Baby, I So Got This!

Posted on February 13, 2013 by Professor Taboo

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I fear no Kryptonite!

“Girlfriend’s Liability Release Clause: Terms of male service are subject to change or fail miserably when the male brain-fart is prevalent and unavoidable.”

There is a widely used misconception by “High-Testosterone” heterosexual Alpha males that they will perform euphoric miracles with their spouse/significant-other, if she allowed another woman to join them in the bed. These men (myself included) will greatly OVER-SHOOT expectations if she allows more than another woman but also — in his wild dream-state — 2 or 3 more hot women to join… knowing this one-in-a-million opportunity may never present itself again! I have fallen into this self-designed trap before.

After my partner gave me two explicit directions of how to please her, as well as the other women so that everybody has a memorable time, I assured her “Baby, I so got this.”

Little did I know that what I had been told many times throughout my High-T life — that men’s blood flows in only one direction — was so embarrassingly true. As the heat of the moment increased, my brain cells were drained of blood by one single selfish organ, and I couldn’t remember, much less focus on, what I was supposed to do when everyone’s clothes came off. After some time the women were whispering to each other a little frustrated “Can we get rid of the guy?”

Liability Release Clause kicks in….brain-farting by said male is in early onset!

The moral of this High-T brain-dead moment?

Men, our own fantasies are rarely based in reality: we are not the best multi-taskers contrary to our sometimes rather large egos, even when we are given a simple directional map drawn in crayons by our hopeful, patient, loving spouses/SO’s. Delusions of grandeur get the best of us.

The women are the Queens of multi-tasking, hands down.

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American Boys Are Easy!

Posted on February 5, 2013 by Professor Taboo

Twig the Fairy – Scarborough Renaissance Festival

The Scarborough Faire is a renaissance festival held every spring outside my hometown of Dallas, Texas. It is a festival I try to make every year simply because it is an incredibly artsy event that panders relentlessly to my Bohemian tendencies. One year as I, my then 15-year old daughter and 8-year old son were milling about the King’s Pavilion, a wondrously magical fairy named Twig caught my son’s attention. With her wings glistening in the sunlight, she played her double-flute and danced gracefully our direction as if floating on air. As she wound her way toward my son – who is a mega chick-magnet with his blue eyes and cutest smile – and with every step and note she further captivated him with her song and dance. Even I had to confess how transfixing she was; my daughter began laughing semi-uncontrollably. She had never in her young life seen two boys so completely hypnotized. Fortunately for me my daughter’s continued giggles snapped me back into reality: as the father, here was presented a life-lesson of enormous magnitude for my son! I must act!

Then Twig stopped in front of him, smiled, and sprinkled pixie-dust upon his bedazzled head. Game over.

My son’s expression was…well, paralyzingly expression-less. His eyes (and most likely his heart too) were glued to Twig’s every move. My daughter still can’t stop laughing. Realizing that any wisdom I tried to impart would fall on deaf ears, I turned to my still entertained daughter and helplessly said, “And now it starts.” My son was experiencing exactly what I had learned years earlier…

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I was a college soccer player training with my team in the Mecca-of-soccer, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. After a week of hard training and games at the Flamengo Futebol Club as well as other clubs, a few of us were ready for the nightlife. Our hotel was less than two blocks from Copacabana Beach off Avenida Atlântica. Just a mile or so down the avenue was Ipanema Beach. Along the two beaches were many restaurants and bar & grills where you could sit outside. I and two other teammates decided to go the center of the two beaches toward Ipanema, have some beers, and meet some hot Brazilian girls. We ordered, began drinking and enjoyed the non-stop scenery.

By the way, my daughter is fond of these two father-brother stories because she enjoys a huge boost of confidence every time they are told.

After many failed attempts to continue conversations with the female persuasion, it was obvious we had to improve our Portuguese. We needed to learn more than just “I’m an American futeboller” and “I don’t speak Portuguese.”

Somewhat dejected and tipsier we headed back to our hotel.

Copacabana Beach, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

What had gone wrong? All during our first several days, Brazilian girls would constantly tell us “Eu te amo,” which means I love you. As teenage boys that translated directly to “I will do anything you want me to, just say the words!” Well, out at the pub we obviously forgot about that last part. We couldn’t speak. We mourned our misfortunes.

“Eu te amo”

Then as if the love-gods pitied our sorrows, a group of five extremely gorgeous Brazilian women were headed toward us….a delightful collision course.

They made it abundantly clear they were interested. They were saying all kinds of nice things, seductive things we were quite sure. In the middle of all the obvious energy and excitement, my teammates and I looked at each other and exclaimed simultaneously, “We love this country and we LOVE easy Brazilian women!” We were the American studs. Finally, our greatest dreams were being realized, but we couldn’t say it in Portuguese. Hoping to keep things moving forward, we told them “Eu não falo Português.” Which as we were taught means “I don’t speak Portuguese.” Major, major mistake.

“Whoa!” screamed my buddy “…that’s a little too friendly!” They began getting much more aggressive right there on Copacabana Beach. In fact, they had gotten SO friendly with the three of us my teammates took off running and didn’t look back. Now I have all five of them swarming me!

The near 24-hour view along Copacabana & Ipanema

I’m thinking Okay, I know full well how attractive I am ladies, but let’s slow down, keep our hands in more proper places, and everybody will have a great time. But how can I say that? “Eu não falo Português” I repeated. They quickly replied in English, “We go with you. We love American men!” And they showed it. Again, big mistake.

The fact that they were all speaking with their hands THE “universal language” and describing the highly charged things they all wanted to do with me, quickly no longer mattered. I drew up my fist and yelled STOP! As “easily” as they started with us, they turned and walked away, giggling among each other.

When I caught up to my two laughing teammates, who completely abandoned me and the night’s mission, they asked “Have you checked your wallet?”

Needless to say, if I had had a wallet in each of my four pockets, they all would have been gone along with my pants. The fact that later after reporting the incident to the Rio Police we were informed that those five “very attractive” women were well-known regulars on Copacabana and Ipanema, and the police thought it also necessary to tell us they were lesbians…professional lesbians, who knew how to work gullible boys. Really? They could’ve left out that last bit!

Have you lost your wallet again?

Which brings me back to Twig and my son and daughter.

As I stood there in the King’s Pavilion watching how enamored he was with Twig, I couldn’t help but appreciate the adage “Like father, like son.” I too had once been warned of the expensive charms of a woman and could not listen….in Portuguese, English, or any language.

My daughter chimed in “Dad, just hand over your wallet for both of you.”

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Snip-Snip and Done!

Posted on January 25, 2013 by Professor Taboo

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Inspired by Renee at rasjacobson.com and her clever idea for embarrassing moments from friends, found on her page So Wrong, I wrote this particular story. Check out the 13 funny ones over on her site; you’ll be glad you did! Thank you Renee!

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Waiting in the plush lounge of my doctor’s office and having completed the necessary forms for the outpatient procedure, thumbing through those typical magazines they scatter about, I reflect…asking myself again “Why on Earth am I doing this?” And I remember vividly my history with this sort of thing in this sort of place. This is a short story about a boy, now a man, constantly forced – perhaps charmingly coerced – to face his fears no matter how many times he’d rather not.

Shear-size may or may not be realistic

I travel back in time to my adolescence. I am in one of our family pediatrician’s patient-rooms atop the medical table, Mom is also there, and we are waiting on the doctor’s remedy for my illness. I am nervous, probably because my Mom seems to know something I do not, which makes me more uneasy. The doctor enters the room, talks in a soft calming manner explaining to us but more likely just to me, what he is about to do…to me…in order for me to feel better. Before my eyes he reveals this syringe with a needle I KNOW is three to four inches in length! The remaining words this evil doctor is uttering become oblivious to my ears. There is only one thing I want to know: where are you sticking that and how far? Yes, I know…that is actually two things, but I was desperate and my breathing was becoming more labored.

Well apparently my feeble defense went unwarranted and I don’t know why. Then as if my rising fear meant nothing to the angels of compassion, I had to drop my pants and underwear! Now my palms are very clammy and I’m beginning to perspire. Suddenly and completely unexpectedly I reared up from the table; that evil agent of Satan’s pain-army stuck me in my ass-cheek with that needle. It frickin HURT! Tears are forcing themselves out of my enlarged eyes when I start to feel dizzy and cold. Next, I am in this bizarre dimension of half-reality, half-trippy world with people (if you can call them people) I don’t recognize.

Fast forward 60-100 seconds later. When I woke with the doctor, a nurse, and my Mom looking over me on the floor, I was completely disoriented and worse, I had wet my pants. And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, I had to walk through the patient hall, past the business office and through the lounge in front of everybody to exit the building. A little scared, Mom explained to me that I had fainted but after careful monitoring I was apparently fine.

Soon after this experience, I learned a trick I could do with my butt-cheeks when my father was disciplining me (for direct disrespectful disobedience I’m sure) with THE BELT. If I tightened up my cheeks, the whippings would hurt proportionately less! I thought hey, I can do the same thing when I’m getting a shot! Yeah, stupid move. After the next time, I couldn’t sit down for days. Everything that touched my buttocks made me whelp!

The next thirty-something years were filled with a few similar episodes involving medical equipment, staff, and their facilities. Significant episodes followed like this briefly.

In high school while getting tested for what turned out to be mononucleosis, a lab-technician drawing vials of blood, having me hold the first full vial, pushed the needle too far and through my vein causing me to pass-out onto the floor, bursting the first vial everywhere. When I was awakened I had blood, my blood all over me. Walking out of that clinic I’m sure it looked as if I had come straight from a Stephen King horror movie or was a complete doofus with a ketchup bottle.

Many years later I was helping my teammates erect a large tournament pop-up tent. Using zip-ties to secure down the tarp over the framing-poles, I was using a box-cutter to trim the ties. Being a little too hasty, my motion accidentally slipped off a tie and I sliced into my left wrist. For you newly self-appointed psycho-analyst reading this, no it wasn’t a Freudian-slip trying to escape my inadequacies! While waiting at a nearby medical clinic for stitching, once again I fainted. The nurses there wisely decided to use a butterfly suture instead of stitching me up. Bravely, I concurred.

Lacking representation of a plasma needle

Just a few years ago I went to give plasma. Like I did then, you are now perhaps asking the same question: Are you utterly out of your mind? But I was trying to carry out two things: one, do a good and useful thing, like giving blood, and meanwhile conquer a long-time nagging fear. Second, its easy decent money, right? Um, not so much. I’ve learned in those situations to share all pertinent information and background as possible – ironically that applies in marriages too, as I’ve also painfully learned. Because I volunteered my long history of fainting, the clinic Director pulled me into his office for a quick discussion. He asked a couple of questions and then to make his point pristinely clear, he opened up his desk drawer, pulled out a clear package, and laid it out in front of me.

If any of you know what a blood-plasma needle looks like, then you can appreciate its size…or better, its GIRTH! Holy SHIZZO that thing was as thick as my middle-finger! The doctor explained that the needle I gasped at would be inside my arm for some 45-minutes. “Stop” I said. “I think I’ve had delusions of courage coming here, haven’t I?” As gently as he knew how, he went on to explain to me the cumbersome paperwork he’d have to fill-out for the EMT’s, ambulance service, and plasma center if I fainted there in his clinic; something he must do by law in potential cases like me.

I decided humanity had more than enough plasma.

But my most significant episode with that nagging Dream-Reaper was when my former girlfriend convinced me that a vasectomy would promise all kinds of mutually euphoric pleasure. She portrayed the resulting steamy spontaneous ecstasy better than any quality porn I could imagine, but I think she forgot to mention at whose expense! I had been blindly enamored by her narrations of condom-less tantric-release as much as my lack of upward blood-flow. A common occurrence in men I have learned.

So I am at my urologist’s office for what he and his nurses have explained insistently is a simple outpatient procedure. They urge me this way because apparently thousands upon tens of thousands of men successfully have the procedure, and most return to their daily routines within a half-day or so. One of my close guy-friends has had the procedure done and affirms this while every time laughing at me! “Snip, snip” he said “and your done.“

What is it that these titans of visceral vasectomy aren’t getting about me? Do they even realize that this “simple procedure” is in an area of about the only testosterone-filled manly-ness I might have remaining given my history? Hello? I am going to be awake the entire time he has his….(swallow Adam’s apple) tools down there!

My urologist and his nurses and I come up with a plan: his pleasantly calming assistant will constantly talk with me during the procedure – I don’t care what about – in an attempt to distract me from the REMOVAL. “Alright, you will feel two slight bee-stings” the doctor explains “and shortly after, the anesthesia will kick-in and you will hardly feel a thing.” He was such a blatant liar!

While the nurse continued talking and asking me a few questions, only a few moments later I felt ever-so-vaguely him pulling things down there. A sharp pain rode up from my groin, through my kidney areas, and into my chest. I let out a large groan! “Are we good so far?” the doctor asked pausing. I gritted my teeth and in my head I replied, are you seriously asking that right now? But I fronted a reply of yes. Seconds later I feel the same discomfort but more dull…and as I’m trying to pay attention to what the nurse was saying the walls began closing in on my ears and eyes. I hazily remember trying to fight it but it was futile; it just happened too quickly.

Once the Dream-Reaper had his cerebral fun in my head and departed, the doctor and nurse were hovering over my face repeating my name, placing every so often the swab of ammonium carbonate under my nose. They tell me I was out for about 45-60 seconds. The nurse covers me with 2-3 blankets because I’ve gone into minor shock. Wonderful. She remains with me for five, ten minutes until I am fully coherent to talk with the doctor. It is when he returns to the room that I am informed of the stunning details of what had happened.

“Well [ProfessorTaboo], are we feeling back to normal?” the doctor asked. I answered yes and apologized for what I knew might have happened. He assured me it was okay and began explaining our new options. “We have three choices. We can schedule the procedure for a later date at a hospital and put you completely under, or we can reschedule the procedure for here on another date, or we can try it again.” After carefully considering his three options, I realized that I could not make an informed decision without knowing more…like what my status was down there! In my brilliant moment of clarity I asked, “How far did we get?” He took pause to carefully (and in hindsight tactfully) consider his answer. With a slight smirk he said

**“Umm, I barely even nicked you. Basically, all you’ve had done is the injected anesthesia.”**

I cannot describe how utterly deflating his answer was. I thought I had inflicted some major blows to my historical blood-n-needle-issues and staggered that damn Dream-Reaper. I just took no less than TWO injections into my privates! God, is my macho-ness ever going to peer over reality….just a bit, even if only for a few seconds?

The procedure was later completed much to the ~~prodding laughter~~ excitement of the culprit, my girlfriend. But again, at whose expense…and more so WHAT expense? Am I forever scarred?

Perhaps I should find a moral to my story? Alright, here it is.

Life has strange and many ways of humbling the cocky, and just as effectively (and indiscriminately) to those men who aspire to be despite their neurological and psycho-somatic flaws to the contrary: point and case, me!

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P.S. Stay tuned for a sequel to this most humbling experience: You Must Do What with What!? The humility just keeps coming.

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Life’s Flimsy Moments

Posted on January 13, 2013 by Professor Taboo

The changing of the seasons can sometimes bring sudden unexpected weather. Take for instance a time when my slender 5’ 4” girlfriend was caught off-guard. She and I were walking one windy day out to my SUV, when suddenly things went sort of like this…

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Fortunately, she did not travel quite like a tumbleweeding chick; however, I did have to rescue my damsel-in-distress from “leaving me”…albeit unintentional. I am happy to report that my lovely Mary Poppins was unharmed despite all her screams. The moment did offer us a blustery love-lesson: being swept off your feet is not necessarily a good thing!

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No That’s Not What We Meant

Posted on December 23, 2012 by Professor Taboo

Friday, December 21st, 2012 has come and gone without any apocalyptic event, and perhaps to the chagrin of many hyper-dooms-dayers. Much of the fears and predictions are fortunately based in the misunderstanding of the Mayan calendars and how they worked within the 250 – 900 BCE civilization. Attempting to project contemporary ideas of time onto the ancient Mayan methods of time would be like attaching square wheels to your car — it is a show of ignorance.

The Mayans had three circular calendars, each with a different purpose. The first calendar was their Tzolk’in calendar, or Sacred calendar. It consisted of 260 days and was used for scheduling religious ceremonies. When the calendar was exhausted it would simply start over again.

The second circular calendar was their Haab’, or Secular calendar. This consisted of 365 days but did not account for the extra quarter-day it takes Earth to cycle around our Sun. Our miscalculated modern Western calendar corrects this by adding a leap year about every four years then removing the extra February day the following three years.

The third circular calendar and the one receiving most of the hoopla is the Long Count calendar. This calendar consisted of about 5,125.36 years and completes its major cycle every December 21st. Once exhausted, another 5,125 years will begin again. What astronomers have since learned in the last several decades is that our Sun indeed aligns with the center of the Milky Way, however, pinpointing the exact date cannot be determined in any particular year. What forms the “Milky Way center” is still a debate among scientists. They also gladly report that there is no alignment-phenomena of planets or the Sun that will pull Earth’s crust apart or shift its magnetic poles on a specific date.

Our solar system, our planet, and much of the cosmos are cyclical; things ebb and flow, collapse and morph into new creations over and over. What most scientists, astronomers, geologists, and the like do agree on is that there are any number of catastrophic possibilities that could change our lives on Earth as we know it. This is a common fact. It could happen on any given day, but to prophesy an exact date and time is as likely as you picking winning Lotto numbers.

For a good logical scientific explanation of the Mayan calendars, read the article at Live Science.

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