to get hit in the nuts, but it is one of the most excruciating pains in the universe. My stomach was always hurting, and my nut felt like he was trying to escape his scrotal prison. Taking this pretty seriously, I gave myself a nut inspection, and felt a tiny bump on the top back portion of my ball. “This can’t be good,” I said to myself.

After watching Tom Greene go through having testicular cancer on MTV, and seeing it widely advertised as a leading killer of men ages 16 through 30, I was plenty nervous. I was also a bit embarrassed. What was I to do now? Call my doctor? I would have to say the word “testicle” to his nurse. Ugh.

Well, I waited a week, being the silly little monkey that I am, but the pain just got worse. I was moving at the time, and lifting heavy furniture wasn’t helping the problem.

One night, I told my friend that my stomach was hurting me, and he said, “Maybe you have a hernia.”

A hernia!!! This could be my excuse! I could get around saying the T-word to the nurse, while explaining basically the same symptoms that I had!

I called the office the next day, and told the nurse that my lower abdomen was hurting, like I got kicked. She made an appointment for me. I was over the first hurdle! Now, I had to get up the balls (pardon the pun) to go in and tell my doctor what was really going on.

Well, to make a long and scary story shorter, I went in to my doctor and told him that it felt like I got kicked down there, and that I felt a bump. He checked me for a hernia, just in case, and finding nothing, investigated my nuts. I was really nervous at this point. After all, I’ve made it twenty-five years (there, for all of you wondering my age!) bi-balled, and I wanted to keep it that way!

He found the lump, and told me that it didn’t feel suspicious. He then told me that my epididymus was swollen. He said that I had epididymitis, or an infection of the tubes that are on top of the testicle, which hold and transport sperm.

He told me I probably strained my nut lifting heavy furniture, or squashed it on my train commute, causing it to be susceptible to infection. He then prescribed medication to battle the infection and bring down the swelling.

After a week on the medicine, my nut feels better than ever! The lump is gone, and I am breathing a sigh of relief. Your nuts are a very delicate area, and a problem with them can be a life threatening event. I am so happy that my problem was not serious.

There is a moral to this story: Guys, check your nuts, and don’t be afraid or ashamed to talk about these things. You could die from things that don’t seem very serious, so always go to a doctor immediately, that’s what they’re there for!


The Shot Heard Round The World

Picture it… Mad River… three St. Patty’s Days ago… 

I was bombed out of my mind and my equally inebriated friends wanted to hang out in Mad River, a bar that puts the Jersey Shore into Baltimore. I was on the brink of sloppy, so I didn’t mind. We went to the upper level and were looking down at all the meat heads and taco shells and this one fugly girl kept looking up at me, so I yelled at her to stop looking at me, and she told some dude who was standing next to her that I was yelling at her, and he acted all tough and said something like “I am going to come up there and kick your expletive,” and I turned around, grabbed a shot glass off of the nearby table, went back to the railing, leaned over and whaled him in the head with it. Luckily it was only a plastic shot glass, but it was a million dollar shot. Tough guy stopped being so tough and grabbed a bouncer. I melted back into my friends and pretended like nothing ever happened. A minute later a gorilla of a man came hulking down the balcony. Think of a bouncer who ate another bouncer while the edible bouncer was shooting some steroids. The floorboards trembled under this weight, and I trembled in my pants. I walked up to him knowing that I was about to be, in the least, escorted from the bar, at the most, beat into a bloody pulp and thrown over the side. He stopped an inch from my face, and grunted, “Did you throw something over the edge at a guy?” and very matter-of-factly, I said, “I sure did. I am really sorry. I’ve had a few drinks, and that guy was asking for it. It won’t happen again.” I think I punctuated my statement with a puppy-dog look and batted eye lashes. He paused for a second, and then said, “Ok, don’t let it happen again.” He then turned around and walked away. My friends and I could not believe what just happened. I think we did a round of shots to it.

We left soon after, amazed, confused, and elated. Soon after I threw up on the walk home and went to bed at like 6:00. What a day!


i’ve never had the mystery-meat known as scrapple, although i have a feeling i and it could be bff’s 4 eva.

Some Hard To Find Beers

“Ugh, where am I?” I managed to mumble out of cracked, bloody lips. I looked around through half open eyes, stinging with the rising morning sun.

I now realized that I was being lifted by someone other than my legs. “Who are you, you big, strong man?” I slurred.

“Son, you have two choices,” a man in a crisp, blue uniform gutturally intoned, “You can walk out of here on your own, or I can take you away in my car.”

“Does it have air conditioning?” After all, it was turning out to be a hot morning.

“I think you’d rather pick choice number one,” he immediately advised.

I began stumbling away, not really conscious of where I was. I raised my hand to my mouth, and felt that my lip was split. How did that happen? The last thing I remembered was being at a crazy party in my apartment. How did I get here? Where was here?

After I walked a good five minutes and got far enough away from the 5-0, I stopped to assess my current situation. I realized I was on the beach. It took me a while, but the sand in my shoes and the repetitive crashing of the waves eventually clued me in. Why was I here? I gazed upon an empty beer can half buried in the sand. Oh yeah! I left the party last night because we ran out of beer! It all started coming back to me.

I went out on my beer retrieval mission at about two o’clock in the a.m. In New Jersey where I live, the liquor stores close at 10 p.m., and the bars close at 2 in the morning, so I decided to try and make the bar before it closed to get a few cases. Luckily, the bar was right around the corner. Unluckily, they closed a little early (bar time, don’t you know) and foiled my attempt at furthering my friend’s and my merriment. . .

What happened after this though? My brain was still rattled and confused. I walked up to the main road and realized that I was about 5 miles from my house. How in the world… and then another break in my blackout, the frat house.

I live down the street from a University, and a few doors down from a frat house. (If you are a fraternity brother reading this, screw you, I will call a FRAT a FRAT.) As I walked by the house, I noticed that they were having a huge party. “Wow,” I thought to myself, “I wish I was in there with all that beer.” Then in a drunken epiphany, I realized that I could be there with all that beer. It was just a door away!

I walked around back, cleverly sticking to the shrubbery, and saw the back porch where case after glorious case of golden pilsner were stacked. To my surprise, no one was out there! I slipped up to the screen door, opened it, and slid in. The coast was clear, at least in my inebriated vision, so I hefted four cases and started out the way I came in. The screen opened without a hitch, but for some reason, my feet didn’t cooperate, and I tripped down the two little stairs with a huge crash. Beer cans scattered everywhere. When I stood to run away, the back door of the house burst open and a gang of gorillas swarmed out. None looked too happy to see me and 96 cans of beer scattered all over their back yard.

Well, if you have made it this far in my story, I’m sure you can figure out what happened next. The goons roughed me up pretty good, and to teach me a lesson, made me drink as many of those darn beers as I could. I guess I passed out drinking. I guess they just dumped my sloppy body on the beach.

On my long walk home on that early Sunday morning, I had the realization, “Boy, those were some hard to find beers!”


My sore’s name is Bernie. Please, before you jump up and down screaming, “You can’t name a sore!” let me explain.

About three years ago I was chilling in a bar with some of my friends, or in that part of my identity crisis, my homeys. We was chillin’, oh, excuse me, we were hanging out drinking when one of my smoker friends leaned in a little too close and burned the heck out of my forearm. What ensued was a major burn that I named Bernie.

Bernie was deep. He lived way down in my skin. Whenever I thought I was alone, Bernie would say hello with an excruciating sting. He was always there for me.

One day, Bernie decided he was done living on my arm. He started to heal. “Bernie!” I exclaimed. “Please don’t leave me! I need you!”

Bernie answered with his usual dull pain, and slowly disappeared. In the distance, I heard him say, “I’m going to India! I’ll send you a postcard!”

I was not going to let this happen! He wouldn’t last a day in India. According to an episode of Seinfeld, India is the only place that still has the plague. Those Bubonic Sores would eat him alive! In order to keep him in the states, and on the safty of my arm, I picked away at where he used to live. I dug deep. I dug through the pain. I needed my Bernie back, and there he was, in all his bloody glory!

Bernie had returned, but now he looked different. It was as if Bernie was a caterpillar, and had transformed into a gruesome moth! Bernie had transcended the burn plain, and had become a festering, pus-filled sore! Most people would look at him and scream in horror, but he was my sore, and I loved him.

Every now and then, Bernie MySore tries to leave, but after a little begging, and a lot of picking, Bernie is always here to stay!


i don’t think i have what it takes to pull off the “no t-shirt under the dress-shirt” look. first, there is the hair issue. shaving the nape of the neck where it meets the chest so that i don’t look like a 70’s swinger just isn’t natural. second, one word… chafing. didn’t realize it was possible, but boy it is. and lastly, being fancy free was never my forte.

What Did Casey’s Five Fingers Say to the Butt?

I had decided to pop up to the Shore for an impromptu visit on Saturday, and I made a surprise stop off at the Celtic Cottage. In attendance were Casey Waterman, Joe Degnan, and numerous other Strong Branch All-Stars. Casey had been there since 4:30 along with his soon to be brother-in-law Ronnie. Ronnie’s incoherence was astounding, while Casey was able to maintain some form of composure, as I didn’t realize the level of his intoxication until he proved it handily.

Joe and I were sitting at an outside table, when Casey walked over and sat down. He began to tell us a story about a gentleman’s wager that was made moments before at the bar. Ronnie bet Casey that he would not slap a rather attractive girl on the butt, not only forward, but also backward. Casey demonstrated on the air as he spoke, first with a regular slap, then returning with a backhand slap. Casey then proceeded to tell us that he only was able to accomplish the first part on the girl, but wasn’t able to seal the deal with the reverse slap.

Joe and I, knowing Casey and his drunken antics, were not shocked… yet.

I am not one who readily believes in fate, but the stars must have been aligned at this exact moment, because an older man and his wife were walking by about to leave through the back gate.

Casey took this opportunity to demonstrate his earlier tomfoolery. The woman walked past, and began fiddling with the gate. The man, and more importantly, his ass, stopped inches from Casey’s raised hand. This is when time slowed. I looked at Joe, and he at me. The same unspoken thought passed between us. We looked back at that hovering hand, as it reared back, cocked and ready to fly. I saw the extended fingers move forward, centimeter by centimeter. My mouth slowly dropped open in disbelief. With contact came time rushing back, followed by the loud crack of fingers on gluteals.

I had no idea what to do. I looked at the man. He looked at me. I’m not sure if time began yet for him. Puzzlement ran across his face. Then confusion. Then sheer horror. Silence welled. Then I began to laugh. So did Joe. I laughed so hard tears were streaming down my face. I managed to stop laughing. Then I started again. The man just stood there until the gate opened and he disappeared into the night.

We looked at Casey, and all he said, a bit disappointed, was, “I didn’t get to do the reverse on him either.”

I hope this doesn’t come across as a you-had-to-be-there story, and if it does, I wish upon wish that all my readers had been there, because Joe and I had witnessed one of the greatest showings of drunkenness ever. It was marvelous. I am left wondering what is going through the man’s head two days later. Is this one of those things that becomes blocked from memory, or is it precluded by the words, “The weirdest thing happened to me the other night at the bar…” I guess we’ll never know.


on a plane sitting next to a tan girl. she touched her shoe pre-flight and looked like she was crying. am i a racist for thinking she may be a terrorist? oh wait. she just got peanuts from the stewardess and ate them hungrily. who the hell would have that as their last meal?

we landed and i’m not dead…

not a terrorist.

Ouch, It Burns, Oh No! I’m Addicted!

So I was a smoker for 7 years, at times (usually the stressful ones) 2 packs a day (not to be confused with the dead rapper Tupac, who did not die form smoking but from a smoking gun.) I quit cold turkey and have been off the tar sticks for 3 years now, an accomplishment I am very proud of.

So a little more than 2 years ago, which was about one year into my period of quit, I was over my current roommates house, who was not my current roommate at the time, and I saw that his sister was trying to quit smoking using Nicorette Gum. I believe it was the mint flavor, or as I now like to call it, menthol. Not having smoked in a long time, but curious at how the gum tasted, I decided to try a piece. BAD IDEA!

Upon first chew, I cringed in horror as my spit transformed into clear tobacco juice. The flavor was horrible, reminding me of a time when on a dare, I ate a pack of cigarettes. Hey, don’t judge, I bet you did something stupid for $5 and a pack of cigarettes before.

Upon second chew, I was hit with a terrible stinging sensation, that slowly turned into all out burning. My tongue and gums felt like they were on fire, slowly being cancerously mutated by the nicotine in the gum. Surprisingly, I quite enjoyed it, chewing through the excruciating pain, achieving a relaxed, smooth attitude toward the gum and all things that life had to throw at me.

To make a long story short, I am now up to 3 packs of gum a day. The burning is still present, but I have grown used to it. You know what they say, “No Pain, No Gain!” The best thing about this product is that you can chew at your desk at work, and no one knows that you are catching a buzz!

Never Thought I’d See You Again!

Why does this stuff always happen to me? I have terrible allergies, and for years I have been switching between different allergy medications to find some relief. The same thing always happens though. For the first few weeks on a new medication, I feel great: I can breathe, my eyes don’t itch, and my throat isn’t scratchy. But then, without fail, all the usual symptoms return full force. Daily I pray for a new medication in hopes that it will consistently work. I have used Claritin, Claritin D, Zyrtec, Tavist D… the list goes on. The apparent light at the end of the tunnel was revealed to me in a conversation with my girlfriend. We were talking about my tolerance to most medications, and she told me about a new drug on the market called Allegra. I, having never heard of it, was instantly intrigued. She said that she had similar problems with allergy drugs, but this seemed to work better than the rest. I called my mom, and asked her if she had heard of Allegra, and she told me that she, my father, and my brother were all taking it, and loved it as well. What a testimony!

My girlfriend had just gotten a new sample pack of Allegra from her doctor, and she asked if I wanted to try one. (Quick aside: I usually never take other people’s prescription drugs without the recommendation of a doctor, but since everyone I knew was taking this, I made this one exception. I know, if they all jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would I? Bite me.) So I eagerly swallowed the inch long, dual-colored pill. We had a full day of outdoor activities planned in the heart of tree pollen season, and I made it through with minimal discomfort. It was quite possible that the pill was working, but to tell you the truth, I forgot that I had taken it, and I didn’t give it a second thought.

Now, you are probably asking yourself, when is this story going to turn sour, which is the tendency of my ramblings. Here it comes, and if you are not interested in scatological discussions, even in good taste, then please, for both our sakes, stop reading now. Also, in this paragraph disclaimer, this is one hundred per cent true. I wish it weren’t but it is.

So, the pill taking occurred on Sunday. On Monday, at around noon, my colon began to quiver. Time to drop the kids off at the pool. I really hate dropping a deuce at work, but when nature calls, I certainly answer! Using proper public toilet etiquette (which may be posted on here by me at a later date, depending on whether or not I want to keep any readers I may have) I proceeded to move my bowels. It was a surprisingly quick and clean one, and I was about ready to clean the area and get back to work when I had a problem closing my cheeks. It felt like there was still something in there jamming up my sphincter. So, very carefully, using adequate toilet paper, I reached down to dislodge the obstruction. My fingers fell upon something very strange. Grasping the mysterious fragment, I slowly pulled it out. It felt very hard, and had a distinct shape. Of course I had to look at it, and bringing it around to my face, in the dim fluorescent lighting of the stall, I realized that it was half of an Allegra tablet! The tablets are made by sandwiching together two halves, one white in color, the other beige in color. I was holding a perfectly undigested half between my forefinger and thumb! How gross! So, feeling my allergies begin to act up, I popped the partial pill down my throat. Only kidding! What do you think I am? A lunatic?So, that was my story of Allegra. I do not have much faith in a medication that is not easily digested. Needless to say, my search continues for an allergy medicine that works and that dissolves in stomach acid!

Childhood Remembrances: Peeps

With the Easter season fast approaching, candy has been sprouting up and blooming on myriad desks around my office like so many spring flowers. This morning I was offered a pink Peep marshmallow chick, from an equally pink clad employee. I asked her if the Peeps had been left out for a while, because I prefer slightly stale Peeps. Luckily, they had been on her desk for a number of days. Which just made me think… I wonder if Peeps could be used as an embalming fluid? Sweet and delicious, right to the grave. Anyway, I greedily ripped a Peep from her sisters, wide-eyed and reminiscent of when the Easter bunny left a cellophane-wrapped basket near the fireplace during my youth. I then swiftly bit the head off the Peep, and swallowed it quickly. Next I took my time nibbling and enjoying the sugary goodness that the body contained. As I licked each finger to sufficiently gather every last granule of dyed sugar into my maw, I looked up to see looks of horror on the faces of my co-workers standing around me.“Do I have some Peep on my face?” I asked, feeling a bit self conscious.

“Why did you just eat the Peep that way?” an aghast employee asked.

“What way?” I wondered.

“It looked very methodical. Almost planned.”

“Oh. Well, when I was a kid, I would imagine that the Peeps were real. I would bite the head off first, to put the peep out of its misery. Then I would be able to enjoy the rest of it without causing undo pain to the Peep.” I explained. “I guess old habits die hard.”

Sometimes I wonder what it is that others just don’t get about me.

clam chowder

i don’t know if i ever really got into clam chowder. i’ve eaten it, and i think i may have enjoyed it, but i don’t think it is something i would go out of my way to have. like i don’t think i would ever find myself saying… you know what? I would really enjoy a steaming bowl of clam chowder right now!

The Beginning of a Very Long Road: A Baby’s First Pooh

When I was a little boy, before the mutation, my parents pulled me and my brother aside, and told us that they had a present for us. My brother and I looked at each other in blissful expectation, mouths agape, eyes wide. What could it be? My parents paused melodramatically.

“You are going to have another baby brother!” my mom told us excitedly. Again, my brother and I looked at each other, but this time disappointed.

“I thought you were going to say Coleco Vision,” I replied depressed. My little brother nodded in agreement.

After the initial shock, though, my brother and I were genuinely excited about our new addition to the family, and don’t fret, we did get a Coleco Vision soon after.

I was nine years old when my youngest brother was born. He was beautiful, with platinum blond hair and Caribbean blue eyes. I couldn’t believe how little his hands and feet were. I was so happy to have him, our little gift from God.

My parents had a bassinet in the living room where the new baby spent a significant amount of his day. I would crawl under the bassinet, because it had the new baby smell, and I loved it.

The first day my new brother was home, I was under the bassinet breathing the wonderful new baby aroma, when suddenly, it didn’t smell so good anymore. “What is going on here?” I wondered aloud.

“Mom,” I called through our house, “I think the baby took his first pooh.”

My mom came in, and picked the precious bundle of joy up.

“He sure did!” she exclaimed happily.

How could anyone be happy about that? I guess it’s one of those things only a mother can love.

She put my little bro back in the bassinet, and unbuttoned his little jumper. Being curious I peered over the edge. She unfastened his diaper, and lifted up his bottom. In the diaper I saw one of the strangest and most disgusting things I had ever seen, even to this day, 16 years later.

What did I see, you may ask? It was a soft, warm pile of Gulden’s Spicy Brown Mustard, or at least that is what it looked like to me. It was kind of yellowish, and had the consistency of that mustard.

Immediately sensing something was wrong, I asked my mom if my brother had been eating hot dogs. She explained that baby’s digestive systems aren’t like ours, so weird thing come out until they settle into their bodies. I was not happy with this explanation, but being nine, I nodded and walked off to play with some G.I. Joes.

It took me about 10 years before I could eat Gulden’s mustard without being thoroughly grossed out, but to this day, I still think of my baby brother’s first pooh when I eat a hot dog.

Phil Donahue and Me: The Day I Got Brain AIDS

Note: this was originally written on february 9, 2004 by me for my friend lance’s website: theregalbeagle.com. i am trying to consolidate my greatest hits on this site. without further ado, another true story by me…

It’s funny how memories come back to you. Sometimes they come from so far away that you don’t know if they actually happened or if you dreamed them. Sometimes you wish you dreamed it, until you find the memory recorded on video tape, and it is right on.

I was a younger Creaby then, in 8th grade to be precise. I went to a private school, and as a class trip, we were invited to go to the taping of a very special Phil Donahue show in New York City. We were told beforehand that the guest would be Ryan White. He was a boy about our age who had contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion. He took it upon himself to spread awareness about the disease, and to live every day to it’s fullest. I was excited for the opportunity to miss school.

When we arrived in front of the studio, we were escorted in through doors that led right to the stage. There was a group of about 30 of us, all dressed in our nice little uniforms, and we all turned to find seats in the audience area. That was when we were told to find places on the stage. We were all quite puzzled, but did as we were told. The stage was empty except for a big stool in the center. I decided to claim my spot right there next to the stool. We all filled in the stage, and anxiously awaited the start of the show.

It wasn’t too much later that Donahue himself came out, and the cameras began to roll in front of a packed audience filled only with kids. Phil, as I feel I can call him now, introduced Ryan White, and out he came and sat in the stool right next to me. I remember the first thing I saw when he sat down was his pant leg rising just a little, exposing his ankle. There was a little cut on it, and I wondered what would happen if he bled on me… Silly thoughts from the mind of a thirteen year old.

Ryan White told his story, and then the format of the show transitioned into a question and answer session. Donahue walked around the audience handing the mic to different kids. Most people weren’t listening to a word that was said, but were busily thinking of what they should ask Ryan White next. Early on in the questioning, the mic was handed to me, and I ripped off a stellar question that quite possibly was the smartest question ever asked on that stage. I was given high fives and pats on the back for my genius. Ryan answered it, and we all were that much better off. It seemed my choice of seats was perfect, since I was now the star of the show!

I was on top of the world. I just showed my brilliance on national T.V.! I immediately began to think of another question, just in case they came back to me for some more excellence. That was when it hit me. I wanted to know if this boy with AIDS would ever be able to experience sex. I started imagining ways that he could, and all I could come up with is if he had sex with someone else who had AIDS, cause after all, they couldn’t get it again, right? Now was the tough part: how to phrase my question without being offensive and without betraying my young, innocent age. I began with an idea, and I retooled it and reworded it over and over, never being fully satisfied. The T.V. audience at home must have been mesmerized by the amazing concentration playing across my face. I could no longer see the lights, nor hear the high-pitched, pre-pubescent voices as I wrestled with the thoughts racing through my brain.

And that’s when it happened, the mic was once again in my hand. To this day I am not sure why or how it got there, but there it was. And I had no idea what I was going to say.

I panicked, and said the first thing that my rattled brain would produce. I also said quite possibly the worst question ever to be uttered on daytime TV. I asked this, “Can you get AIDS again?”

The auditorium went silent. Ryan White was silent. Donahue was silent. They all looked at me as if I had AIDS… Brain AIDS. Ryan White, puzzled at this dumb ass sitting at his feet, looked at me and finally tried to put me out of my misery. He answered something, although it was far off and distant, as all I wanted at that moment was my mommy.

We left the filming, and took the long road home. When we got back, we were informed that the show wouldn’t air for a few weeks. They even gave us a date, but I wished for the world to end. Maybe after editing, my stupidity would wind up on the cutting room floor.

Unfortunately, it didn’t. Rather than showcase my brilliance, they decided to display the few minutes of dead air following my retardedness. This is why to this very day I despise Phil Donahue.


so i was thinking whilst opening the car door for my girlfriend… who the heck invented this move, and why is it considered chivalrous? i then thought that it probably wasn’t thought up with classy intentions after all. the first guy to do it probably just had dinner, and didn’t want to expel post-meal flatulent fumes in front of his date, so he opened the door, sat her gingerly in the automobile, and then used the walk around time to make some exhaust of his own. and you thought chivalry was dead.

Walt Disney Gave Me An Enema, and I Didn’t Even Ask For It!

Disclaimer: I am not blaming this incident on Disney World, it just happened to happen there.

When I was fourteen years old, my family and I decided to go to Walt Disney World for a week vacation. We were staying at the lovely Polynesian hotel, which is my favorite hotel in the park. The Polynesian offers many water activities, being right on Lake Disney. My dad thought it would be a swell idea for us all to go out on a boat and try water skiing for the first time. “Great,” we all exclaimed at the thought of a new experience. We arrived at the boat and a nice gentleman brought us out onto the lake. Now, if you have never seen Lake Disney, it is a gigantic body of brown, dark, muddy water. Anyway, more on that in a bit.

The man gave me a quick water ski class, telling me what to do in the water in order to get up on my skis. I put on the two rubber planks, along with a life jacket, and happily jumped into the warm Florida water. Floating there I thought that this was a great idea. The man told me to wave when I was ready. Boy, was I ready. I put my little fourteen year old hand into the air and gave it an enthusiastic wave. The outboard roared to life, the slack in the rope tightened, and little Creaby began to be dragged under the water. Still holding the rope, I struggled to get my head above water. It was very difficult, but finally I was able to breath. I slowly began to rise, but my butt was still in the water. My arms felt like they were being ripped out of their sockets. It was nothing like I expected, and I dropped the rope in defeat. This was NOT the bad part.

So I swam up to the boat, and climbed up the little ladder. They all wanted to know what happened, and I told them I just couldn’t do it. Right about that point, I began to get an intense pain in my stomach. My belly started growling and my intestines felt like they were on fire. I had an incredible urge to explode from my rear end, but we were in the middle of a lake. I told my dad and the man that I had to go back to the room, and NOW! Reluctantly, they drove the boat back to the dock. I was in such pain, it felt like I hadn’t went to the bathroom in two weeks, and all the backed up excrement was pounding on the back door.

With the boat parked, I jumped out, and clenching my fourteen year old cheeks as tight as I could, I waddled back to the room. Thank God it was close by. Upon opening the door, I burst into the bathroom and lunged at the toilet, not a second too soon. My anus opened with a roar, as gallon upon gallon of brown water came pouring out of my butt. The water level in the toilet rose so dramatically that it flushed automatically. It was so close to running over, and I was nowhere near finished. Lake Disney kept pouring forth, in all it’s muddy glory. The noises that were erupting from that room eclipsed those of the Main Street Electrical Parade.

Finally I was finished. I felt empty, like the mile of my intestines were washed clean. I got up, walked into the other room, and collapsed onto the bed. I couldn’t move for about an hour. When I came to, I realized what had happened. As the boat was pulling me through the water, the life jacket pulled me back and up, while the skis lifted my feet to the surface. This left my butt hanging down into the water, as if I was reclining in a Lazy Boy. The water was then forced into my anal cavity. I held on for so long that the water just kept entering me, working it’s way up into my intestines, which are very long! Walt Disney gave me an enema!

So I guess the lesson learned here is, when water skiing, whether at Disney World or any where else in the world, make sure you clench your butt cheeks when the boat first starts pulling you.

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…From the bowels of my mind