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August 06, 2009


I was reading a friend's blog tonight, and I was drawn to a post that was entitled "The Grossest Story Ever."

Hey, I'm a guy who makes jokes about abortion, and would give myself an abortion before I ever apologized to Sarah Palin for saying something about her spawn, so it's understandable.

Anyway, the story takes place while my friend was in college (don't most people's gross out stories?) and involves a roommate accidentally drinking my friend's cut toe nail.

My reaction. 'That's not even remotely the grossest story I've ever heard." I then realized that I have an unfair and insurmountable advantage in this event.

a) I am a guy. Seriously, walk in the average men's room. That is an acceptable level of cleanliness to most of us. Not to be mysoginistic, but we win, here.

b) I grew up in rural Georgia. Boredom is not good for living a clean life without occasional moments you regret being a part of and can't make yourself forget no matter how much you drink or watch reality MTV.

c) I also grew up on a farm. Ever step on something kind of squishy but not know what it is, and decide to look and see what it might be. in the big city, you're probably standing on a piece of trash. On a farm, it could be pig testacles or a dead maggot-infested animal of some species.

Hey, it's okay, I look where I put my feet now.

So I'm considering these things as I'm posting a politely-disappointed comment , when I realize that being abile to gross out people really hasn't been cool since I was 12, and that it's a really stupid thing to be bragging about. But dammit, what the Hell good is that shit if I can't tell people it happened and have them not stare at me in horror when I laugh about it. And you have to laugh about stuff like that or you end up crazy... er um... crazier, perhaps.

As an added side effect, when people tell their socially-acceptable level of gross out story, I don't react because I'm still waiting for it to actually get gross. If you don't have a kid losing an arm in a butcher shop, I don't know when you're done. I'm sorry, but this is just another example of an area in which my childhood ill-prepared me for life in the outside world. I'd blame my parents, but they've heard that song so many times they don't react to it appropriately, either. Joke. They actually sob uncontrollably all the time, but I'm rambling more than usual.

Anyway, so I ended up changing my politely-disappointed comment to a "wow, that sucks" type of response. I'm making an effort here people. Meet me in the middle.