Woo.
anal repetetive
- or in other words, a poor attempt to come up with the opposite of anal retentive in order to facilitate an excuse to talk about my b.t.m again - probably a bad idea altogether, as anything even vaguely opposing retentiveness in that area might well end up with a fella wishing he had wipe-clean floors, or that he might otherwise just have to get used to a muddy-looking carpet and the smell of country air...
...one finger, one thumb, keep moving, we'll all be merry and bright...
- well yes - so I've been and gone and had me bum rustled: all's ship-shape and bristol fashion, glad to say, but nevertheless I'm gonna carry on and write another load of rump-related ribaldries, because...well, who needs an excuse?
For them who don't know what I was just on about, my last journal was a musing (and some have said amusing, too, thanks for that) about the fact that I was soon due for a certain style of internal examination generally reserved for the male of the species relative to a particular gland kept in a very well-hidden corner of the universe and usually not very openly discussed. This one continues in pretty much the same vein - although to be more accurate it's an entirely different kind of conduit we're talking about here. Anyway, gents of a nervous disposition might want to consider instead a nice sit down and a cup of tea with a sugary biscuit. Otherwise though, dive in...you might want to bring a wetsuit, though.
...so...first of all, it's not something I'd particularly recommend (though of course I do understand that some chaps actually quite enjoy that sort of thing) other than for the health factor - for that alone you other blokes out there should certainly get your derrieres digitised at some point. Sensation-wise, I suppose it was sort of squidgy-ticklish, but not in a 'good' way - (and in no way at all did it give me little soldier any urge to stand at attention, thankyouverymuch ...might've been a different thing entirely if a lady-doctor had been involved, but let's not get any further into what may or may not be any of my little peccadilloes, it's crowded in here already) - I guess kind of like eating squid or maybe oysters, only not - if you see what I mean.
- I made sure to make friends with the doctor-dude straight off - after all, you don't wanna give the guy something to be bearing a grudge about when he's about to go barging up the old alimentary canal. Glad to note that he had quite small and elegant hands, certainly a plus when you're considering having a bloke put half his fist up yer flue and go weaseling around up yer rabbit-hatch.
...spent a while just chatting with the guy (after all, you really should get to know someone a little before you start getting intimate), giving him a few of the perspectives I outlined in the last one of these - which gave him a few chuckles; like I said, best to get him in a good mood first. I was half expecting maybe a few offers of drug-induced relaxants or something, y'know, so's the guy could get a bus up there if needs be, but he seemed to be relying on the small-talk. Not necessarily the best bet as he wasn't really the most affable of fellows, I got the feeling he maybe didn't get out much - then again, some jobs can do that to a guy, and hey, just think about it - I know dentists are meant to be high on the suicide-club listings, doing nothing all day but stare into unhygienic orifices - I figure this sort of thing must be a fair few rungs further down the ladder, and what's more, them steps must be slippery too, all things considered.
Needless to say, the old sphincter wasn't terribly relaxed about any of this, in fact I'm pretty sure it was trying to eat its way through the back of the chair to get out of the doctor's office, but hey. The chimes of doom had sounded, and it was finally time to lose the troos. Now, although it's never been a particular goal of mine to stand half-naked in front of another man (and not even the 'safe' half), I can now say I've done it, for whatever that might be worth (it's not like it's something you'd go bragging about, but hey-ho): more so, I've even gone as far as bending down in front of him too, without having the privilige of serving prison-time at Her Majesty's Convenience, or otherwise having a wildly different idea of gentlemanly pursuits. Anyway, I was just glad that all I saw of the doc's preparations was the snapping-on of the trademark rubber gloves, thankful indeed to see that in no way was this procedure going to involve raincoats, welly-boots and a snorkel.
...so, face forward and think of England. And Scotland, Ireland and Wales, too, no call to be devisive - also, it keeps your mind occupied, especially some of them Welsh train-stations.
Seemed like it was quite a while the doctor was busy back there checking out my breakfast, though then again I suppose such things always do - theory of relativity and all that, a beautiful summer seems to pass in the blink of an eye, but some guy making a glove-puppet out of you, that feels like a loooong time. I was just hoping he wasn't planting incriminating evidence up there or something, though heck knows what of - or maybe he was just getting bored, giving himself a jolly or two drawing smiley-faces on me wooly-wallet or something, or joining the dots on the spots on me bum. I kind of felt maybe I should've laid on some sort of entertainment, or maybe hidden a few surprises up there - you know, like them 'easter eggs' you get on DVD's if you know where to look - I dunno, a couple of lucky treasures or some such - couple of roman coins maybe, a few bits of an old Etruscan vase...a rusty viking sword, perhaps - dunno, though, it might lead to unwarranted attention from tv-archaeologists, I'd end up with Tony Robinson and his Time Team trying to drive a JCB up me jacksie.* Failing that, I also considered the old clown/magician trick of the neverending string of coloured hankies, just picture the scene... a flurry of white doves though would probably have been a bit much - plus you can never get 'em to keep their wings shut when you need to.
- anyroad up (and I'm pretty sure I've now been up nearly all of 'em, after that), glad to say I got the all-clear - but not nearly as glad as I was to be able to put me trousers back on. Sigh of relief, and all that - though I was careful not to let any other kind of airs pass, I reckon that would just've been rude...kind of like throwing up after you've just been kissed, maybe.
...the walk back home was a little bit strange, it took me a good ten minutes to get back into my proper stride again, certainly wasn't a Saturday Night Fever-kinda strut going on in any way shape or form (or was that Staying Alive ?Now who's being retentive?), I was certain for a while that the doc must've rearranged something back there while I wasn't looking. I reckon anybody following on behind me must've thought I was chewing a toffee the wrong way round or something...
Otherwise though, I guess I felt kind of like you do when you've just got new specs and can see things crystal-clearly again, or like when you've just had your ears syringed and all the little birdies seem to be singing in enhanced dolby-digital mode...although more accurately I suppose it felt a lot more like the back of me trousers was missing and the wind was whipping up me whatnot, but who's counting?
I have to say though I was slightly 'disappointed' that I didn't get the camera treatment, I was almost looking forward to getting a giant print done (I was gonna say 'blow-up', but I think that's something else best left to a different kinda chap), maybe submit it for next year's Turner Prize competition - throw in a bit of animation and call it 'bowel movement' or some such thing, it ought to fit right in with the usual theme of things just recently. It'd also allow me to dispel any egotistical notions regarding the dispersal of the sun's illumination, and would likewise give me ammunition aplenty for the rebuttal (sorry, pun definitely intended) of anyone suggesting that I might be a bit 'up meself', for which I'd have photographic evidence that I most certainly was not. Clean as a whistle, me. (although 'foghorn' might be a more appropriate musical analogy, all things considered. This may or may not be an appropriate juncture for a rendition of the old favourite, 'beans, beans, the musical fruit - the more you eat, the more you toot').
Anyway, I'm off to find a soft cushion and do some serious thinking about girls, just in case any subliminal homoeroticism managed to creep in through that smallest of doors - not that it'd be too likely - another man's mitt up me holier-than-thou? Not my cuppa tea, ta very much - it might make for a great Mapplethorpe, though.
Meanwhile, as far as this little subject goes, I reckon I'll put a cork in it - and in all possible meanings of the term, call it the end.
* (the 'Time Team' reference may well be lost on the non-british audience around these parts, I dunno if there's an equivalent show elsewhere in the world, or if the show itself otherwise gets distributed anywhere but here, so I will briefly elucidate(hark at me wi' the fifty-quid posh words all of a sudden): basically some bloke finds a bit of Roman shoe-buckle or summat while he's out in some other bloke's field with his metal-detector; lo and behold Tony Robinson and his mates turn up with a load of diggers and rip the place up in the three-day-deadline-hunt for the remains of a whole Temple to Athena or whatever that just might be buried there...yes, I know I'm mixing my mythologies, but you get the gist. Meanwhile, a joke's never as good once you've had to nail it out flat, but there you go). ' bye for now...
...one finger, one thumb, keep moving, we'll all be merry and bright...
- well yes - so I've been and gone and had me bum rustled: all's ship-shape and bristol fashion, glad to say, but nevertheless I'm gonna carry on and write another load of rump-related ribaldries, because...well, who needs an excuse?
For them who don't know what I was just on about, my last journal was a musing (and some have said amusing, too, thanks for that) about the fact that I was soon due for a certain style of internal examination generally reserved for the male of the species relative to a particular gland kept in a very well-hidden corner of the universe and usually not very openly discussed. This one continues in pretty much the same vein - although to be more accurate it's an entirely different kind of conduit we're talking about here. Anyway, gents of a nervous disposition might want to consider instead a nice sit down and a cup of tea with a sugary biscuit. Otherwise though, dive in...you might want to bring a wetsuit, though.
...so...first of all, it's not something I'd particularly recommend (though of course I do understand that some chaps actually quite enjoy that sort of thing) other than for the health factor - for that alone you other blokes out there should certainly get your derrieres digitised at some point. Sensation-wise, I suppose it was sort of squidgy-ticklish, but not in a 'good' way - (and in no way at all did it give me little soldier any urge to stand at attention, thankyouverymuch ...might've been a different thing entirely if a lady-doctor had been involved, but let's not get any further into what may or may not be any of my little peccadilloes, it's crowded in here already) - I guess kind of like eating squid or maybe oysters, only not - if you see what I mean.
- I made sure to make friends with the doctor-dude straight off - after all, you don't wanna give the guy something to be bearing a grudge about when he's about to go barging up the old alimentary canal. Glad to note that he had quite small and elegant hands, certainly a plus when you're considering having a bloke put half his fist up yer flue and go weaseling around up yer rabbit-hatch.
...spent a while just chatting with the guy (after all, you really should get to know someone a little before you start getting intimate), giving him a few of the perspectives I outlined in the last one of these - which gave him a few chuckles; like I said, best to get him in a good mood first. I was half expecting maybe a few offers of drug-induced relaxants or something, y'know, so's the guy could get a bus up there if needs be, but he seemed to be relying on the small-talk. Not necessarily the best bet as he wasn't really the most affable of fellows, I got the feeling he maybe didn't get out much - then again, some jobs can do that to a guy, and hey, just think about it - I know dentists are meant to be high on the suicide-club listings, doing nothing all day but stare into unhygienic orifices - I figure this sort of thing must be a fair few rungs further down the ladder, and what's more, them steps must be slippery too, all things considered.
Needless to say, the old sphincter wasn't terribly relaxed about any of this, in fact I'm pretty sure it was trying to eat its way through the back of the chair to get out of the doctor's office, but hey. The chimes of doom had sounded, and it was finally time to lose the troos. Now, although it's never been a particular goal of mine to stand half-naked in front of another man (and not even the 'safe' half), I can now say I've done it, for whatever that might be worth (it's not like it's something you'd go bragging about, but hey-ho): more so, I've even gone as far as bending down in front of him too, without having the privilige of serving prison-time at Her Majesty's Convenience, or otherwise having a wildly different idea of gentlemanly pursuits. Anyway, I was just glad that all I saw of the doc's preparations was the snapping-on of the trademark rubber gloves, thankful indeed to see that in no way was this procedure going to involve raincoats, welly-boots and a snorkel.
...so, face forward and think of England. And Scotland, Ireland and Wales, too, no call to be devisive - also, it keeps your mind occupied, especially some of them Welsh train-stations.
Seemed like it was quite a while the doctor was busy back there checking out my breakfast, though then again I suppose such things always do - theory of relativity and all that, a beautiful summer seems to pass in the blink of an eye, but some guy making a glove-puppet out of you, that feels like a loooong time. I was just hoping he wasn't planting incriminating evidence up there or something, though heck knows what of - or maybe he was just getting bored, giving himself a jolly or two drawing smiley-faces on me wooly-wallet or something, or joining the dots on the spots on me bum. I kind of felt maybe I should've laid on some sort of entertainment, or maybe hidden a few surprises up there - you know, like them 'easter eggs' you get on DVD's if you know where to look - I dunno, a couple of lucky treasures or some such - couple of roman coins maybe, a few bits of an old Etruscan vase...a rusty viking sword, perhaps - dunno, though, it might lead to unwarranted attention from tv-archaeologists, I'd end up with Tony Robinson and his Time Team trying to drive a JCB up me jacksie.* Failing that, I also considered the old clown/magician trick of the neverending string of coloured hankies, just picture the scene... a flurry of white doves though would probably have been a bit much - plus you can never get 'em to keep their wings shut when you need to.
- anyroad up (and I'm pretty sure I've now been up nearly all of 'em, after that), glad to say I got the all-clear - but not nearly as glad as I was to be able to put me trousers back on. Sigh of relief, and all that - though I was careful not to let any other kind of airs pass, I reckon that would just've been rude...kind of like throwing up after you've just been kissed, maybe.
...the walk back home was a little bit strange, it took me a good ten minutes to get back into my proper stride again, certainly wasn't a Saturday Night Fever-kinda strut going on in any way shape or form (or was that Staying Alive ?Now who's being retentive?), I was certain for a while that the doc must've rearranged something back there while I wasn't looking. I reckon anybody following on behind me must've thought I was chewing a toffee the wrong way round or something...
Otherwise though, I guess I felt kind of like you do when you've just got new specs and can see things crystal-clearly again, or like when you've just had your ears syringed and all the little birdies seem to be singing in enhanced dolby-digital mode...although more accurately I suppose it felt a lot more like the back of me trousers was missing and the wind was whipping up me whatnot, but who's counting?
I have to say though I was slightly 'disappointed' that I didn't get the camera treatment, I was almost looking forward to getting a giant print done (I was gonna say 'blow-up', but I think that's something else best left to a different kinda chap), maybe submit it for next year's Turner Prize competition - throw in a bit of animation and call it 'bowel movement' or some such thing, it ought to fit right in with the usual theme of things just recently. It'd also allow me to dispel any egotistical notions regarding the dispersal of the sun's illumination, and would likewise give me ammunition aplenty for the rebuttal (sorry, pun definitely intended) of anyone suggesting that I might be a bit 'up meself', for which I'd have photographic evidence that I most certainly was not. Clean as a whistle, me. (although 'foghorn' might be a more appropriate musical analogy, all things considered. This may or may not be an appropriate juncture for a rendition of the old favourite, 'beans, beans, the musical fruit - the more you eat, the more you toot').
Anyway, I'm off to find a soft cushion and do some serious thinking about girls, just in case any subliminal homoeroticism managed to creep in through that smallest of doors - not that it'd be too likely - another man's mitt up me holier-than-thou? Not my cuppa tea, ta very much - it might make for a great Mapplethorpe, though.
Meanwhile, as far as this little subject goes, I reckon I'll put a cork in it - and in all possible meanings of the term, call it the end.
* (the 'Time Team' reference may well be lost on the non-british audience around these parts, I dunno if there's an equivalent show elsewhere in the world, or if the show itself otherwise gets distributed anywhere but here, so I will briefly elucidate(hark at me wi' the fifty-quid posh words all of a sudden): basically some bloke finds a bit of Roman shoe-buckle or summat while he's out in some other bloke's field with his metal-detector; lo and behold Tony Robinson and his mates turn up with a load of diggers and rip the place up in the three-day-deadline-hunt for the remains of a whole Temple to Athena or whatever that just might be buried there...yes, I know I'm mixing my mythologies, but you get the gist. Meanwhile, a joke's never as good once you've had to nail it out flat, but there you go). ' bye for now...
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