Posts Tagged ‘gross’

The Time I Had a Rogue Hair

April 28, 2013 Leave a comment


So yeah, everybody gets these. If you haven’t found one on your own body, you simply haven’t been looking hard enough, and it’s probably at least six inches long by now. SEARCH THYSELF.

I remember discovering mine for the first time, growing out of the right side of my abdomen like it fucking belonged there. It looked like it came off Gandalf’s head (the White, not the Grey), several inches long and as glossy as a unicorn’s mane. I plucked it with horror, only to have it grow back again and again, the thin strand as white as purely driven snow. Now I monitor the spot with grim vengeance, razing the area as soon as it pokes it’s tiny silky head out of my stomach.

I remember a girl in my class in college who had a massive two-inch black hair emerging from her chin, like Satan’s own pube. I couldn’t understand how she had never noticed it before, but it became more clear as I watched her glance in the mirror in the bathroom. She always angled her head in such a way that she never saw the offending hair curling in the breeze. My God, had nobody ever told her? I didn’t know how to approach that situation since we were merely acquaintances, and she soon ceased coming to class altogether. Had she been strangled by her rogue hair in the night? Perhaps she looked on it fondly, stroking it gently before drifting off to sleep each night. I will never know.


The Time I Ate School Lunch in Japan

February 15, 2012 Leave a comment

For almost a year, I ate a Japanese school lunch Monday through Thursday while working as an English teacher in Kyoto-fu.

To understand why the food was such a shock to me, let me share what I used to eat as my school lunch in middle school and high school. I was notorious for my poor food choices, and a typical meal would consist of french fries with cheese sauce, Ho Hos, sugar cookies, sour cream and onion potato chips, and an orange soda. Sometimes I would mix all these foods together in one dish, then get people to pay me money to eat it. Basically, I’m a disgusting human being.

In Japan, school lunches for elementary and junior high school students are pretty regimented. Everyone eats the same meal at a given school, barring a food allergy or other medical condition. Students serve the food to other students, and are in charge of clean-up as well. Students typically eat in their own classrooms, and a rotating cast of teachers eats with them.

The lunches are fresh-made with no frozen components, and often incorporate seasonal ingredients. At my schools, which were locally famous for their school lunches, a meal usually included a bowl of white rice, some sort of miso soup, a protein dish, two varieties of vegetables, and a half-pint of whole milk. This was a healthy but high-calorie meal that was to be consumed in a 20-minute time frame. I often struggled to finish my lunch within the time limit, but your plate had to be cleaned to avoid the shame of your fellow teachers and students. When I eventually began to habitually leave food behind, I was removed from eating with students and ate alone with the lunch ladies instead. The other teachers were worried my “bad eating habits” would spread to the children and corrupt them.

I also had a tough time with the lunches since I don’t like fish. Yes, I know, Japan was the wrong country for me to try and live, but left to my own devices I could usually manage a fairly fish-free lifestyle. But school lunches were required, and so eyeballs were on my plate most every day. Even the rice, which was usually safe, sometimes contained tiny silvery fish that would get wedged between my teeth for the rest of the day. Large salted or baked fish featured prominently, and maneuvering around a fish skeleton with chopsticks is not an easy feat.

One of the marks of being truly skilled with chopsticks in Japan is how cleanly you leave a fish skeleton. Mine were always left caked with meat and scales as I stabbed desperately at its ribs, but other teachers would present a carcass that looked like it had been dipped in acid. Every muscle, organ, and vein had been removed and carefully ingested, leaving only glistening bones on a perfectly white plate. I’d ham up my incompetence for the kids, spinning a whole fish on my chopstick like a pinwheel. This did not amuse my fellow teachers, but it made the whole lunch torture a little more bearable for me.

Some days, lunch was awesome and I happily guzzled down my fish-free soup and veggies. Other days it was a slog, such as the time lunch included 12 whole crispy fish that smelled like death. Even most of the kids were intimidated by that one, with several attempting to hide their fish in their desks for later disposal. Another tough day was when I was expected to eat the steaming entrails of a large fish. I grabbed the intestine with my chopsticks, brought it to my mouth, then immediately though I was going to be ill. I got a pass that day from the sympathetic school nurse, and the guts remained on my plate. But fins, tails, teeth, and eyeballs were all fair game. I was told that the fins and tails in particular would be great for strengthening my fingernails. All I know is that they tasted terribly bitter.

I also ended up having an ongoing battle with the daily milk ration. I hate drinking plain milk, and usually even eat my cereal dry. To be forced to drink a carton of whole milk on a daily basis was akin to drinking a cup of lard. At first, I asked to simply not get the milk with my meal. This was a no go since everyone had to eat AND drink the same thing. So I just grabbed the carton at the end of lunch, and poured it down the sink while I was supposed to be rinsing it clean. But the kids caught me and ratted me out, and I was told not to waste the milk. I began taking the milk home with me each day, but my dorm-sized fridge was soon filled with nothing but cartons upon cartons of whole milk that I would never use. I emptied them and took the cartons out for recycling, but my neighbors saw the massive bag full of milk and ratted me out (again!) to the school. I wasn’t supposed to be taking the milk home for personal consumption, either. I eventually ended up taking the milk home, then waiting until I visited a friend in a neighboring town and throwing them out there.

But on the whole, Japanese school lunches are fantastic compared to their American counterparts. It is not uncommon for the students to grow their own vegetables on school property, then harvest them and deliver them to the lunch ladies for that day’s meal. I found myself high in the hills of my town on multiple occasions, picking delicate fiddle-head ferns or red rhubarb-like vegetables alongside my students. It was a fun change from the norm, and the next day the food was served up, sauteed and covered with an unfortunately half-inch of dried bonito fish flakes. But I ate it anyway, ignoring the fishy taste and enjoying eating a dish I myself had raised and picked.

The Time My Brother Passed Out In High School

February 1, 2012 1 comment

My brother has been mentioned here a few times before, namely when he tortured me with Shakespeare and grew a second asshole.

A talented actor and writer, my brother also has some…idiosyncrasies. One of which is his unfortunate tendency to pass out at the sight of blood. Or even when thinking about blood. Or when just thinking about bodily functions in general. For someone with such a vivid imagination, this means that even a passing mention of a horrific accident or disease could send him reeling straight towards the ground.

Despite the frequency of his fainting, I’ve never actually seen him do it in person. I’ve seen him close, pale and clammy, but never completely unconscious on the floor. But I’ve heard the stories, one of which I’d like to share with you all, dear readers.

This was back when he was in high school, perhaps sophomore or junior year. He was living life as only a young man in late 1980’s Florida could, which meant that he had one of the most glorious mullets that I’ve ever seen. Majestic wavy black locks flowed over the back of his head, so it’s safe to say that he was stylin’ back then.

Anyway, one day, he was in health class, or perhaps a biology class. Regardless, Hepatitis was the subject under discussion, and the teacher began describing some of the symptoms. Orange urine, yellow jaundiced eyes, clay-colored stools, male breast development. My brother’s mind went into overdrive, imagining himself as a bitch-titted man with yellow skin who pissed Sunkist and shat rocks. The thought of liver disease alone was enough to make him nauseous and light-headed, and he stumbled from his desk and bolted out the door. The idea was to get to the bathroom in case he vomited, but he never made it that far.

Instead he woke up in the hallway, with people stepping over him on their way to their next class. He had collapsed only steps outside the classroom door, and worst of all, he had peed himself. Student gingerly crept by in an effort to avoid the puddle of urine spreading across the linoleum.

I think it’s a testament to how cool my brother must have been back then since he SURVIVED the remainder of his high school career without being a social pariah. Had that been me, the peeing nicknames would have followed me all the way into adulthood.

The Time I Ate Lizard Eggs

October 7, 2011 2 comments

I used to try and prank my sister a lot. Though she’s almost five years older than me and a lovely person, she is also a trusting sort and quite gullible. Most of my pranks fell flat or were so unnecessarily complicated that I couldn’t pull them off, but sometimes I’d hit on something simple and plausible. The perfect trap.

We had iguanas as pets many years ago. Iguana #1, named Iris, escaped the first day we had him in the house. I had picked him up and was carrying him around when he lept from my hands and skittered down into an A/C vent in the floor. My initial reaction involved tears so copious that my parents ran out and got another iguana the next day, this one named Keirio.

Iris eventually turned up two weeks later when I heard a blood-curdling scream from my sister’s room. Iris was sitting on top of her money bank, sort of a greyish-black color and half dead. But some time back in the sunny cage eventually perked him up, and we were left with two iguanas.

Now, there used to be a candy called Certs Cool Mint Drops that looked exactly like tiny eggs. Why the people at Certs would choose that shape, I don’t know, but they gave me a plan.

One day, I put a small cluster of Mint Drops in the corner of the iguanas’ cage, nestled gently into the wood chips that served as their floor. Putting on my best “Holy shit!” face, I ran to my sister and shouted, “They’ve had eggs!”

My sister was and still is a pretty huge nature buff, and she was something of an expert on reptilian eggs. We crowded around the cage, oohing and aahing, and she began to tell me all about how lizard eggs have soft, leathery shells.

While still nodding along to her lecture, I opened the lid of the cage and reached my hand towards the eggs. My sister was horrified, and told me not to touch them, but it was too late. I gingerly picked up an egg, acting for all the world as if the miracle of life was in my hands.

Then I promptly popped it in my mouth.

I can still remember my sister’s screams. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her more disgusted at that moment, and her face distorted even more when she realized the eggs were mints.

It was a lot harder to trick her after that, but so worth it.

The Time I Was Molested by a Dog

October 3, 2011 14 comments

Dog Balls

When I was in junior high school, my friend had a great big chocolate labrador named Apollo.

Apollo was huge, with a head about the size of my torso, and his family kept him unneutered so as to breed him in the future. He seemed an altogether happy dog, and followed most commands. Well, except when he got into his sexual frenzies.

I remember the first incident I witnessed one New Year’s Eve. Too young to drink or go out, I was watching the ball drop at my friend’s house when Apollo came by, sniffed around, then started furiously humping a throw pillow. I mean, he was just decimating this pillow, scooting across the floor with each thrust.

My friend’s family giggled nervously, but mostly ignored the scene. It became apparent that this spectacle was no stranger to this home. After a few minutes, Apollo finally jizzed all over the pillow, and a good portion of the floor. I was horrified, seeing as how this was my first look at real, live sperm, but my friend’s mom just calmly got some paper towels and cleaned it up.

Months later, my friend and I were playing some sort of shrieky teenage game in the back yard. I was eating Twizzlers and running around in the sun. Innocent. Apollo was let out to join in the fun, but he had this glint in his eyes.

A glint that said, clearly, “I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”

Sure enough, he came up behind me, knocked me to the ground, and began humping like his life depended on it. My half-chewed Twizzler flew out of mouth as I screamed for help, but my friend and her family just laaaaughed and laaaaughed. Despite the fact that their dog was trying to impregnate me through my jeans, it looked like there would be no help from that corner.

I tried pushing the massive dog off of me, but he weighed more than me, and so I just had to take it. I closed my eyes and continued trying to wriggle away. In retrospect, all that movement was probably taken by Apollo as encouragement.

Saliva from his gaping maw dripped on my shirt, and soon jizz joined the grass, sweat, and spit-stained Jackson Pollock painting on my back.

I don’t remember details from the rest of the day, but I’m pretty sure it involved a long, hot shower and scrubbing with steel wool.

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