Damn...there it is. I didn't think it was going to happen, but it did. It scarred. This makes me sad.
It's my brand new scar on the bottom of left ass cheek. Ugh. My heart feels like it's carrying a horse by a shoestring just thinking about it. A forever reminder of my idiocracy...yet again. I wish idiocracy was like obesity. I'd be on the "Biggest Loser" and maybe I'd have a chance of getting professional help to lose the excess stupid. But no, no it's in my brain.
TRAINER: Look at yourself. You are 400lbs over stupid. You can not continue living life this way. Stupid is going to kill you one day. Do you want to die from stupid?
ME: (embarrassed and upset) No. No I don't. I know I have to change but I'm an emotional fathead. I run towards dumb assery for pleasure. I'm sorry!
TRAINER: Thousands of frat boys and hicks die every year from stupid. Do you want to become another statistic?
ME: (still embarrassed and upset) No. No I don't.
Famous last words: Hold my ethanol... Now watch this! (insert honkey laugh here)
Sigh. If only that was real life. I might have a chance. But no, I continue as I've always done, baratone chortling to myself as I venture off into jack assdumb.
And now this scar. Damn. I'd better get used to it. This ass can't stay awesome forever, and it had a pretty good run in it's youth. Now it's getting old and tired. Dimpled where it doesn't want to dimple and a new purple gash across the bottom. Maybe one day my ass will sag so much that my scar will get lost in the butt folds and I won't have to think about it anymore. That would be hot...deflated ass.
Enough self loathing.
Story time.
I don't even know where to begin to tell you how I got it. Guess we'll start with the fact that it was my girl, Kristina's wedding.
Kristina and I were BFF's throughout college. She is one of the most amazing human beings that I know. Jaw droppingly gorgeous, spunky, funny, sharp, outrageous, smart, and ALWAYS on point. If I was into chicks I'd want to marry this girl. She's pro on the outside and crazy on the inside. I don't think I've ever met a human being as on top of it as she is, without being a total anal retentive crazy person. She's the kind of girl that works in 2 offices, one in SF and the other in NYC, runs 2 HR teams, is a university professor, volunteers at the local nursing home, and still finds time to make sure her nails are manicured, her family is loved and her dog's eyelashes are perfectly groomed. Girl's an effing pro.
And college? Man college was so much fun together. We deemed our house the HOF (House of Fun). We would run around in fake wrestling outfits, doing mock gymnastic routines around the house, where the final move involved jumping off the 2nd story of our house onto some couch cushions. Some days it was roller blade like a pirate day, and other days we'd simply have snack contest days. Who could make the best treats for the truly stoned. The reigning champion was rainbow sorbet with sprite and gold fish crackers on top.
Anyhow, after college, she went off to rule the world as she does. Climbing up her corporate ladder in her very Kristina way, and I split in the opposite direction to a carnie kingdom. Amongst her professional friends, I was definitely deemed the "crazy" one.
Flash forward 7 years and my little Kristina is ready to tie the knot! Her wedding couldn't have been more perfect and immaculate. She organized the entire thing, from dresses to flower arrangements, rentals and decorations...she did it all. The biggest problem was that the columns the flowers sat on, were too tall. Big whoop. She nailed it. Her wedding was elegant and perfectly executed.
And I, I just tried to be on my best behavior. It's not often that I get released into normal society, so I just tried to play it cool and be normal. Being one of her bridesmaids and all, I wanted to do a good job and not fuck it up...for Kristina. I made sure my BCBG dress was pressed and fitted, I cooed at babies, and I even carried cue tips and tissues in my pocket to make sure I didn't look like a tragic mess if a tear should shed. I kept up the small talk with all of her professional friends and tried to seem as normal as possible to all of her relatives.
A floor buffer? My eyes widened and at that moment, my dumb gene murdered my smart gene.
ME: Guys, guys...I have an amazing idea.
THEM: What? What is it?
ME: Buff my ass!
THEM: Are you serious?
ME: Yes. Buff my ass! This is going to be hilarious!
I quickly ran over and plugged in the buffer. Now little did they know that I was a pro at getting my ass buffed. This would not have been the first nor the second occurance of getting buffed. But since my stupid gene had ruthlessly murdered my smart gene, it did not occur to me that
this...with it's super fun, wool pad, was drastically different from
huh huh...hold my ethanol...NOW WATCH THIS!
I proceeded to turn the machine on, get down on all fours, and start yelling / coaching my buddy to buff my ass. Francis, being my buddy and all, proceeded to tilt the beast up as it roared behind me, and mock as though he was about to buff my ass.
But stupid gene had now taken over the palace as king. It somehow thought that the idea was so grand, that I had to produce this event from the very beginning and make sure it happened. I had already plugged it in, turned it on, and then gave someone serious instruction on how to make this happen. A mock buff simply would not do. This is serious. We're doing it.
I then proceeded to back that ass up into the monstrous machine, laughing the whole time and BAM! Ass to buffer contact. I knew my ass was packin' some heat, but I didn't expect this. The machine prematurely bust a nut from a 2 second pump and grind and completely blew its load. Suddenly there was a bang! Smoke wafted through the air and the brillo pad shot off into the ceiling in this blaze of glory. I can't believe it actually exploded off my ass.
Still on all fours, unable to comprehend what had actually happened I couldn't help but to notice that my butt felt extremely hot, like it was on fire. As I reached around the back, I was relieved to find that I wouldn't have to call a fire truck (believe it or not I have actually lit my butt on fire once...an accident) but what I did come to find was a huge tear across the back of my BCBG dress that priced itself at $200. The machine ate it up and chewed it out and now the prospects of returning it were completely out of the picture. Not only that, but with my newly exposed butt, I didn't know how I was going to go back to that party. Damn it! And I was doing so good! I was passing for a responsible citizen. Now I'd have to go back there and make sure my back was against a wall the entire time.
Ah well, it is what it is, here we go. After a good laugh, we all entered the party and I tried to act as casual as possible. Sitting on half a raised butt cheek, making everyone question if I was mid fart the entire night. After the dessert rounds came out, I made a bathroom stop, and as I sat there on the toilet, I reached over to pat the burning sensation on my butt. Strange, I thought...why is it wet? Oh god, did it really? The machine not only ate my dress up, but it happened to buff the first layer of skin off my butt, leaving a raspberry red gash the size of Angelina's Jolie's lips on my rump.
Oh man, that's it. This has got to become public news now. Not only do I need a band aid, but I also need assistance as it's in the most hard to see / reach underside of my cheek that I simply can not access without getting into some Western birthing position. Ugh. I'm sorry Kristina. I have totally become the freak, disaster prone Bridesmaid. Every wedding has one, and it's almost always me.
Well, I dropped the bomb on Kristina who immediately looked at me in panic and confusion. "I know I'm an idiot..." Then her mom found out who immediately laughed at me, "I know I'm an idiot..." Then her gal pal from H.S. found out, "I know I'm an idiot..." ugh...how many times do I have to go through this tonight? Thankfully Francis found me in the back room hiding from all the guests and he had the smarts to whip out a pen and turn it into a face. The imagery of it was just too precious and amazingly hilarious. We decided to take some photos of butt man in the photo booth and laughed it off, each keeping a photo as our naughty little secret.
Thankfully, the next day I saw my best friend Greenz, who tended to my wound. Apparently the heat wasn't imaginary, because the dress actually melted to my bloody welt. Greenz spent a good hour scraping away all the black plastic bits sticking on the outer crust of my gash and pouring disinfectant all over it. Thank god for friends...but you know what? Screw the photo booth guy. Who fucking sends the ENTIRE wedding party a link to all the photos taken in that booth. :Shakes head: And I thought I was going to get away with it.
