Baseball, rage and a cheating umpire



Lori Chipman

 Growing up I always wanted to be a baseball player. In fact…sorry Lori Chipman, not to minimize what you and I had in second grade – it was real…baseball was my first love. What’s great about baseball is that it’s a slow moving game which teaches you how to constantly fail. Come to think of it I don’t know what I like about baseball, but I loved the hell out of it none-the-less.

The reason I’m telling you this is that as I was driving around Springfield a few months ago I was reminded of something that happened on a baseball field 18 years ago. It was the only moment in my life I can say I completely, without a doubt, lost every measure of control. That’s not to say I don’t fly off the handle from time to time. When it comes to driving and sports I step into combative confrontation constantly, compadre. What I’m telling you is this particular time I didn’t lose my cool, I lost my flippin’ mind.

I was 15 years old and we had a baseball tournament down in Springfield. Being the extremely responsible adolescent I was, I couldn’t go down and stay with the team the first night because I had to work at the crack of dawn the second morning of the trip. My mom was gracious enough to drive me the nearly 2 hour drive down to game 1 (which I pitched, took a no-hitter into the 6^th inning and won) then turn around and drive me back home.

Saturday morning came and I rode my bike to work at 6:00 am, served two meals (breakfast and lunch) to a bunch of elderly people who had trouble remembering their own names and rode my bike home at 2:45 as quickly as possible. My mom then again loaded my skinny butt into the stretched black Ford Aerostar (which would later be the ‘limo’ I took to Sr. Prom) and headed back down to Springfield.

My team had won early in the day and I was playing with them in the nightcap. We were facing a solid team that had also won its first two games. Their pitcher was a kid they had brought in from another team just for this tournament. He was a big ole’ horse. He threw hard…there was a reason they had invited him to play. We were getting their best…actually better than their best.

Shaun Vodka

Well, the game was going along like any other game. Very little scoring, both teams playing hard and playing well. We had Shaun Vodka on the mound so you know the other team wasn’t hitting well. Vodka’s fastball and curve both looked like they were shooting straight out of his ear. He could gas it up there in the low to mid 80’s. He was usually, and this night was no exception, very difficult to hit.

Then it happened. I was at bat and Luke Parker was on second base. The pitcher wheeled around and threw a dart to second. The shortstop slapped down the tag as both players fell to the ground. “SAFE!” yelled the umpire. I continued watching. The shortstop had fallen on Luke and he wasn’t making an effort to get up. After 2 or 3 seconds of being used like a couch cushion Luke stood up. When he stood it caused the other player to fall off of him (he wasn’t hurt, he was just resting there I guess). The guy didn’t want to fall to the ground so he kind of clung on to Luke’s jersey so Luke shoved him away...not violently. The field umpire closest to the play said nothing. The umpire behind the plate yelled “you’re outta here!!!!” Huh?

Oh no you di-ent. Oh yes, he di-id! The umpire standing more than 120 feet away decided he had observed enough malice to kick Luke out of the game! All of the parents, including Luke’s dad and Dan Nelson’s dad (from this point Dave and Ron), started yelling at the umpire. It was a horrible call. It was confounding really.  But what are you going to do? This guy is making 10 bucks to stand there in 85 degree heat umpiring a bunch of testosterone filled  little pricks so you’re not exactly getting a guy with a helluva lotta astute judgment.

Luke was a good ball player, so it was going to hurt not having him in the game. Coach Hoppel called me over after the inning said “Keith, you’re at short”. I wasn’t really an infielder at that point in my ‘career’, but I was a competitor. I ended up playing a very good shortstop for the rest of the game. But that’s not what I’m trying to tell you about. What I’m trying to tell you about is Dave and Ron…first. You see, Dave and Ron are still yelling at the umpire. Sometimes loudly, sometimes with quieter condescending remarks. Sometimes with personal insults. The umpire wasn’t liking it too much. Dave was a fiery guy, but he was also a fair guy. He knew his kid had been wronged and he had some paternal instinct kicking in. Ron was an understated fireball. He could softly tear you apart through his mustache and with Dave going crazy next to him it gave him license to belittle this skinny douche of an umpire all the more. It was on.

Now a good umpire would have taken an authoritative course of action that included a verbal warning to the fans followed by an ejection with the possible warning that they risked forfeiting the game for their kids. That’s what a good umpire would have done. But a good umpire wouldn’t have overstepped his partner’s call on the field and thrown a kid out of a game for pushing a body off of himself. A good umpire wouldn’t have had to buy a child’s catcher chest protector to fit his wussy-esque frame. A good umpire wouldn’t have whispered in Coach Hoppel’s ear “if your parents don’t quiet down you’re going to lose this game.” Wait…what?

Oh…that happened. And then so did the calls. I came up to bat with a runner on base. I had doubled off the wall in my first at-bat so I knew I could hit this guy. I fouled off the first pitch. Strike one. Second pitch came in. A curve that had slipped out of the pitcher’s hand a little. It came across at eye level. I stepped out of the batter’s box and heard “Strike Two!” I turned and looked at him and said “What the hell?” Maybe that’s what I said. Maybe I said “are you serious?” Maybe I said “are you f*@%ing joking?” I’m not really sure, but I said something. The next pitch was in the dirt, but I swung…and missed…badly. I figured I had to swing at anything at that point. But one of the odd rules in baseball is you can get to first on a strikeout if the catcher misses it. So I ran, I ran like all hell had broken loose. And I made it. Safe at first. And the moment my foot hit first base the umpire yelled “Foul Ball!” I think it was then I pointed my finger at him. “I didn’t foul that and you know it!” I was yelling as I came back to the batter’s box. Not a word from this 40 year old twerp. The next pitch I swung (again, I didn’t really have a choice) and I foul tipped it. The ball deflected off the catcher and fell to the ground. I stepped out of the box to get my composure a bit and the umpire said quietly to the catcher “pick it up and tag him.” I looked back at the umpire, confused. My mind started trying to connect the dots. None of this was computing…foul ball, tag me and I’m out…wait a second…was he? Was he claiming I hadn’t fouled it and that I had just struck out? Oh Sh9t! I started running to first again, this time I was literally yelling as I ran…”Thaaaaaaaaaat’s the ooooonnnneeee ---- I Fooooooouleddddddddd youuuuuu moroooooonnnnnnn!” The catcher picked up the ball and easily threw me out at first. I turned and started to make my way back to home plate to give the umpire a piece of my mind when coach stopped me and pushed me back toward the dugout. Fine.

Well, the rest of the game went exactly the same way for all of us. Balls were called strikes. Safes were called outs. But Shaun Vodka was mowing down the other team despite the lying, cheating, dirty condom of an umpire. So the score was tied 2-2 in the bottom of the last inning. There was one out and a runner had made it to second base. He was the winning run. Shaun stood on the mound and came set. He stood there motionless and all of a sudden the spineless gimp behind the plate yells “Balk!” When I think about it now it was actually pretty brilliant. You see, for those of you who don’t know baseball, pitchers are not allowed to make flinching or deceptive motions once they come set just before they start their pitching motion. If they do it’s called a “balk” and any runners on base get to advance one base. This diarrhea-faced umpire was getting creative with his spiteful cheating. So the winning run just moved up to third base with only one out.

A few pitches later Shaun threw a pitch that landed in the dirt. The catcher missed the ball and Shaun ran home to take the throw trying to tag out the runner who was attempting to score. The play was incredibly close. When I replay it in my head I think he was out, but you obviously know by now that it didn’t really matter whether the kid was safe or not…he didn’t have to get within 10 feet of home plate and the run would have counted. I heard the umpire yell “Safe!” and the next thing I know I’m sprinting.

Now remember, I’m playing shortstop. And I’m running as fast as my 15 year old legs can carry me. At this point things get a little fuzzy. I know I was running in the general direction of the umpire. The other team was mobbing the kid who had just scored in a celebration around home plate, so when I arrived there was a sea of blue uniforms in my way. I remember looking around quickly and not seeing the douche in black anywhere. Then I saw him…he was 30 feet beyond the backstop and he was walking briskly away. I remember pushing through the other team and basically flying the remaining 20 feet to the backstop fence and hitting it at top speed…in the air. My fingers latched on and I was a few feet off the ground stuck to that chain link like Spider Man. And I started yelling. And I wasn’t yelling things you yell in front of crowds of your mom…although I did use the word “mother” a few times. I distinctly remember screaming from the top of my lungs that he was, to quote Naughty by Nature, “another way to call a cat a kitty”. I used every word I could think of. And I yelled for a good, long time. Then I said something I had never said before and have never said since:  “Come back here! I’ll kill you!” I’ll kill you? What the hell? Who am I?

But it’s not the words that have really stuck with me all these years later. What really shook me was the adrenaline coursing through me like electricity. It was a frightening high. To this day, I honestly believe that had the umpire not fled (and after I started yelling his walk turned into a dead sprint toward his car) I would have leapt on him like a Chimpanzee and beaten him until multiple people had pulled me off. I remember seeing him run away and feeling both a sense of exhilaration from the off my handle rage and deep regret that I wasn’t going to be able to bludgeon him. Honestly, the only reason I can think of that I didn’t chase after him was that I was too enraged to think about going through the dugout 15 feet to my right to get behind the fence. I was out of my mind. I don’t really know how to convey it even now. Because as I’m typing this there is still a part of me that wishes he would have stayed just to see what I was capable of. Yet, having been to that place of unbridled fury, I know I can’t let myself get there ever again.

Here is what he looked like running away:



So you’re probably thinking that I eventually let go of the fence and calmed down and started laughing about the absurdity of it all. You’re probably thinking I finally came to my senses and realized that it was just a game and it didn’t really matter. Wrong. What actually happened is that Coach Hoppel’s brother, Coach Hoppel, grabbed me from behind and yanked me down off the fence. He got in my face and said something along the lines of “this is why we lose games because we’re always blaming umpires and not ourselves.” To which I replied with what I can only imagine was the coldest, darkest, deepest stare back into his eyes that Doug Hoppel ever received. I nearly punched him in the face. And, quite frankly, he deserved it. I played my ass off in that game and I played my heart out too and none of us deserved to have that tournament cheated away from us. If Doug didn’t see it that way then he was a fool.

After things had settled down Coach Jim Hoppel took us down the right field line and gave us the post game talk. During the talk, I was still so lost in anger that I didn’t hear a single word despite being right there in the thick of the huddle. I was doing everything I could to calm down, but it was a slow process. It was like trying to digest liquid hate and it was going to take longer than 20 minutes for me to ‘let it go’. Later Jim pulled me aside at the motel and apologized for “saying that”. I quickly accepted his apology without asking what the hell he was sorry for. Later on I asked some of the other players and they filled me in. It turned out our coach was so angry about how we had been wronged out of the game that in front of me, his half-Japanese player, he said he “wanted to Jap-slap that umpire as much as anybody.” I thought it was big of Coach Hoppel to apologize, but the truth is I never would have known he said it.

There really isn’t a moral to the story, but I do feel compelled to point out that I learned something about my temper that day. I learned that there are limits you can’t let yourself surpass. I realize that other people have stories about actual fights they were in, but this story isn’t so much about the heat of the battle as it is uncontrolled hatred. I literally would have beaten that defenseless twig until someone stopped me or until my knuckles couldn’t bear it any further. So I guess the moral of the story is sometimes you just need to walk away and hope that someday you have the opportunity to piss all over their grave.

D. Thoreson: Meter Maid Number 2

Well, this past Tuesday the 7th was the day I had been looking forward to for nearly two months. Was it the day that I was going to Bandon Dunes to play world class golf for three days? No, it was the day I was scheduled to have my say against Meter Maid Douche Thoreson in court. I was scheduled to appear at 3:30 pm. The following is a timeline of events (it’s best if you click the time listed before each entry):

2:42 pm – I find a parking spot near the court house and pay $2.40 for 90 minutes of parking. That was the max for the space I parked in and by my math it meant that I would have 42 minutes to give my long monologue on the official record.

2:44 pm – After a brief conversation with a woman on the street corner about how people who blare their music in their cars loud enough for everyone else to hear never play jazz or classical but at least it’s not music I listen to so it won’t get stuck in my head, I walk into the court house. I try Door #1…oops, employee entrance. Door #2…oops, locked. Monte Hall would have been proud of me as I step through Door #3 and walk up the steps.

2:45 – I slowly take off my belt in front of the young ladies at the front entrance. Why? Because there’s a metal detector. There are three young women, all moderately attractive, working the metal detector…I don’t know why. Maybe it’s so angry hardened criminals like me can start our trials with happy thoughts. Thanks ladies…I’m off to fight The Man.

2:47 – I walk all the way around the first floor following some sign telling me I need to check in at room 106. I finally find a short line of people waiting for the two clerks assigned to parking tickets.

2:55 – After one of the clerks returns from the break he took instead of helping me I approach the window and read a sign that tells me parking tickets won’t be on the docket unless I check in before 1:30. He says the sign is true. I say I was supposed to be here at 3:30 for a parking ticket. He says “oh, you already have a trial?” I say “yes”. He says “oh, then just walk into room 112 and the judge will call your name.” That makes sense.

2:59 – I enter the court room. There are 3 other soon-to-be defendants sitting there. One is a middle-aged woman, one is a twenty-something guy with greasy hair and one is a bigger guy with a beard. I sit down in the row with the lady in it and get comfortable because I’m going to be here for a while.

3:02 – The judge has been sitting there silently and asks the court clerk or stenographer or whoever what time it is. She says it’s 3:02. He says “oh, I couldn’t see that far without my glasses.” The judge then announces that court will adjourn until 3:30. His Honor appears to be about 75 years old. He looks bored out of his mind. I imagine he is heading to his chambers to take a nap.

3:06 – I ask the lady next to me what she’s in for. She says she got a ticket for parking in a carpool space. She says the ticket said something about improper display. I say “oh, it wasn’t where it was supposed to be?” and she says “no, it was hanging from the rearview mirror like it does every day. I don’t know why I got the ticket.” I forgot for a moment, but she’s just reminded me…everybody’s innocent here in Shawshank. It’s clear this woman is a dangerous maniac and a true hazard to the city. It took a fine, fine peace officer to bring this lunatic in off the streets. Did I mention her ticketing officer was one D(ouche) Thoreson?

3:27 – The room now has just less than 20 defendants and two meter maids have entered. One is a fat woman with oversized glasses, a look on her face that you’d expect which seems to say “I don’t give a crap about anything”, and she appears very likely to have an attraction to women. The other guy looks like a good enough guy. He has a beard, is in relatively good shape and his face makes you think he smiles nearly as often as a normal person.

3:29 – Did a lady in the court order out for a feminine flush? Because in walks none other than The Douche himself.

3:30 – Judge Banks (or Blanks or something) introduces himself. Then he throws out a scare tactic. He says “anyone who wishes to change their plea to no contest or guilty will be moved right to the top of the docket and we’ll have you out of here right away. For those of you who demand a trial we’ll get to those after I go through each case. We will have a brief recess at 5:30 and return after dinner at 6:15.” I can see the fear in the faces of my fellow felons. They don’t know what they’re going to do. They have places to be. The letter said to be here at 3:30…it didn’t say prepare to stay all night! My meter is going to expire at 4:12…this could get interesting.

3:42 – Thirty minutes left on my meter. I’m starting to fret. The judge has been going through the cases one by one. ¾ of the people are changing their pleas to “no contest”. They realize they are essentially pleading guilty, but their time is worth more than the fine. It’s the system. It’s there to waste your time just enough to make you pay the fine and walk out the door. Every single time someone pleads “no contest” the judge cuts the fine exactly in half and the person walks out the door. Every time. It should be noted that every person who had tickets for little or no reason ALL were ticketed by Thoreson. One guy put his receipt on the wrong window. The carpool lady actually did nothing wrong. One guy had a bike rack that slightly covered the month of expiration on his license plate. I’m telling you, D. Thoreson is a turd cadet and he must be stopped.

3:54 – The ancient judge calls for someone who had failed to show. This actually happens quite a few times. When this happens the person is found guilty and the entire fine stands. But for this particular defendant the judge asks the meter maid a particular question. “Why was the person ticketed on a holiday…Monday, December 26^th?” The meter maid replied…and I quote…”That was only a city-recognized holiday, not a meter holiday.” Are you serious? So you’re saying that the City of Portland shuts down on some “holidays”, but still sends out maids to ticket people who dare to park on their day off? It’s sickening, just sickening.

3:58 – The judge calls for Keith Hattori. “Here, Your Honor”…I’m polite when I respect authority. Well, that’s the last thing I’m going to get to say for quite some time.

4:10 – I’m starting to panic. I’ve already called Taela and told her I’m going to be late. I told her I might get another parking ticket while stuck sitting here in parking court. It’s finally time to make a break for it. I exit the courtroom, head down the hall and out the doors. I quickly throw my credit card into the machine and buy another 90 minutes. I hop into my car and drive halfway around the block hoping that I’m far enough away from my previous spot to be in compliance with the parking ordinance that I don’t completely understand. I know that I can’t simply “feed the meter” but I’m not sure how far away I actually have to move. I run back to the courthouse. I again strip down and go through the metal detector. I jog back down the hallway and slip into the room. I’ve missed nothing. I glare at Thoreson. He sees me and quickly averts his eyes.

4:16 – The fat lesbian meter maid approaches the bench and says she wants to dismiss one of the cases. She gives no reason at all, but from the back of the room two very cute young girls stand up. One of them says thank you, the other giggles as they both leave the court.

4:18 – The judge has called all the names and it is time to start the “trials”. He looks at the stack and says “Well, officer Thoreson only has one case remaining. Mr. Hattori, please approach the table.” Crap. First? I wanted to see how this trial thing goes before diving into it. Oh well, you play the hand you’re dealt.

So D. Thoreson and I must sit next to one another at a small table and share a microphone. The judge asks us to raise our right hands and solemnly swear that we will tell the truth. Hell yeah, judge, I plan to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth…so help me God.

Thoreson gets to speak first…this ought to be good. I stare at him from two feet away, my eyes burning holes in his temple. I stare with the hatred of a thousand tortured souls. I cringe at every word as they burn scars on my heart:

“My name is Darren Thoreson. I am employed as a parking enforcement officer with the City of Portland. I was so employed on December 19^th, 2011. On that date I noticed a green Subaru parked in a metered 15 minute spot and issued a citation for $40.”

His Honor looks at me with a hollow, unfeeling gaze. “What say you, man?” (or something like that).

“Well, Your Honor, to be honest I’m kind of a rookie at this. I’ve never testified before.” That’s okay, son, just tell me what happened. (I caught myself expecting him to pat me on the hand and tell me it’s gonna be alright). “Well, our office has been delivering Meals on Wheels every Monday for many years. I have been in the rotation for about 5 years now…well, since this incident we’ve had to quit doing the route. About a year ago a stop was added to the route at the John Ross Building. We were told by the people at Loaves & Fishes that we could park there without paying for parking and we should put their big red magnet on our car door to clearly show who we are. After receiving the ticket I found out that this is the only stop of all the routes from the Multnomah Center that requires parking. Other centers are aware of a permit through the city that is necessary to obtain parking privileges, but our center was unaware until I received my ticket. You can see from the pictures that I had a Meals on Wheels magnet, a sign on my dashboard and two large coolers for holding food inside the vehicle. I was delivering to a service-disabled Vietnam veteran who has a terminal illness linked to Agent Orange. He is confined to a wheel chair. He is the last stop on the route. When I returned to my car on that particular day I found that I had received a ticket and was pretty shocked.”

Then His Honor asked Darren Thoreson “do you have anything more to add?” He had nothing more to add. Nothing about profane notes. Nothing about our conversation. Nothing about how he’s a douche for writing the ticket and how it should be dismissed. Nothing.

“Well, I’ve heard enough then. I’ll reduce the fine by half and you’ll receive a $20 refund in the mail in a few weeks.” Frick. I thought there would be some back and forth. Some rebuttal. Something!

I went there for conflict. I appeared in the name of justice. I came thirsting for vengeance and blood and hatred and battle. Instead I got twenty bucks.

Damn you Darren Thoreson. May your old age bring you unsated hunger.

Hillbilly Hand-Fishin'

Today seems like as good a day as any to start a blog. In fact today might be the best day in my life to date to start a blog dedicated to sharing the things that happen to me from time to time.

I should begin by telling you that once every three weeks I deliver for meals on wheels. I have been doing this for 4 1/2 years now. It is sometimes rewarding and sometimes depressing, but the people I meet are appreciative and it's well worth doing. Today I delivered for the second consecutive week on account of my having played golf a couple of Mondays last month, so I was fresh in the minds of the people on the route which apparently made me more personable.

My last stop of the day is always the 6th floor of a condominium building in Portland. Instead of paying for parking I place my homemade "Meals on Wheels Delivery Driver" sign on the dashboard, park in the 15 minute only spot and head into the building. The young guy who works the front desk always buzzes me in before I get to the door and it's up the the 6th floor for me. I take a left out of the elevator and head toward the smell of cigarette smoke. You see, the gentleman I'm taking food to is a Vietnam Vet who has a rare terminal disease. He spends most of his day in either his recliner or his wheel chair and he smokes like a chimney.

I ring the doorbell and he yells "come in!" as usual but the door is locked today so I try yelling back, but he isn't wearing his hearing aid (hearing loss is part of his disease) and he has the TV blaring so I may as well be a fart in the wind. After some time (I assume he's hoisting himself into his motorized chair) he answers the door and we go into our typical sarcastic banter. This is good because last week he was pretty down about the progression of his disease and I left thinking there wasn't much time left.

We talk for a while and somehow we start talking about mundane world records and he says "have I ever told you this story before?"
Me: "How the hell should I know? What story?"
Him: "Before my brother died we went on a ferry to Alaska. I had to use the john pretty bad but when I went in there some backpacking kid was in the handicapped stall...the little bastard. I tried the other stalls but they were all filthy and I was in my chair so I waited. When the kid had finished I went into the stall and what do you think I saw?"
Me: "I don't know and I'm probably better off not guessing."
Him: "It was the longest turd I had ever seen."
Me: "..."
Him: "No, I'm telling you this was the longest turd I'd ever seen. I don't know how this kid saved up for it, but he really did something special there."
Me: "uhh"
Him: "So I had to tell my brother but I knew he wouldn't believe me so I had to take a picture of it."
Me: (blink...blink)
Him: "So I take a picture of this thing and show it to my brother and we had a helluva laugh over it. The toilets on that ferry reminded us of being on the submarines in 'Nam. It's no wonder he never wanted to crap in there."
Me: "Yeah, no wonder."
Him: "So later on when my brother was living with me (his brother lived with him for 2 years and 4 months after being given 5 days to live by his oncologist) I went into the bathroom and I really had to go. After I was done I looked down and I couldn't believe what I had created. It must have been the medication they had me on because this was more impressive than the backpacker on the ferry."
Me: "We should make you a plaque."
Him: "So I wanted to show my brother but I knew he wouldn't come in from the other room to see so I went and got my camera..."
Me: "Well of course, you gotta document something that monumental."
Him: "...and my rubber gloves. And slowly and carefully I started to pull that thing out of the toilet."
Me: (jaw dropping open)
Him: "Inch by inch I rested it up higher and higher on my arm, careful not to break it. I laid it down on the paper towels I'd put on the floor..."
Me: "Oh my God."
Him: "...and I ever so gently stretched it out next to a tape measure making sure not to touch the thousand dollar camera to it."
Me: "Oh my God."
Him: "And I'm tellin' ya this thing was 18 inches long. So I go and take the camera over to my brother to show him and he won't look. So I just hold it there and finally he gives in and looks at it and he goes from 'I'm not gonna look you sick bastard' to 'holy sh*t! how did you do that?'."
Me: "That's the strangest story I've ever heard. Once my step-brother saw not a long turd, but a thick one in a toilet at Embassy Suites and called me in to look at it. It was as big around as a big burrito (holding up my hands and makeing a circle the size of a Chipotle carnitas burrito with extra cheese)."
Him: "Oh, I hadn't told you that part. Mine was thick like that too. I have the picture over there on that camera if you don't believe me."
Me: "I believe you"
Him: "It's just over there. I oughtta show you."
Me: "That's amazing."
Him: "In fact I will show you...hold on."
So he drives his chair over to the corner desk and grabs his camera and starts skipping through pictures on it. There are 683 pictures on this camera and I'm seeing shots of his brother's wake and his brother's dead dog that also died of cancer. I'm seeing Tom, the guy who owned the bar where the wake was. There's a shot of a white Christmas. Then all of a sudden there is this thing that looks like a dark-skinned man's forearm laying there next to a tape measure. It absolutely measured 13 inches long and there's no way my hand could have come close to wrapping all the way around it.
Him: "You can see I didn't form it at all or put any two pieces back together or anything. It was just one solid turd."
Me: "Yeah, that thing is smooth and uniform. No doubt about it."
Him: "So now you know when I tell you something it's the truth and I can back it up."
Me: "So...uhh...how long does it take to push something like that out? 10 seconds or...?"
Him: "Oh hell no. 10 seconds? It took at least 3 or 4 minutes. I had to keep working to push it out of there. Most turds are self lubricating and slide out easy if you've noticed. Because of the meds, this one wasn't. You can see on the end where it tapers a bit that I just couldn't relax the muscles any more and finally had to squeeze it off."
Me: "Oh my God."

Listen...not all my writing will be about dying men talking about giant pieces of crap.

Keep it Keen,
Keith