Tales of Hilarious and I are fiddin’ to colorize October, y’all.
Archives for September 2012
So, tonight I Googled “skin tag” because a relative and I were talking about them (because of course we were). I did not expect to read one of the best stories I’ve ever read. I give you this, a comment in a forum on myhomeremedies.com.
“If my anus could talk… it would thank posters here for the following home remedy, after narrowly avoiding painful surgery.
“For YEARS I’d suffered an olive-sized growth at my anus. It was an ugly not-so-little secret that undermined my self image, as it made its presence known damn near every time I crossed my legs, went running and during lovemaking, as it tended to “dangle.” At the same time, an anal fissure, which the tag seemed to stand guard over like a sentry, would often bleed and swell. Together they made life miserable. So I made an appointment with a proctologist, tho I’ve always been leery of these professionals. After all, what kind of person jumps thru so many hoops in order to have a career looking at aging butt holes? Still, I was hurting, so I made the crucial appointment.
“In the presence of his nurse, the proctologist told me to drop my pants and then took some metal probes–reminiscent of dental hygiene tools—and after some excruciating poking and prying, had me to tidy up, and then held a conference. He drew a picture of my ass hole. It featured a huge anal tag—like a sentry (his words)–guarding a fissure—or ragged little tear–in the anal sphincter. He proposed surgically removing the tag and then cutting out an arc-shaped piece of my anal sphincter to get rid of the fissure. The surgery would be painful, I would be laid up for two weeks and there was a 1 to 3 percent chance that my anus would not work properly after the operation. I signed on, out of desperation, as I’d been debilitated off and on for years, and I’m a busy man, who makes his living five ways–writing, publishing, teaching, consulting and real estate.
“Fortunately for me—tho not him–the surgeon burned both hands in a grilling accident before my surgery could take place. Too much accelerant, according to his secretary. When she asked if I’d like to reschedule, I told her “I’ll call you,” and started Googling. One thing I learned was that the hemorrhoid surgery I’d signed on for would be the worst pain I’d ever experienced, would be incredibly disruptive of my life—at a busy time–and might leave me with a leaky anus, not to mention a possible addiction to pain meds. Added to this was my newfound distrust of a surgeon who’d used bad judgment operating a grill. I didn’t want him near my privates.
“So I started looking for home remedies and came across your website. Here and elsewhere I read that lots of people had removed all sorts of tags from their bodies with thread or dental floss, and so I put it on my list of things to at least attempt.
“Late one night when no one else was about, I contrived to loop dental floss around my anal olive. Positioning a boss flashlight to shine into that shadowy nether region, I cocked my right leg up on my lavatory, bent over and, peering round with great effort into my large bathroom mirror, looped a dental floss noose around my tag, and pulled the draw string. Hurt like hell. I’d tied it on crooked, so that the string cut across the middle of my tag, dividing it into two bulges scored by a painful groove in which the dental floss cut.
“For weeks afterward, squirming in pain, I kept hoping for it to shrivel, so I could deliver the coup de grace with nose hair scissors or carpet knife or something. I waited in vain. It stayed plump and full. What’s worse, it felt like a constant toothache in my anus. Through trial and error I learned that Neosporin—the kind that contains aspirin–would relieve the pain temporarily. It also seemed to have a healing effect on my anal fissure. Still, the lumps in my tag stayed round and plump. After about two weeks of on and off pain, I decided to cut the string.
“No go. It was sunk inside the flesh of my swollen tag. At this moment of discovery, I had serious regrets about trying the home remedy. The only thing that kept me from giving up and throwing myself on the mercy of my doctor—literally bowing before him–was the prospect of complete and abject humiliation. What might he tell friends or family in our close-knit community, where my work in the media had made me well-known?
“So, late at night, forming another tiny noose, bending over, slipping it over and pulling tight, I tried again. This time I managed to tie the dental floss snugly around the base and waited several days. Was it my imagination or was the tag shrinking? Maybe I could snip it off entirely before long. Three days before I was supposed to drive 150 miles to the wedding of a beautiful niece—a drive I knew would be excruciating–I went into the bathroom to apply Neosporin-with-aspirin. Imagine my surprise and delight, when the entire anal tag–rogue floss, groove and all–slipped its mooring and adhered to my tissue. Could this be true? I drew the tissue up and looked at my tormentor, nestled there–a tiny shriveled olive, crisscrossed with grooves. It was a bloodless coup in my nether realm. I’d hung the tyrant.
“It’s been three months now and I can’t believe I succeeded in thwarting the surgeon, saving my insurance thousands, and improving my self-image. My tag had been there so long that now it feels novel to have a smooth butt crack, and I never feel the tag hanging there during sex, or while running, or when I cross my legs wrong. It’s truly the gift that keeps on giving.
“A final note: I don’t know if the antibiotic Neosporin would work for everyone’s anal fissure. Just four days ago I had grave doubts after I felt the old rawness and swollenness return. So I applied Neosporin several times over the period of a couple of days. Voila, the anus healed again. OK, take it for what it’s worth. Anecdotal, but I think I cured myself, and avoided expensive surgery, debility and possible pain med dependency in the duration.
“So, to all who posted testimony here:
“My wife thanks you, I thank you, and my anus thanks you.”
People are talking about this "Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo" reality show. They live in a town next to Macon, GA. I lived in Macon on the ninth hole of a fancy schmancy golf course, far from the Boo-Boos. I'm not sure if that is their last name or not, don't sue me.
I have not seen the show "Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo" because I'd rather light myself on fire, but I did catch a clip in which the whole family refers to vaginas as "biscuits" because "they kinda look like biscuits, if they're done right, like from Hardees." I may never be able to eat a biscuit again.
Also, my girlfriends and I hung out at a Hardees parking lot in high school and OMG I'll never get that year back.
Also, that year I dated a boy in the airforce. I was 17. He had a mustache and broke up with me because he said I wasn't experienced enough for him. His name was Fred. Really. I dated a mustachioed pilot named Fred for three months who dumped me in a Hardee's parking lot.
I have never had a Hardee's biscuit.
Did I ever tell y'all about when I worked in the golf club pro shop? Did I ever tell y'all how good the grilled cheese was from the club? Hand-cut fries. Sweet tea. I worked there for the food.
My hubs found out he has a broken arm. It had been broken for a week. He had a bicycle accident with a curb.
I found out my grandfather can't stand it when I call and do not leave a message. I never leave messages. I don't like to leave them and I don't like to receive them. I had to listen to my grandfather say someone called and didn't leave a message and "how are you supposed to know who it was?!" He doesn't have caller ID. Ooops.
I'm going to the hometown next month. You know what that means. More pics of my grandfather's house, which is like a time capsule of 1987. Have I told y'all that a few years ago my grandfather was using a clear shower curtain liner as a table cloth because he wanted the grain of the wood to show from the table?
Y'all, my house smells like eucalyptus and mint from this weird natural ant killer. Eucalyptus is the worst scent ever. It's like a bad spa. In a bad resort. That has scratchy towels. And the eucalyptus is dusty. And the spa receptionist is named Heaven and has a lip ring and a tattoo of a yin-yang on the back of her neck and her cell phone keeps vibrating with texts from her boyfriend, Harley, who was the emcee at the skating rink (working on his rap career) and is "between jobs" and staying by his mama's house.
That's what eucalyptus reminds me of.