Matt Carberry (kingpin248) wrote,
Matt Carberry
kingpin248

and then there were four hundred fifty nine...

...that's the kind of a day it was at work. As is the norm these days, I was there for more than ten hours, but we really accomplished very little. It started with field day, the three-hour mass cleaning session; this afternoon, we did "monitored evolutions." This consists of performing maintenance items with senior personnel watching to ensure proper performance and procedural compliance. It was universally agreed that today's plan, which had three such evolutions in very close proximity, was a bad one. I'm already scheduled for duty tomorrow, so I'm minimally affected by tomorrow being designated a workday. We get casualty drills and a preliminary exam. I smiled just after 3 p.m. this afternoon, noting that I had dropped below 11,000 hours remaining in the Navy. Yes, I keep track of such things.

Great mailbag from The Sports Guy yesterday. As soon as I read the words "I do not approve this use of my tax dollars" in reference to the Roger Clemens hearings on Capitol Hill, I knew I'd be in for a treat. I agree totally with Bill on taking Winehouse over Spears in the "death pool draft."

My Valentine's Day was mundane, but for one notable occurrence. Since this story is somewhat lurid and involves detailed descriptions of multiple forms of bodily discharge, I'm placing it behind a cut:

Upon arriving home from work, I cooked and ate dinner. After this, I fired up RedTube and set to work rubbing one out. As I was doing this, I felt a familiar twinge in my lower abdomen. Something I ate must have dislodged some matter in the tract, and a sizable release was imminent. However, being mid-stroke, I declined to stop. As I finished, another pain was felt. This was the first time I can remember that I simultaneously experienced poop cramps and an orgasm. After cleaning up and washing my hands (thoroughly), I started doing the dishes. Just before getting everything into the dishwasher, the call of my intestine reached a volume that could no longer be ignored. I retired to the bathroom, endured more cramps, and finally sent overboard some fecal matter that looked much more like chocolate pudding than anything resembling a turd. I walked out, finished loading the dishwasher, and grabbed a beer from the fridge - a beer that was needed about eight times as badly as it had been fifteen minutes before. It should be quite obvious that by this time, there was no residual pleasure left over from the orgasm.

Did that gross you out? If so, you have only yourself to blame; you had ample warning.
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