A friend and former medical care provider who will remain anonymous posted a video today about a girl who was suing the guy who saved her from drowning. The plaintiff was under for about two minutes, so this dude jumped in and saved her. She woke up a little while later and apparently his touching her in order to get her out of the water was a violation of her body. So, she is suing for “hashtag save rape”. Her words. Not mine. Don’t take my word for it. See for yourself here:

So, I messaged Doc. “I was save raped by my old battalion’s physician’s assistant.”

Maybe I should just back up a moment and provide backstory. That was really not meant to remotely resemble a pun, but it kind of reads that way in my head.

Long story short, I was dying. Not as in dying my hair. As in I was dying of an indeterminate malady I like to call “Fort Polk I hate your face what did you do to me”, or FPIHYFWDYDTM for short because I’m a super creative wordsmith. I really wanted to call it something else beginning in the letter P to go with Polk, but all I could find was related to a nipple malady of which I thankfully unfamiliar. And quite frankly, my nipples are fine, if not wholly unnecessary. Also quite frankly, this long story short is about to take a strange turn. My apologies.

After running an exhaustive battery of tests which revealed nothing, family history came into question and the decision was made to examine my prostate. Good times. I was too weak at this point to drive. On top of this, I was also a little nervous about the whole procedure. It’s not everyday someone you know puts a finger in your butt. I can’t believe I’m even considering sharing this information on an open forum. Awesome. Not really. The PA is a tiny woman, so I had that going for me. My wife, Doc, is a shrink so not much help there unless the idea is to psychoanalyze (Oh my god so much makes sense right now reading that word) my prostate, she wasn’t going to be much help in this particular situation.

*Fun Observation: In retrospect, this might have worked given the opinion of my wife and my father that my head often needs to be removed from the location being discussed.

imagesStill, I felt better having her in the room because the PA had to have a chaperone and I wanted one as well because I was not about to be caught outnumbered with my pants literally down. Her chaperone of choice was a male medic who I promptly instructed to face the wall while Doc sat in a chair shaking in poorly disguised mirth. I was outnumbered after all. The procedure was over quickly enough. I squeaked and counted unexplained lights that popped up before my eyes.

The PA was very professional about it and had spectacularly tiny fingers. In hindsight (don’t say it), the three showers, a pack of baby wipes, a Brazilian, and cologne booty spritzing seemed like a bit of a waste considering how quickly it all ended. Oddly, I feel an inexplicable sense of empathy now when I overhear ladies speaking of disappointing dates.

The PA and her medic left the room to give me a moment to pick my pants and my dignity up off the floor. Doc burst into uncontrollable laughter. At least her bladder was on my side. It made all kinds of threats against her while she gleefully howled at my plight. It was at the peak of her tearful laughter that the PA walked back into the room and asked Doc if she was OK. I think she even hugged Doc at some point but I can’t be sure because eye contact felt weird so I just looked at my feet. Seriously? Is SHE OK? You didn’t even probe her derrière. I didn’t get a hug. Isn’t a kiss customary after an encounter like this? Apparently, the PA thought she was crying because of my unexplained sickness to which we still had no answer. So, what happened?

Doc replied, “I’m fine, but he has PTassD!” At which point they both broke into gleeful vocal demonstrations.

Now that you have the facts in my short story made far longer than I’d intended, I’ll return you to my original purpose for writing this entry.

“I was save raped by my old battalion’s physician’s assistant.”

“You were not,” she began. “You consented and I was sitting right there so it was more of a twisted ménage a trois.”

“A dying person can’t give consent. I wasn’t in my right mind. I have been save raped by a tiny Carnival dancer. This is almost certainly not what Sir Elton John was referring to in “Tiny Dancer”, which makes it that much more rapey. #save rape.”

Then that song went through my head coupled with psychoanalysis and misheard lyrics. It’s “in my hand” not “in my head” so the location of my noggin in relation to my prostate isn’t on the table any longer. Boom! Dad and spouse theory on my head’s location debunked!

I had an epiphany. The song was prophetic. Go read the lyrics when you are done here and tell me I’m wrong. She’s a dancer, was having a busy day, I was on a sheet of paper and I’m sure linen has been used to make paper, I made a little squeak that possibly only she could hear. There’s more, but I really don’t want to discuss the “Now she’s in me” part of the lyrics.

I Feel Your Pain, Perseus

Over instant messenger, I inserted myself into my wife’s morning in typical fashion. “I have proof you are a goddess.”

“Well ok then,” Doc responded.

“Follow my logic here,” If fingers could take a deep breath before spewing forth several lines of truth they wanted read before being stopped, that is what mine did. “We both know that as a rule, I do perfectly well without human contact. I do not, however, do well with protracted lack of contact with Doc. Therefore Doc is not human. Is Doc some other type of fauna? Obviously not. Is Doc an alien? Only to herself. The only logical conclusion is deityhood. Perhaps you were assigned to me in order to countermand the designs of my mother, Nergala. This indicates you are a deity aligned with the forces of good.”

“LOL,” was her only reply.

“How did the shower go?”

“It’s tomorrow.”

“My bad. I see you do not deny the evidence placed before you. This confirms your status as one aligned with the light. An evil or neutral goddess would deny it or just lie about it outright. Goodness is further confirmed by your not having smote me at any point in our twenty-year marriage. Thanks for that. The not smiting thing. I’m sure being smote isn’t cool.”

“I don’t often want to smite you.”

“I do not often ever want to read Marx. It is putting me to sleep.”


“Then my mind wanders off into you being a goddess which confirms I am something of a demigod over whom some shadow pantheon vie for control. So, there. That’s what I’m up to today.


“Ollo? You there?”


“Fine. Don’t answer my prayers then.”

Convos with Doc

Being unaccompanied overseas is occasionally a double-edged blade. On the one hand, it sucks because my family isn’t here. On the other hand, family not being able to reach across 4,000 miles and react violently to numerous forms of self-entertainment has it perks. I’ve always been one to make the best of a situation, so I often opt to live dangerously. The urge to risk the ire of loved ones often becomes more acute when, as I am now, on the verge of recovering from whatever sickness threatens my survival. Maybe it’s a misguided sense of overconfidence having brushed so close with death and emerging unscathed. I’m telling y’all, this bout of anthrax-flu-pox was rough.

The first day of feeling better, I was presented with yet another form to fill out. Contrary to popular belief, the Army does not march on its stomach. It careens down a greased slope on a torrent of documentation despite its decade-plus old claim to be going digital. Seriously. Every paper form eliminated for a digital analog is replaced by and requires for submission: at least two locally generated paper forms, a folder, a tracking form (also paper), and the printed version of the digital form because apparently we all hate digital signatures. However, this affords for some interesting methods by which one can entertain themselves if one were willing to risk hiding the devil in the details.

The Platoon Sergeant walked in and handed me a formerly digital form so that I could fill it out manually. The idea was that once they are all collected for the entire company, they could be scanned and sent to a certain individual’s email. Makes perfect sense. But I was feeling better and feeling playful. For those not familiar, there are these abhorrent little clubs in the Army that are mandatory for one’s spouse to join, or the service member must attend the little get togethers designed to equip spouses with the tools for survival in the absence of service member. The dreaded FRG, or Family Readiness Group. They are often chaired by the Commander’s spouses unless said spouse is in the service as well. Though in retrospect, I know a male Master Sergeant who would have been a stellar FRG leader and there would be no tolerance of the ludicrous complaints or requests often witnessed. Imagine an angry, opinionated, scowling white version of Michael Clarke Duncan and you’ll have a pretty good idea why.

Anyway, the form had all the standard data. Name, Rank, Social, contact data for spouse, etc. etc. There was also a block for spouse’s native language. If you aren’t aware, my wife is a psychologist which becomes important in a minute. She’d had to teach the night prior on her side of the planet and I’d been up early on mine. This meant that she would be sleeping in and I would be going to bed early which disrupts the timeline for our daily video chats. So, I needed to send her a message to let her know I was thinking of her. I’m attentive like that. And a great communicator.

“Hi, love. If the FRG leader contacts you, just know that it was me entertaining myself.”

Before I fell asleep, she’d already awakened.

“What”? That question keeps getting asked around me.

“I don’t think they read those forms anyway,” I assured her.

“I swear if you tried to get me into anything…”

“Noooope!” I beamed. “Just an interesting choice for the spouse’s native language section.”

“Just tell me which Rosetta Stone program to buy.”

“That’s the beauty of it! You are already a doctor in the lingo!”

“You didn’t say woman-speak.”

“Of course not,” I was a little hurt right there. “How insensitive do you think I am? I said Psychobabble.”

She then launched a few unflattering terms of what is most certainly not what one might expect in a shrink’s vernacular. “You just told your Commander’s wife that I’m an idiot!”

“You do know I’m the English major, right?”


“You don’t get to analyze words. That’s my job. You’re a shrink.”

No response. Sometimes you have to draw academics in using their own language.

“So, unless you want to discuss psychoanalytic literary theory….” I began. “Or linguistics and word origin, it seems your response was too focused on the babble part rather than the psycho part your vehemence might suggest.”

Did I fail to mention that despite being an English major, I am not the great communicator I once suspected?

*Insert blinking, non-responsive cursor here.

Plan B: “But I’m sick. A shrink wouldn’t treat a patient this way.”

“LOL,” She replied.

A line from Simon and Garfunkel’s Cecilia ran through my head. Jubilation! She loves me again! I fall on the floor and I’m laughing!

Abandonment: Part Two

During a particularly lucid moment, the Boy and I were able to determine that this indeed day seven without Doc’s supervision: It was a fairly uneventful day without the torment of plague and schemes of the Man Child. We haven’t seen him since this morning when he let me in after causing me to lock myself out. We have determined he may have been consumed by the timber wolf posing as a house pet. It is also known to our tribe that pigs will devour a man as well. This could explain why Doc’s beloved pigdog is so jumpy. She must be going feral with the rest of us. Our meal was a bland concoction of shell shaped wheat powder covered in an orange paste one might mistake for a product of a bovine’s udder. We run dangerously low on this provision as well. It may be that we are reduced to eating grass before Doc returns. The Boy entertained himself today by coaxing strange noises from the pigdog with a bundle of leaves covered in strange runes not unlike those you see before you. They must be powerful runes indeed to frighten Doc’s minion in such a way.

Again without wife supervision: Day eight, month eight, year eight, what’s the difference? We are doomed. It seems that the pigdog did not devour the Man Child after all. He’d been gone searching vehicle graveyards for Jeep parts. Yes, parts for his vehicle that he assaulted Doc’s chariot with. I am surprised he was permitted to live. Despite the howling and chest beating protests of the Boy and I, the Man Child destroyed one of our last food reserves: The fish drying racks we had constructed under the back seat of the Jeep. Granted, the heads are the least tasty morsels of fish, but it WAS food. On a positive note, it rained today. The Boy and I rendered fat and wood ash and attempted to bathe for the first time since we were chased away from the pool. We were forced back into the cave after a narrow escape wearing nothing but a less than optimal film of soap. Vile men in blue.


*Timber Wolf and Pigdog

Day nine and still no wife to keep the natives in check. The Boy and the Man Child shriek and hoot with glee until shortly before sunrise and sing with the Timber Wolf and Pigdog. I am convinced that the Boy has forged some ungodly alliance with the Man Child. My days may be numbered. The four of them share meals from the same bowl and exclude me. I was never a fan anyway of the rubber chicken bits so loved by the Timber Wolf. Some withered old alchemist also plots against me by telling Doc’s Queen Mother to take my wife into the mountain wilderness. It seems the Evil Druidess my wife calls Sister also plots to have Doc leave us to perish. Perhaps the pagan practices of the ungodly duo downstairs are linked to the Evil Druidess and her fell minions.

Day ten was almost my undoing. Fearing for my safety and my empty stomach, I felt it best to be somewhere other than the cave where the Boy and the Man Child plot against me. So I ventured to Pineview lake. A gator infested, weed choked, fish free place on the edge of civilization. Recent fires had cleared much of the underbrush and still smoldered. A thick cloud of pine scented smoke hung low over the water. Sadly, the smoke cover was not enough to block the sun. My skin now glows bright red. I have no food to show for my efforts, but I learned a new skill: The uphill dismounted stump jumping through hot coals in a modified zig zag panic induced sprint is of great use when gators show interest in the bait fish still in your hand.

Day eleven without adult supervision: The Boy seems to have gangrene. I may have to amputate his trigger finger. He’s no good to me if he can’t shoot. Perhaps he would make good bait. If he could distract one of those gators long enough for me to kill one, I’d have enough food for a week! Hopefully it has nothing to do with the fish we ate. He was impaled several times by the spines of angry fish not wanting to part with their scales.
*Update: The Boy used half a bottle of rum to make a sauce for some sauce for our seafood. Using him for gator bait may serve to prevent further instances of such blatant alcohol abuse.

Day twelve without wife supervision was challenging. It is the first time we’ve had to prepare for a birthday without her. I think the Boy and I did well. We made a cake for the Man Child. We also employed our extensive crafting abilities to make the Man Child a birthday card to go with the cake. After all, making a gift requires a great deal of time, effort, and thoughtfulness. He is sure to appreciate this more than any store bought trinket. Perhaps this will bring peace between our factions.


Day thirteen. We are saved!! Our queen has graced us with her presence! Though I am confused at her reaction to the two dozen mouse heads we left in tribute. It always seems to please her when the cat does it…

Abandonment: Part One

Every year my wife heads off to Pensacola to tend to the needs of her mother. It always seems to happen at the same time each year and she goes to great lengths to make sure we are fed for the duration. Without fail, the two weeks’ worth of food she prepares ahead of time seems to last approximately three days. I get it. We are grown and should be able to fend for ourselves and we do. However, while doing so I like to ensure she sees the plight she has inflicted on us through her absence. This serves the purpose of also providing her with daily updates.

The first couple of days are typically the same: We boys eat well and are happy. I begin to miss her and start putting “Aint no sunshine when she’s gone” videos on her FB timeline. It is usually that third day when semblances of civilization begin to crumble and we descend into a world not unlike the one depicted in Lord of the Flies. Here are the updates from her 2013 trip.

Day one without spousal oversight: Early August in the Georgia Low County. The temperature and humidity levels flirt with a third digit. Doc vanished in the early morning hours for a time indeterminate. I used the last sliver of soap this morning. While trusting the Timber Wolf and Pigdog to watch my back, I spent the morning trying to render fat in order to produce a rudimentary substance to bathe with. I have nothing to show for it but a full belly and the pervasive odor of bacon clinging to me like sweaty clothes and some soot with which to camouflage myself when I hunt for sustenance.

Day two without spousal oversight: The Boy and I have gone native. Despite the best efforts of the wife to leave us well provisioned, we’ve resorted to killing things and eating them. Tonight we shared a meal of dozen fried bream I skillfully caught.


Day three without Doc’s supervision: The plague is taking its toll on the other half of my faction, threatening to upset the power balance. The common cold is deadly to us primitives. I think I may have to sacrifice him in order to save myself. My other son has formed a separatist faction and makes the rest of our territory uncomfortable. (If y’all knew the Man Child back then you would know that I am only half joking. He was going through some dark times and became slightly reclusive and perpetually agitated). This other faction persists in unwarranted territorial posturing. We may have to take him out before the plague weakens us too far. It’s ok, I know where he sleeps.

Day four unsupervised: It looks like the Boy and I will survive this round of plague, even as the other faction’s leader, the Man Child, begins to feel its effects. The dogs have stopped incessantly trying to go outside. Could be the thunderstorm or it could be that inside has become a jungle of sorts. I’m sure Doc would be furious at the state of things if she were here, but we no longer fear whip nor wrath since she is nearly a thousand miles away. For now, we are learning the art of war and the use of implements of destruction. I’ve attached a picture of us in the newly renovated living room so that you might better visualize our advancement.


Day five…….or seven without Doc’s supervision: Time has lost all meaning here. Due to threats of bodily harm, the Boy and I have agreed not to bring down the vengeful wrath of our distant queen. We still refuse praying to her, but we will not kill her beloved pigdog. However, we are forced to forage farther afield for sustenance following the feast in which we devoured most of the bounty bestowed upon us prior to her departure. I called upon a place miles away from us and demanded food. Our strength and reputation must have preceded us as they brought it to our very gates. We must be fearsome indeed. Or so we thought. These subversives wore the same raiment as the Man Child. Red uniforms bearing the crest of some chieftain called Papa of clan John. It seems he’s forged alliances against us with other clans now.

My Wife Just Killed Newtons for me. And Broccoli.


I hadn’t planned on posting again so soon. I try to space things out in case I run out of things to talk about. I’m not sure what spacing posts out is going to do for that, but it made sense when I made the decision. I suppose I should get to the point of this post. Doc is at it again with her FB videos and I suspect she does this on purpose just to disturb me in some fashion. Fair enough. I’ve spent the last twenty years disturbing her with whatever falls out of my mouth. I knew I shouldn’t have opened the link but when the first text I see is “You’re eating wasps”, how am I supposed to not look?

Look. I get it. Eating bugs manifests in countless ways in most cultures I’ve encountered despite several differing religion’s prohibition on bug noshing. From Sicilian maggot cheese to entire bug buffets in Asia, it is a common thing. I’ve personally tried many. The sour cream and chive crickets weren’t bad, but Korea’s boiled silk worm larvae (bundaegi) tasted a lot like a dirty urinal smells and my throat closed and it wouldn’t go down and the smell stuck with me for hours until I got home and could reenact a scene from Ace Ventura.

That said, Fig Newton’s are dead to me. It isn’t the bug so much as it is the niggling thought that when I consume things containing figs, I am also consuming the romper rooms of irritable, incestuous, stinging insects. I’ll never be convinced that this is sanitary and all I see now when I see a fig is The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas meets Wrong Turn meets Little Shop of Horrors. Wow. Those titles sound a bit alike when I think about it. Except for the Wrong Turn part. Obviously.

Then I looked into it and I now think broccoli is off the table as well. No more research for me. Ignorance is bliss, no? Don’t go looking. Cabbage might be out too.

You win this round, Doc. Well played.

Misdiagnosis or the Interconnected Nature of Everything. Being Married to a Shrink.

My wife put this video on my FB timeline with the caption “This is exactly like having a conversation with you.”

I responded with “I’m pretty sure this is nothing like me”.

Then that reminded me that I needed to complete my annual GAT (Global Assessment Tool). No. Not random. The GAT is a mandatory survey that asks like a million questions six different ways and you have to answer on a scale consisting of differing degrees of like me-ness. It’s something like this:

Question 401,693: I am easily distracted.

Then I have to answer with “nothing like me”, “somewhat like me”, or “this is so totally like me”. See? Connected rather than randomized. It’s all connected. Kind of like all those Disney movies making reference to one another. Just because I am thinking about Tarzan’s parents doesn’t mean that your convo on Frozen isn’t the same conversation.

Boom. Diagnosis refuted! It’s like magic how I can do that.

Take that, Doc! I’m a wizard!

Broken Beans

I found out today that my coffee is broken. Yes, you read that right. My coffee. Not the pot. The pot works fine, if not a little slow. I complained to my wife that I had no energy and felt generally lethargic all day for several days. I told her that my coffee intake had increased dramatically and I was sleeping more, but it wasn’t helping any longer. I also don’t want to leave my room and have to deal with people. Being a Doctor of psychology, she immediately began questioning my mental and emotional state.

“I’ve never been depressed before. So I don’t know what depression feels like to begin with so how can I tell you if I’m feeling depressed?”

She then suggested that about all I may be missing is a sense of hopelessness.

“I don’t feel hopeless though. I know what that feels like. I felt it once when Lyme’s disease was trying to kill me. I know how to fix that feeling. It’s called morphine on demand. It worked when I was in the hospital.”

“Go pick up a vitamin B supplement and see if that helps,” she offered.

“I get plenty of that in my coffee? Besides, you suggest morphine and then offer vitamin B as a substitute?”

“When did I….”

“When you suggested, in a roundabout way, morphine for depression,” I began.

“No. Just no,” she cut me off. “And there is no vitamin B in your coffee.”

“WTH? My coffee is broken? Now I am depressed. I’ll see doc about that morphine.”

Left thumb to cheek. Left fingers cover eyes. And there it is, folks. Her signature sign that she thinks I’m a genius!


We all know that the way men speak and listen is not the same way women speak and listen. This will inevitably lead to the occasional misunderstanding and the need for crisis management from time to time. Fortunately for me, I am something of a pro at managing this type of crisis when it comes to my wife.

For example: My wife recently cracked a tooth and somehow didn’t know until she had pain shooting up the side of her face and into her skull. One doc suggested some kind of temporal aneurysm that would leave me a widower as I sat helpless in Korea. Thankfully he was wrong and a different doc sent her to see a dentist who then found a tooth cracked from gritting her teeth. I’m pretty sure it happened during one of our conversations. Anyway, she answered one of our twice daily video calls and let me know she wasn’t dying. Her face was still numb and I couldn’t help but think that when she spoke, her mouth moved a little like Drew Barrymore’s or Meredith Grey’s. More like Natalie Dormer, really. She even had this cute little lisp going on and I found myself grinning stupidly at her adorableness. The conversation went like this:

Me: “You’re tho cute!” I told her.

Wife: “You’re a butthole.” That didn’t come out the way you read it. It came out more of a “buth hole”.

Me: “For calling you cute?”

Wife: “You’re making fun of me.”

Me: “No. I think you’re adorable.”

Wife: “I think you’re an ath-hole.”

Me: “Look. I get that we both speak the same language differently so maybe I need to clear this up. When I say you’re cute, I genuinely mean it. I also know that you underthtand the way males interact and perhaps you calling me an ath-hole is an attempt at bonding on my level. I also think you are genuinely upset and our differing communication thtyles have caused a misunderthtanding.”

Wife: “Now you’re treating me like I’m thtupid.”

Me: “No. I’m treating me like I’m smart!”

She laughs. I win and am no longer an ath-hole. Sort of. But only sort of on the ath-hole part. I totally win.

Gas would be more fun than bleach…

Apparently, the Army is not overly enthused about the prospect of pouring gasoline down drains in the barracks and lighting it. Consequently, my request was denied and the person at Vector Control suggested that there are a number of professionals available to whom I can speak, but not at a glorified exterminator’s office. I told them that I just did speak to someone and they are already trying to pawn me off on another department rather than let me deal with the problem.

My wife said I should explain….

Koreans seem to be quite fond of eating anything that lives in bodies of water. Seriously. They are just like Cajuns except they don’t live in Louisiana and most of them speak better English than Cajuns. And they have more teeth.


See what I’m talking about? I don’t even know what this thing is, but you can get them at certain restaurants. You’ll see them there, floating in little net bags in the aquariums from which you select your meal. I’m not sure why they are in baggies. I mean look at them. Unless you are suffering from a severe palsy, they probably can’t get away from you. If you did have a severe palsy, you probably shouldn’t handle the danged things anyway. That would just seem obscene somehow. The westerners I know who have been exposed to these call them penis fish, citing that they resemble a schlong. You’ve heard the term “it goes without saying”? I don’t think this is ever true. I like to say whatever pops to mind. So it needs to be said that if your tackle box contains anything resembling a sea schmeckel, you should seek immediate medical attention.

You might not be able to tell, but I am a little disturbed right now. Not because of phallic foods though. My wife finds my tendency to make light of everything to be an irritating character trait. It’s a coping mechanism, but the problem I face is in fact quite dire. So I guess I should get to the point.

As things stand, my quarry is either wandering about my room waiting to do me harm, or it is skulking about the shower drain. The former isn’t as worrisome, though I haven’t gone barefoot since the discovery and I have bleached the floors at least six time and rewashed linens as well as all clothes several times. The latter bothers me greatly as I may have loosed this vile thing on the world, so I dumped bleach down the drain in the hopes that it travels faster than microscopic monsters. It makes me feel a certain kinship to Sisyphus. I toil against bureaucracy and the decree of my mother, who I am sure rules the underworld, only to have my efforts be in vain.


My wife says I should stop explaining quite so much.

I may have inadvertently exposed the entire northern part of South Korea to small pox. I’m pretty sure it is due to my nature as Nergala’s son. If you are a first time reader of this blog, my Mad Cow Blog (July archives) may offer clarification on that last statement. Anyway, the point to all this is that I lost my small pox scab. It was supposed to go into the little biohazard baggie of small pox Band-Aids kept under my bathroom sink so that when the process was complete I could turn it in for incineration. The bag of doom, not the sink.

So as I was saying at the beginning, I reported the problem and proposed a solution based on a time honored solution to pathogen eradication. One can only hope that copious quantities of sodium hypochlorite will suffice instead.


Image Credits:

Tally whacker Trout:

Sisyphus’ Labors: