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August 02, 2010

Description? Why do I need to write a description? I hate this new format. Read the damn blog if you want to.

I’ve just discovered I have another phobia. Which is really reassuring to me since for the longest time I have only been aware of having one phobia. And since I have always considered myself a rather neurotic person, it never really made sense to have only one fear, because how can you call yourself neurotic with only one fear? You’re just a wannabe! Pretender!

The one fear I’ve always had, and always will have is fear of public speaking (or as it is technically known, “glossophobia.”) Which is really not a very good word for it, since “glosso” is Greek for tongue, and I’m certainly not afraid of tongues. Especially if the tongue is of the female persuasion, and is capable of tying a cherry stem into a knot. Not that I’ve ever come into contact with a tongue like that; although a previous girlfriend happened to have a very talented one. And it just so happened that she was the first and last one who would use it. Oh well, at least I got to enjoy it while it lasted. Unfortunately that tongue was also capable of uttering some of the craziest shit you will ever hear, so it wasn’t without its downside.

Anywho…the new phobia I’ve discovered (and it just punched through my consciousness this weekend) is coprastasophobia. Translated: fear of constipation. On one of the sites that turned up when I googled it, it mentioned that it was fairly unusual, but not uncommon. C’mon, how can it be both?

You may or may not recall a blog I previously wrote some time ago along similar lines. But that blog was just about one occurrence, and I didn’t realize at the time that it constituted a bigger problem. I’m not sure as to the origin of this issue, but it might have something to do with my childhood (no, really?!) I was one fucked up little bugger. One of my hang-ups was going to the bathroom. I didn’t want to do it. Whenever I got the urge, I would hold it in. I don’t know why, maybe I thought it was dirty (yeah that was probably it.) But I would put it off for days. The pain from keeping it in would get so bad, I would double over from it, but still I wouldn’t go.

Not to gross you out too much, or let you in one of the secret little rooms in my head, but what usually happened would be my mom putting her foot down, and making me go. And the only way it was going to happen at this point (since everything was packed down there like cement by then) would be an enema. Okay, seeing that word, I’m already thinking twice about revealing this to you. This wasn’t a very proud period of my existence. But, then I ask myself, “What the hell?” It’s not like I have to work with you guys, right? Besides, that was over 40 years ago.

So, I would have warm, soapy water shot up my rectum, wait a few minutes for the “effect” to take place, and then run to the toilet, and let it fly.

I eventually got over my little retentive issue, but my mom never did. Whenever I would get sick, or complain of any ill, her first question would be, “Did you do your “job” today?” She always referred to it as “job.” What? Was someone going to pay me for taking a dump? That would be nice, because now it’s one of my favorite pastimes.

Name? Bubba

Occupation? Crapper.

So, am I afraid of losing my job? Is that it? I don’t know. I guess not that much has really changed. I’m still one fucked up sumbitch.  But I’ll bet I’m not the only one.