Not that anyone I tell about this cares, but I've taken to rock climbing over the past few months. I finally feel as though I’ve found my sport, but, as I mentioned a while back, it's a sport reserved for a very special brand of humourless dork, so I don't feel I really fit in at the local climbing club.
One example of this was a few weeks back when I remarked to a fellow climber how much one of the climbing 'volumes' on the wall looked like a giant Picasso-esque vagina, but he just stared at me as if he’d caught me licking his dog.
I also never understood why these nerds have to spend thirty minutes doing ridiculous warm-up exercises. Do you see He-Man doing some homo squat thrusts before kicking Twistoid in the ball-sack?
Anyways, my climbing skills have progressed enough for me to try stuff outside of the club, away from the nerds.
If you live in London you might have seen the Shoreditch Boulder? If you haven't, it's basically a big rock in the middle of a park that you can climb on. I turned up last weekend, got my pot belly out for the
"John, John. Listen: this part is literally teaming with negative energy."
"You're right, Valerie, but Ken picked up on some POSITIVE energy on the other side of the boulder, so we're dealing with something pret-ty major here."
If the rock could actually talk, I can only assume it would tell them that sixty-two year-old virgins are Nature’s way of saying “give up.”
So, after Ken suggested they all go back to his to listen to his collection of yawns, I got to climbing.
After ten minutes my hands looked as if they had been dipped into a bucket of cold sores. And my arms. Jesus God, my arms. I actually woke later that night in spasms of pain. I thought I was having a double heart attack. I’ve never paid any attention to “Sport Scientists” before, simply because that is what stupid people that manage to get into university become, but they might have a point about stretching before rigorous exercise.
So, this evening I will return to the local climbing club. I won’t make any fanny jokes and I will take my warm up session very seriously. I will not moan when the colony of herpes on my hands begins to bleed and I will go home and do any crying into the muffled humility of my pillow.
Our good buddy Michael, who always seems to contact us out of the blue with disgusting penis related stories, has just contacted us out of the blue with a disgusting penis related story.
I went for a cystoscopy yesterday. For Drib Drab’s benefit, this is where they stick a camera up your winkie and look in your bladder. I couldn't eat for 6 hours before the op so they took my order for food for when I came around from the anaesthetic. It was from a list of sandwiches, so of course I couldn't eat any. I explained to the assistant 'I'm vegan, I can't eat any'. She replied 'well if I read them out to you, you can tell me what you want'. I nearly shouted 'I'm vegan, not fucking illiterate!'
They gave me some operation pants to wear which would have covered more if the were made from a thinning hairnet. On entering the operating theatre the operating assistant introduced himself as Adrian, but noted that it wasn't important that I remember this. The surgeon of all things had a stammer, so could hardly get his words out, which hardly instilled c..c...c...c...confidence.
The general anaesthetic knocked me out pretty much instantly. When I awoke I was in a strange room and quite disorientated, I saw a man standing next to me and for some reason I still don't understand called out in desperate and pathetic voice 'Adrian...!' The man just said 'no'. I had to piss like crazy so this man, who wasn't Adrian, put my knob in a pot and I just laid back and pissed. When I looked down my thighs were smeared with blood. My knob kept dripping blood so I just left it in the pot of piss, not knowing that the fit nurse would be the one who'd have to remove it back on the ward. At least all that trauma makes the old fella swell up.
Only trouble is that now when I piss it feels like I'm passing burning hot shards of glass, it actually makes me cry out. My boxers are so bloody it looks like I've had a miscarriage. And they didn't even find anything so it was all for naught! Best guess now is that the kidney pain I had was a small stone that I passed. I now have a dilemma, do I drink more and dilute the piss but have to break the blood seal more often, or do I drink less, so piss less, but have it more acidic so it stings more? If I drink too little there's a chance my knob will heal too well and seal off completely, resulting in a return journey and the forceful reopening of my already battered urethra.
P.s. This is what they stuck down his cock.