Tales of Yore and Impressive Genitalia  

You want to know one of the best things about being a quitter, specifically a quitter/blogger who deleted all traces of his first and longstanding blog some time ago? Having the option to "repurpose" old material for those times I'm supposed to have a new Monday post but was without Internet all weekend waiting for the installation of new service. Thankfully I have at my disposal this reserve of 200+ posts, of which almost 1/36th of them are worthy of repurposing. My hope is that, much like various fashion trends and designer drugs, the rest of the posts will at some point regain relevancy.

Today's sampling comes from July 2006, when I posted a mortifying tale of workplace termination on the Simply Fired forum pages in hopes of it winning me a shiny new Xbox 360. Instead it was awarded second place, winning me a t-shirt, a book I never read, and the sliver of satisfaction that comes with making so many others gleefully picture my bean bag.


How My Crotch Cost Me My Summer Job

For this story we must go way back to the summer of 1998. I had just completed my first year of college and was looking forward to a few lazy months, where all I had to do was coast through the office job my advisor set up for me. From what I had gathered about the position, my days were going to be boring and routine, probably filing or something equally tedious.

Things turned out to be quite different than expected. Although I was never given an official job title, I'm pretty certain it included the words "punk bitch." Essentially I became a personal assistant for the two EVP's of one of the largest fast food chains in the Midwest. Dry cleaning, gift buying, you name it; no task was too menial. It was even required of me to keep their personal bathroom stocked with up to date reading material and a stupid little tray of imported mints.

About six weeks into the job, I started experiencing some strange, but intense itching and burning on my man bag. It turns out that through a combination of the humid Texas heat, my constant running around, and less than amicable laundry habits, I had a new kind of fuzz growing on my privates. Some call it crotch rot or crack fungus, but most know it as good old fashioned jock itch.

The campus nurse put me on a strict regimen of Ibuprofen, Tough Actin' Tinactin, and airing out my nut sack. Most nights I just sat around pantless with a fan blowing on my bits, and it was bearable. During the day, however, was a completely different story. Pain and burning and itching and more raw pain.

I had the Tinactin spray, which works great on the spot and can be easily applied in the confines of a public restroom, but it doesn't last very long. For real relief, you need the thick, sticky cream. The only place I could accomplish the yoga moves necessary to apply the cream was -- you guessed it -- the EVP's private bathroom, which I just happened to have key for.

So here I am, pants down around one leg, the other up on the sink, and I'm vigorously rubbing a handful of John Madden's crotch cream in. Before I can do anything, the door swings wide open, and there's an EVP, eyes now glued to my junk. I didn't move a muscle, yet managed to whimper "Not good." Apparently in my haste for satisfaction I had neglected to secure the privacy lock on the inside of the door. Oops.

I was immediately fired without question. There may have been some room for understanding had I not also been using one of their pricey hand towels to spot mop the excess cream, for which they actually had the nerve to deduct $20 out of my last paycheck.

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