While I've been displaced by the storm, my psoriasis has found it an opportune time to blossom on my feet once again. Well, there is one slight variation this go 'round, seeming as to the untrained eye it would appear that I have full blown leprosy rocking down there. It's pretty bad.

I finally bit the bullet and looked up a dermatologist in the area from United Healthcare's preferred physicians list (right here I'll just breeze over the fact that I forgot my company switched to Blue Cross a couple months ago and I'm not sure if they'll cover this visit) and went in for some meds.

I was prescribed Methotrexate, a drug usually given to cancer patients, also a drug know to require liver biopsies if taken for an extended period of time. I believe the dermatologist doesn't actually want me to stay on this drug, but rather just take it to get my current flare up under control, then I can just go into maintenence mode with steroid cream.

So, if you didn't follow the logical steps after the liver biopsy thing, I'll go ahead and say it now: I can't drink. Actually the doctor said I had to "severely limit my alcohol intake," but I'm just going to go ahead and nix the entire idea. I know myself well enough to realize it's a horrible idea to moderate alcohol myself. I'd end up with a liver that looked like a nerf football that's been left outside for six years, not that livers are impressive looking to begin with.

So, I'm going to check back with the doctor in three weeks, but I believe she said something about the drinking moratorium lasting around three months. Sheesh. This is going to be a rough one.

I'd like to tell you all about my dream last night. Usually I don't relay dreams to people because I know when people start recounting their "crazy dreams" to me I begin to zone out around the 4 second mark. The difference here is that I told it to Scott, Brenda, and Kim, and all involved were laughing quite heartily, so I figured it was a keeper.

I'm sitting down having a drink in a trendy bar surrounded by the young and beautiful. I slowly realize that everyone is drinking "P. Pueblo" brand tequila and having a blast. In walks a gentleman of the Latino persuasion, quite debonair in the vein of Marc Anthony, wearing a white suit with a white fedora. For some reason that only exists in dream logic, I know his name is also P. Pueblo.

All of a sudden I am sitting in a commercial for P. Pueblo brand tequila being pushed by the company's stylish spokesman, P. Pueblo himself. Everyone's having a great time and greeting him, and every time someone acknowledges him by saying something like, "Hey, P!", he strikes a pose involving a very excited finger point to the person and yells in his exaggerated Mexican accent, "a P. Pueblo for you!!!"

He jaunts through the bar throwing out this catch phrase multiple times before he gets to my general vicinity and flops down on the bar stool next to me. At this point I notice an adolescent girl standing outside the door, and she yells, "Can I come in?" P. Pueblo lifts a hand in the air and says "a P. Pueblo for the teenager!" The music stops and everyone in the bar gasps in disgust. He pauses and says, "Just kidding!" The music kicks backs in and everyone continues partying.

Being drunk can sometimes suck. Not being able to tell who's in the wrong in a tense situation is always uncomfortable.

Saturday me, Brenda, Kim, and Alison went down to One Eyed Jacks to catch a show and hang out with some friends. Kim ended up getting cornered by some guy who was talking her ear off, but she was either enjoying his banter at the time or being overly gracious because she seemed to be having fun. Unfortunately, towards the end of the night it was becoming all too apparent that she was ready for him to move on.

It got even more uncomfortable when we made plans to leave and grab a bite to eat because instead of making our intentions obvious by bidding him farewell, the group just tried to bolt down the street while he wasn't looking. We weren't half a block away when he caught back up with us, walked with us to the parking lot in an uneasy, tense silence, and eventually just jumped in Kim's car when she unlocked the doors.

Here's where the drunken confusion sets in. This guy has to be well aware that we were all giving him vibes. Was he being a dick or was he just innocently not picking up on what was going on? Or did he just not give a shit either way? Was I over-reacting to a situation I didn't understand? Did I misinterperet everyone's body langauge when we were trying to leave? John knew the guy and seemed to vouche for him in the past, so I was hesitant to just blurt out, "hey buddy, what the fuck are you doing?"

Seeing as he was first in the car we all got another moment to share glances without his knowledge, and this time everyone's intentions were obvious enough. Their eye's seemed to scream "how do we ditch this guy?" quickly formulating a plan, I told eve

MOOOO!

Ok, we have, what I can only guess to be, a woman getting rodgered by a pot roast. My god. I quote John when I say, "Man, when is the meteor just going to come down and take care of us?"

I mean, scat is one think, fucking women with parts of dead cows is just, just, well, there just hasn't been an adjetive invented yet that can encompass all that I see here. To make matters worse, well, just look:

She pissing! There's tools! My god, how long to you stroll through life just not satisfied with how the good ol' fasioned 'in-out' is faring before you let some guy plug you up with a piece of Bessie in his tool shed? And as if it isn't fucking wacked enough for you to get your rocks off, you have to piss all over his hands, have it photographed and send it out over the internet! Sheesh!

Bon apetite!

MOOOO! II

So, either she has some sort of disease that causes extreme inflamation of the vulva, or her mean boyfriend told her to wrap dental floss around her cooter to make it nice and puffy. Why would he want that? Shit if I know, I mean, look up there, there's people in this world who like to get stuffed full of steak tar-tar.

Or maybe someone threw a cow tongue on her crotch:

I doubt I'll ever find out in my lifetime.

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WHAT CHU GOT IN THERE?

Geez, if I were standing next to this woman, she'd probably have a bigger buldge in her pants than me. Not only that, but it ate her underwear! Christ, sorry, email me if you can come up with a better commentary that this, I'm just dumbfounded.

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MOOOOO! III

Oh yay, the obligitory 'old lady doing some kind of depraved sexual act on film' deal. Thought I'd throw it in due to its graphic nature, its got some nifty double ass penetration, and the fact that she's smiling like she's at fucking Glamour Shots.

But then it gets interesting: Now, it could just be a hunk of custume jewelry or some shit, but not a good issue of WTFIT? does saying that make. I'd like to believe she's married. And not to one of the guys in the picture, because no matter how old fasion and mysogonistic(sp?) it sounds, but you can't marry a girl hat you can do that to, I mean, she does have to kiss your children and everything. So she's married, big whoop, eh? Well, I know lots of porn people are married, but this is a special case, seeming as she looks about 50-60 years-old. A married woman that old is bound to have quite a bit of history: friends, kids, grandkids, shuffle board team members, and the like... how could she take part in such a flagrant display of ass-stretching?

And while we're on this pic, I would like to bring up something else: the way I see it, tag teaming a chick is not a 'gay' experience shared between the two men, you're just all sharing in the love, or at least from where I stand. Sure, your balls may swipe each other every now and again, one of the guys might accidentally touch the other guy's schlong while reaching for the girl's love taco, stuff like that. BUT! double penetration smacks of something else completely: if half of the friction that's causing you to enjoy yourself is coming from sword-fighting with someother dude's wank, well, you're gay buddy, even if you didn't like it.