This Picture Is Worth An “Oh My!”

 

So. Did you read about the United Airlines pilot who got himself arrested down to Brazil for mooning airport security. True story.

When Michael Slynn, 49, was asked to remove his belt and shoes at Sao Paulo airport, with a laugh and a smile, he dropped his drawers to his ankles and gave security a peeky-poo.

He was briefly detained, but released after promising to visit the judge when he returns to Brazil. Like United Airlines is going to schedule Mikey back to Brazil anytime soon.

Besides, they asked him to remove his belt, right? They didn’t say, “Sir, will you please unbuckle your belt at its clasp and pull it out of your pants’ belt loops, and be sure that you keep your pants fully in their upright, and locked, position?”

Nope. I’ve been to Brazil and I know their drill. It goes like this, “Por favor, Senor, por favor. Remover tu cinto, Senor………… I said take off belt, Sir.”

Then it’s, “Senor, Senor!- only the belt, por favor……….. Is that an iguana on your ass Senor?”

I was required to visit the Judge before I left Brazil.

That was when I was married to Ingrid, my waxologist and owner of Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium. She got me out of trouble with the Judge when she explained how she was able to create such sharp images when plucking and dying my ass hair in the shape of a lizard. She’s a true hot wax artist, my Ingrid. Haven’t been back to Brazil, but I do want to return someday.

I’ve had to cancel plans for my Labor Day butt show due to the state of ill repair back there. Dr. Ashworth advised that my bottom needed rest and relaxation, not attention. Streaker Jones and I were planning to go down to Houston and provide some entertainment to an Astros game. Not sure what we’ll do for the holiday now.

Another unanticipated side effect of my butt problems is the deal I worked with Dana, my Arbonne Cosmetics buddy. She gave me this big thing of RE9 Post-Shave Balm to try. She handed over the large bottle to try because she knows I will write about it here. I keep trying to tell her that I don’t know if I’m a good source of access to her potential market, but she is OK with the risk.

I also told her that I might not like the product, and that I definitely had access to the market to make problems for her if I gave a bad review. Again, she felt the risk level was acceptable.

Actually, she says to me, she said, “Look Mooner. You’ll like it. Just please don’t use curse words to describe your experience. I’ll want to quote you as a third-party source.”

I think she really wants me to curse, so I’m not going to. But here’s the deal. I haven’t been shaving my face every day for several years, plus, with this butt problem I have not been shaving and plucking my ass either.

But I do have this to say. First, I have used this shave balm product each time I have shaved my face since I got it, and that is maybe a good dozen shaves. This shave balm has a good feel and non-greasy texture, a scent that is amazingly pleasant, and my skin was left soft and chafe free. The scent is this mild, citrus-tinted spice island rum, with a hint of menthol.

I like it and will buy some as soon as I use up the free bottle.

Second, I want to talk about my newly-discovered secondary use for this product. My week-plus of living with a Kotex stuffed up the crack of my ass has left me with chaffed and sore “brown skin”. Brown skin is that special skin that covers your entire taint region.

Brown skin is different than the rest of our skin. It’s soft as a chamois and just as tough. But brown skin needs to be constantly treated to an oil bath by your anal gland jobbies. My anal gland jobbies are out of order, so my feminine products are chaffing me.

Careful to avoid application to the scalpel wounds, since Monday I have had SAC Ellen apply a thin coating of Arbonne shave balm to my brown skin after my sitz bath. SAC Ellen is very cute in her hospital scrubs, rubber gloves and gas mask.

I think I might be a genius with this one.

The results are remarkable- no more chafe, Dr. Ashburn thinks I’m taking excellent care back there, and the previously-mentioned balm scent blends perfectly with my developing natural musk. I believe Arbonne needs a new label to address this important application.

Why isn’t a woman buddy called your buddie?

Anyway, SAC Ellen applies my shave balm because I can’t see what’s going on back there. In fact when she came to install my after-lunch application this afternoon, I asked the SACster to take a photograph of my surgical site so I could see what I’ve been dealing with.

“Bad idea, Mooner. Really bad idea.”

“Oh come on sweetie, I want to see what it looks like.” This I said forcefully.

“You sound like a little boy whining for ice cream,” her reply. “No. It’s a really bad idea.”

“Oh, please,” I started. “It’s just a little cut for shitsakes, and I wanna see it.”

“Mooner, you don’t have the stomach for this. Trust me. And I don’t have the time to babysit you today.”

“Fine, I’ll just do it myself.”

SAC Ellen gave me that look that always makes me feel stupid, and shamed. What in my past makes me respond to this look in that way? I think the origins are from the look Leticia Browningwell gave me back to Junior High School. She was our teacher and the wife of Pastor Browningwell from over to Gram and Mother’s Baptist church.

Dr. Sam I. Am is on this big kick about shame right now. I think she’s trying to tell me something in therapy without telling me the something. She says that’s the best way to teach in psycho therapy. I think that’s just how she takes a twenty-dollar lesson and turns it into a three-thousand-dollars worth of therapy sessions.

“All right, but be sure to look at the pictures while lying on your bed,” SAC Ellen advised. “Your brain can’t handle another drop on your head.”

We kissed goodbye, and I got my camera. I propped my ass up on a pillow and spent like the next hour attempting to get a photo of my sore spot where I could see the incision. I then tried every position I could, including standing on my head. Finally, while I sat like a doggy, I wedged my camera behind my scrotum and snapped off the winning photo.

I rolled over onto my back and shuffled through the shots to find the new one. I missed what I was looking for during my first fifteen seconds of viewing the money shot. Then I got the zoom focused correctly, and said to myself, I said, “Oh my! This was a really bad idea.”

I woke up a while later, still dizzy and nauseous. I couldn’t keep anything down but cold Carta Blanca beer for several hours. But I did eat some chicken broth just before I started writing this and it remains parked in my stomach.

And I’m so tired I could sleep standing up. But I’m afraid to go to sleep, afraid I’ll see that picture if I close my eyes.

I don’t know why the sight of that cut got to me like that; I’m usually pretty good with that kind of thing. Squirt has been laying in bed with me, singing this Swahili lullaby. She is so fucking cute.

I talked Dr. Sam I. Am into coming over to the ranch to pick up the Squirtster and give us a little therapy. We’re going to do a group session with Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry. We’re going to work on their self confidence issues and how to overcome their fear of Gram. Maybe we’ll have time for a few of my problems.

Rush and little Ricky have got to come out of the closet. I need my closet back.

Anyway, it’s Friday, but not a date night because SAC Ellen has a meeting, so I’m going to grill up something for diner. If I can figure how to do it, I’ll post the picture of my surgery site here to the webber.

Dr. Sam I. Am keeps telling me me to be more open- to give more of myself. This photo might shut her up.

Manana, ya’ll.

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