If you've known me, you would likely be aware of what I fondly refer to as my Freaky Leg Muscle. It's something I like to tell people stemmed from a fleeting, through prosperous, flirtation with competitive hopscotch, that required me to engage in a strict and labourious exercise regime which was localised entirely around my left leg (the Jack-In-The-Box leg, as I like to think it to be known in the sport).
Now, while certain elements of this story may have fallen short of the truth - those being all of them - it seemed an entertaining enough explanation when placed against the slightly more honest "I don't know, it's just like that," and one I always longed to find someone gullible enough to believe. But it would seem that medical fact had other plans not shared by my age or gender.
Because now into this story we introduce a lump - a soft, inobtrustive thing protruding ever so slightly from the back of my calf, as though it was one-breasted, pre-pubescent girl burgeoning slowly into lonely, one-breasted womanhood.
This lump had been there for as long as I could remember having legs, which stretches back to when I was thirteen - prior to that, I cannot speak with any great confidence in accounting for my appendages. With the lump seemingly having no designs on plotting my death in that period of time, it hardly seemed a concern. Suddenly though, last week, I wake up to find that the lump has solidified somewhat. The plot was suddenly thickening, as was, quite possibly, some of my blood.
What could it be? Had a spider laid its babies in there, waiting for them to spew forth from my leg in a scene designed to rob an arachnophobic of all their mental faculties? Possibly. But when lumps are involved, no matter how confident you are that it's nothing to be concerned about, the back of the mind still wanders to more sinister options, leaving you to convince yourself that it's not a tumor, in the manner that only the thick, Austrian-accented voice of a kindergarten teacher/cop can do justice to.
Now, let's take this moment to assure you, the anxious reader, that the conclusion to this tale is more immasculating than it is detrimental to my health. And now that you are finished being overcome with relief, we shall continue.
It seemed the time had come to make use of my own personal Medicare card, which, as of yet, had been doing nothing more than adorning the inside of wallet in nothing more than a decorative role. So off to the doctors I travelled, to the audible sighs of my finances, and after some squarely PG-rated leg fondling, I was referred to go and get an ultrasound on my leg (a lone tear ran down my finances' cheek). Ooh, exciting! Was it a boy? Was it a girl? I didn't know, but it looked like it was time to consider turning the garage into a nursery.
So as we fast-forward 24 hours, there I sit, pants leg hiked up to reveal a pasty, hairy thigh, as the ultrasoundist - which I admit may not be her official title - spread a cold gel up and down my leg in a manner that I have no doubt some fetishists enjoy. The moment of truth was here. What were the inner workings of Mysterious Lump.
A blood clot, brought on by thrombosis. Hmm, a little bit anticlimactic, don't you think? Ah, but here is where things - one of those being my dignity - take an interesting turn.
She continued ultrasounding my leg with quite the intrigued air lingering about her, staring at the grey, indistiguishable blobs on the screen. Then, in what I think could have been done as a far more dramatic gesture, stood and announced she would be back in a minute.
Now, some advice for any budding ultrasoundists out there: If you've already deduced already that what you've seen, regardless of how odd it may be, is nothing to madly panic over, do not do what this woman did. Because, you see, she returned with a radiologist - a fact I deduced from him saying "I'm the clinic's radiologist," and me extrapolating the information from that. So, as you may well imagine, when you're currently having a lump in your leg scanned, the introduction of a radiologist into this proceedings hardly does wonders for stress levels.
Now, while I do suspect that doctors get some kind of sick amusement out of these scenarios - which, yes, I would too if I were in their position - they at least didn't keep me wondering for too long. But how could you, when you had the chance to tell a 24-year-old male that it would seem that he has varicose veins.
That's funny, I don't remember turning into a 65-year-old woman.
I didn't watch too much Golden Girls as a child, so I'm not entirely sure how this happened. They say congenital, which basically means thanks a lot, family. But I can honestly say that I did not expect the cause of my Freaky Leg to be that it longs for bingo halls and supportive hosiery.
So where too now for me and Great Aunt Freaky Leg Muscle? Who knows. A return journey to the doctors tomorrow will enlighten me as to whether it's necessary for anything to be done about it. They don't really think too much would be necessary, being that it appears I've had a leg full of menopause for a long time with no adverse affects.
Personally, I'm good with that, because the extreme option to deal with it is that they strip the veins. As charming as that sounds, I only take my strip with a 'per' on the end of it, tossed a pair of tassles and centred around a pole, firetruck or paeleontology lecture.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
There Are Things To Be Learned From Naked, Golden Men
For whatever reason - be it laziness towards channel-changing, an act of self-loathing, or the film geek side of me taking control - I've been sitting here for a while, half-heartedly watching the Oscars. While I can't look at the screen for prolonged periods without being overwhelmed by Hollywood's desperate need to herd everyone together for mutual ass-slapping (albeit possibly a little too over-enthusiastic and going a little too deep with the fingers), yet, by the same design, I also cannot entirely look away.
But that's not to say it hasn't been an educational experience. Oh no, trust me, I feel much more enlightened by random thoughts and trivia running through my head. And, because I have nothing better to do but bore you with the inanity of what goes on in my brain, I thought I'd impart some of them upon you.
- John Travolta's head looks like a Chia Pet.
- Jack Nicholson's head is beginning to look like the same Chia Pet, 25 years later, after it contracted Lukemia.
- While we all think Camera Diaz is an irritating, ditzy blonde, there will come a time where she will show us all by opening that mouth of hers wide enough to swallow the Earth, with all of us on it.
- I don't know where Nicole Kidman found 56 kajillion diamonds, but she wrapped them around her neck in what I see as an obvious ploy to draw attention to the ever increasing size of her breasts (High-five pregnancy!). Well played, I say. Especially when her face is beginning to look more and more like this:
Only with less range in facial expression.
- It appears that if you're really, really old - no matter what job you have ever performed on a movie - you will eventually be awarded an honourary Oscar simply for managing to stave off death for another year. When all the other old guys are dead, it will be the decrepid Best Boy Grip's time to shine. And I, for one, will applaud his efforts, whatever the hell they were.
- When it comes down to the crunch - despite being made of gold and incredibly well-known - when Oscar gets the ladies home, there's no way they are able to look past his distinct lack of a penis. And that giant sword he's holding in front of himself? An embarrasing act of over-compensation.
- You know what, for an old broad, I'd be almost willing to sleep with Helen Mirren, if she was willing to lower her standards. If she inserted the word 'cajones' into every sentence, I'd be willing to cut out that 'almost'.
- Viggo Mortensen has a beard that makes him look like either a pirate or a rabbi. Can he be both? A yarmulke would work as a pirate hat, wouldn't it? I certainly hope so. Not to mention a Jewish pirate would be far more sensible with any treasure that came into his possession through whatever dastardly means.
- Martin Scorcese's eyebrows are seperate entities to the rest of his body. I believe that they are where all his directing talent is contained, and without them he is nothing more than a hollow shell that must feed on human hearts to live. In other words, an awesome party animal.
And I'm out.
But that's not to say it hasn't been an educational experience. Oh no, trust me, I feel much more enlightened by random thoughts and trivia running through my head. And, because I have nothing better to do but bore you with the inanity of what goes on in my brain, I thought I'd impart some of them upon you.
- John Travolta's head looks like a Chia Pet.
- Jack Nicholson's head is beginning to look like the same Chia Pet, 25 years later, after it contracted Lukemia.
- While we all think Camera Diaz is an irritating, ditzy blonde, there will come a time where she will show us all by opening that mouth of hers wide enough to swallow the Earth, with all of us on it.
- I don't know where Nicole Kidman found 56 kajillion diamonds, but she wrapped them around her neck in what I see as an obvious ploy to draw attention to the ever increasing size of her breasts (High-five pregnancy!). Well played, I say. Especially when her face is beginning to look more and more like this:
Only with less range in facial expression.
- It appears that if you're really, really old - no matter what job you have ever performed on a movie - you will eventually be awarded an honourary Oscar simply for managing to stave off death for another year. When all the other old guys are dead, it will be the decrepid Best Boy Grip's time to shine. And I, for one, will applaud his efforts, whatever the hell they were.
- When it comes down to the crunch - despite being made of gold and incredibly well-known - when Oscar gets the ladies home, there's no way they are able to look past his distinct lack of a penis. And that giant sword he's holding in front of himself? An embarrasing act of over-compensation.
- You know what, for an old broad, I'd be almost willing to sleep with Helen Mirren, if she was willing to lower her standards. If she inserted the word 'cajones' into every sentence, I'd be willing to cut out that 'almost'.
- Viggo Mortensen has a beard that makes him look like either a pirate or a rabbi. Can he be both? A yarmulke would work as a pirate hat, wouldn't it? I certainly hope so. Not to mention a Jewish pirate would be far more sensible with any treasure that came into his possession through whatever dastardly means.
- Martin Scorcese's eyebrows are seperate entities to the rest of his body. I believe that they are where all his directing talent is contained, and without them he is nothing more than a hollow shell that must feed on human hearts to live. In other words, an awesome party animal.
And I'm out.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Advertistosterone
We all know that Advertising is something that has taken over our everyday lives. After a lot of tears and hugging it out, we've accepted this. From the moment we wake up in the morning, advertising - much like Steve's crotch - is thrust in our faces, regardless of - again, much like Steve's crotch - we want it to be or not. It's unavoidable and is now tolerated with mild indifference.
I've also come to terms with the fact that, no matter what, some ads just plain won't make sense. For instance, as a male, I'm genetically programmed to never be able to understand tampon ads. It will always be as if a Sphinx shit out a Rubics cube and fashioned it into advertising form. Even if an ad was just flashing text on a screen saying "Buy Tampons! You Need Them For Your Period!!" I would still have no idea what it was getting at, at be left staring dumbfounded at the screen, like I was trying to translate hieroglyphics after 27 shots of tequila.
But there is one series of ads out there at the moment that, no matter how long I sit and stare at on my way to work - much to the frustration of those in traffic behind me - I cannot figure out any semblance of logical reasoning for how it came to be.
Seriously, at what point did Solo decide it was an especially manly drink?
If you've seen the ads, you should have an idea of what I'm talking about, with billboards implying we should use the testosterone-fuelled power of Solo to "Wash down some feelings" (Because feelings are some kind of infliction that only those sissy girly-boys have, when they're not to busy tucking their penises between their legs and pretending they have a vagina). Why, of all drinks, should we turn to Solo for this? Well, you fool, because it is "The Drink of Man Kind". Obviously.
Now, not even getting into the fact that it's basically saying that women, with their feeble fallopian tubes, cannot handle the raw manly power of what their advertising department apparently believes to be concentrated cock in a can, this is still a premise that borders on retardation. Never in my life have I considered citrus in any of its forms, or any flavours derived from it, particularly masculine. Sure, put a couple of lemons together and they look like a pair of oversized, yellow testicles, but that's the only concession I'm willing to make.
I'm not incinuating that it's necessarily effeminate either, I'm just saying that drinking lemon-flavoured soft drink has never resulted in me feeling like I've been slapped in the face with a giant dick.
Imagine you're sitting in a room with John Wayne, Clint Eastwood and Bruce Willis. You're sitting there eating steak, ogling breasts and punching each other in the face, just for shits and giggles. What do you suggest as the most refreshing way to wash down such an exercise in masculinity? "Here, guys, have a Solo. If you think you can handle it."...Fuck that. While, I admit, that sentence would required an incredible amount of balls to say without a hint of irony, it would still leave only one question, over which happens quicker - Your penis abandons your body and makes a break for the window, or the three of them force feed you your own ass cheeks?
So, sorry, Solo, but we all know you're overcompensating for something. Your own name deceives you, letting us all in on the fact that, at the end of the day, you're left alone, crying lemony, gender-neutral tears. So stop acting like such a dick, we're onto you.
Next time - have any of you actually seen Dr Pepper's medical licence?
I've also come to terms with the fact that, no matter what, some ads just plain won't make sense. For instance, as a male, I'm genetically programmed to never be able to understand tampon ads. It will always be as if a Sphinx shit out a Rubics cube and fashioned it into advertising form. Even if an ad was just flashing text on a screen saying "Buy Tampons! You Need Them For Your Period!!" I would still have no idea what it was getting at, at be left staring dumbfounded at the screen, like I was trying to translate hieroglyphics after 27 shots of tequila.
But there is one series of ads out there at the moment that, no matter how long I sit and stare at on my way to work - much to the frustration of those in traffic behind me - I cannot figure out any semblance of logical reasoning for how it came to be.
Seriously, at what point did Solo decide it was an especially manly drink?
If you've seen the ads, you should have an idea of what I'm talking about, with billboards implying we should use the testosterone-fuelled power of Solo to "Wash down some feelings" (Because feelings are some kind of infliction that only those sissy girly-boys have, when they're not to busy tucking their penises between their legs and pretending they have a vagina). Why, of all drinks, should we turn to Solo for this? Well, you fool, because it is "The Drink of Man Kind". Obviously.
Now, not even getting into the fact that it's basically saying that women, with their feeble fallopian tubes, cannot handle the raw manly power of what their advertising department apparently believes to be concentrated cock in a can, this is still a premise that borders on retardation. Never in my life have I considered citrus in any of its forms, or any flavours derived from it, particularly masculine. Sure, put a couple of lemons together and they look like a pair of oversized, yellow testicles, but that's the only concession I'm willing to make.
I'm not incinuating that it's necessarily effeminate either, I'm just saying that drinking lemon-flavoured soft drink has never resulted in me feeling like I've been slapped in the face with a giant dick.
Imagine you're sitting in a room with John Wayne, Clint Eastwood and Bruce Willis. You're sitting there eating steak, ogling breasts and punching each other in the face, just for shits and giggles. What do you suggest as the most refreshing way to wash down such an exercise in masculinity? "Here, guys, have a Solo. If you think you can handle it."...Fuck that. While, I admit, that sentence would required an incredible amount of balls to say without a hint of irony, it would still leave only one question, over which happens quicker - Your penis abandons your body and makes a break for the window, or the three of them force feed you your own ass cheeks?
So, sorry, Solo, but we all know you're overcompensating for something. Your own name deceives you, letting us all in on the fact that, at the end of the day, you're left alone, crying lemony, gender-neutral tears. So stop acting like such a dick, we're onto you.
Next time - have any of you actually seen Dr Pepper's medical licence?
Saturday, February 02, 2008
This Unsporting Life
I am not a sports fan. Nor am I a sportsman. In fact, if the word 'sport' is being used to describe something in any way, you can rest assured knowing that I'm not the one being spoken about. I will never be hunted for sport, not because of an innate objection towards being tracked down and killed, but moreso because I fear that it would be an elaborate ruse to sucker me into a game of lacrosse. Upon being called a 'good sport', I punch people in the face as a reflex action because I am unsure as to what they are saying about me. Am I getting my point across here?
It wasn't always the way. Like all young boys, I had my love of sports. It's just that mine was just a brief flirtation, rather than something that turned into a lifelong pursuit. Maybe it was my spectacular failures in a number of sports - AFL, basketball (two sports not generally designed for abnormally small boys to excel in), tennis, Karate, to name a few - that contributed towards the downfall of sporting enthusiasm in my life, or maybe I fell into a giant vat of ovaries, who knows? All I do know is that my level of enthusiasm for sports began to descend around about the same time as my testicles did.
Nowadays, me and sports have an amicable relationship. We exchange passing pleasantries in the hallways, but extended exposure leaves us awkwardly wondering how to deal with the other. To me, sports is that aquaintance you only have through another friend. They're all well and good until you come across them without the mutual friend as a buffer. Then you've got about 3 minutes of conversation before you're looking around the room, wondering just how many floors you'd have to fall if you ran and jumped out of the window.
Luckily, having a job that centres around the news has afforded me a passable, if not mostly superficial, degree of sporting knowledge. I'm constantly armed with a survival kit should I ever find myself caught in the stereotypical blokey conversation - the kind where an inability to talk about (insert popular sport and team) could risk soon spiralling into accusations of having The Gay. Of course, if the conversation moves onto cars, fuck it, I'm painting a rainbow on my chest and slapping on a pair of assless chaps. I'm not willing to suffer through that shit.
But what does this have to do with anything, apart from casting lingering doubts on my already highly debatable level of masculinity? Well, good sirs and sirettes, this has all been a labourious exercise in irony, because I am going to the cricket tomorrow.
Yes, that's right, the kind with the bat and balls, the dry pitch, the keys in the cracks, getting caught behind....Holy shit, reading back on that, cricket is the filthiest fucking sport ever conceived. But where was I? Oh, yes, my delightful hypocrisy. You see, despite my sporting ambivalence, I actually enjoy going to sporting events themselves, as long as I know what's going on and the sport is mildly entertaining. What I mean by that is that you will never catch me at a game of Golf. You can take that 3-Wood to my genitals with great fervor before I do that.
Attending a match of something - cricket the obvious example in this instance - for me, is purely a social escapade. The combination of hanging out with mates, the atmosphere of a large crowd and bucketloads of booze all add up to create an altogether enjoyable day out. Sports partially exist as a means to provide the populace something that they can collectively gather around with friends and get rowdy over, regardless of how much they really like what's in front of them. Honestly, do you really think, centuries ago, that people went to public executions because they were big fans of the death? Fuck no. They were just there to get drunk and yell a lot. They can't be held responsible if their options were slim. Same went for witch burnings. You can't tell me that, with a few drinks in you, you wouldn't get caught up in the whole tide of screaming "BURN HER!!!"
Having likened sporting events to people gathered around to watch someone be mercilessly slain, I feel there's really nowhere I can go from here. Now there's nothing to do but wait til tomorrow. You'll see me at the slaughter, folks!
It wasn't always the way. Like all young boys, I had my love of sports. It's just that mine was just a brief flirtation, rather than something that turned into a lifelong pursuit. Maybe it was my spectacular failures in a number of sports - AFL, basketball (two sports not generally designed for abnormally small boys to excel in), tennis, Karate, to name a few - that contributed towards the downfall of sporting enthusiasm in my life, or maybe I fell into a giant vat of ovaries, who knows? All I do know is that my level of enthusiasm for sports began to descend around about the same time as my testicles did.
Nowadays, me and sports have an amicable relationship. We exchange passing pleasantries in the hallways, but extended exposure leaves us awkwardly wondering how to deal with the other. To me, sports is that aquaintance you only have through another friend. They're all well and good until you come across them without the mutual friend as a buffer. Then you've got about 3 minutes of conversation before you're looking around the room, wondering just how many floors you'd have to fall if you ran and jumped out of the window.
Luckily, having a job that centres around the news has afforded me a passable, if not mostly superficial, degree of sporting knowledge. I'm constantly armed with a survival kit should I ever find myself caught in the stereotypical blokey conversation - the kind where an inability to talk about (insert popular sport and team) could risk soon spiralling into accusations of having The Gay. Of course, if the conversation moves onto cars, fuck it, I'm painting a rainbow on my chest and slapping on a pair of assless chaps. I'm not willing to suffer through that shit.
But what does this have to do with anything, apart from casting lingering doubts on my already highly debatable level of masculinity? Well, good sirs and sirettes, this has all been a labourious exercise in irony, because I am going to the cricket tomorrow.
Yes, that's right, the kind with the bat and balls, the dry pitch, the keys in the cracks, getting caught behind....Holy shit, reading back on that, cricket is the filthiest fucking sport ever conceived. But where was I? Oh, yes, my delightful hypocrisy. You see, despite my sporting ambivalence, I actually enjoy going to sporting events themselves, as long as I know what's going on and the sport is mildly entertaining. What I mean by that is that you will never catch me at a game of Golf. You can take that 3-Wood to my genitals with great fervor before I do that.
Attending a match of something - cricket the obvious example in this instance - for me, is purely a social escapade. The combination of hanging out with mates, the atmosphere of a large crowd and bucketloads of booze all add up to create an altogether enjoyable day out. Sports partially exist as a means to provide the populace something that they can collectively gather around with friends and get rowdy over, regardless of how much they really like what's in front of them. Honestly, do you really think, centuries ago, that people went to public executions because they were big fans of the death? Fuck no. They were just there to get drunk and yell a lot. They can't be held responsible if their options were slim. Same went for witch burnings. You can't tell me that, with a few drinks in you, you wouldn't get caught up in the whole tide of screaming "BURN HER!!!"
Having likened sporting events to people gathered around to watch someone be mercilessly slain, I feel there's really nowhere I can go from here. Now there's nothing to do but wait til tomorrow. You'll see me at the slaughter, folks!
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