Come and listen to my story 'bout a man named Reuben

The theme of this week for me (besides Poverty-Stricken Depression and I'm So Fucking Old) has been: Am I Crazy or Are You? Because sometimes it's just genuinely difficult to tell the difference and if you're not careful, you can end up looking like a real asshole in the end. Like the time Becca and I thought her fiance was crazy for wiping his ass sitting down, until she wrote a blog post about it and we found out that we're the weirdos for doing it standing up and everyone, including our parents who potty-trained us, were shocked and horrified by our actions. Like, had we known that we were the odd men out, we probably wouldn't have made such a big stink about it. (Bathroom pun, intended!)

I went out to dinner with Becky Tuesday night at Big Hunt (Scott the Long-Bearded bartender was working but not Waiter Crush. Sigh. 1 out of 2 aint bad.) and I had AICOAY? moment after AICOAY? moment after AICOAY? moment. Specifically about the following statements:

1.) Renee Zellweger was married to Kenny Chesney.
2.) She filed for divorce citing fraud after four months of marriage.
3.) Bees sleep at night.
4.) Ken Paves is not Mexican.

Ok, I'm terribly sorry, but I didn't think any of the above were true and kind of thought Becky was crazy for inferring otherwise. Which in turn made Becky think I was crazy. Upon further Google inspection, it turns out that Becky was correct and I am indeed the crazy one. To which I say, wha?? Each of those facts blows my mind slightly more than the last. HOW DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING TO ME?! I'm a reasonably intelligent and hip to the know young lady! This is like the narwhal debacle all over again.

This AICOAY? nonsense is really messing with my ability to properly mock Dr. Reuben and his bat-shit crazy "medical" advice. I cracked open Everything You Wanted to Know... last night to pick out some adequately nonsensical advice to make fun of and every time I found a passage I liked, I stopped and started second guessing myself about which one of us is the crazy one. Because maybe shoving a coat hanger up your pee hole is normal and I've just never lived? Maybe? I don't know. And I'm not willing to try (plus I only have plastic hangers...), I'm just saying that everything I thought was right is wrong, black is white and I don't know which way is up anymore. It's like that Twilight Zone episode with the planet where the pig people are attractive and the chick who played Ellie May Clampett is the busted one. AND I'M THE ELLIE MAY CLAMPETT! Get me out of here!

So here are some Q&As that I thought were unreasonable, but I could be wrong. Perhaps we're all supposed to spend our days duct taping bubble wrap around our dicks and indulging in coke douches. In which case, thank god I have a CVS Extra Care card.

How big is the normal penis?
That is the question of the century. Every male, virtually from the moment he is aware of this marvelous organ, is plagued by this question. Rarely does one encounter a gentleman who is satisfied with the size of his phallus. Even those endowed with obviously outsized organs year for more—"It could be just a little bit longer..."

This preoccupation with size leads to some unusual behavior. Whenever two nude men encounter each other for the first time, in a public shower, a country club locker room, a YMCA swimming pool, their eyes go first to each other's penises. Rapidly, sometimes almost imperceptibly, they measure the organ, compare ti with their own, then continue with the matter at hand. Even in public washrooms, standing at the urinal, eyes dart swiftly to organs, the mental micrometer steps off the distance and makes the comparative calculation. In more than one private club the management has thoughtfully installed large magnifying mirrors over the urinals so that each gentleman who avails himself of their facilities can feast his eyes on the reflection of a phallus which would do credit to a bull elephant.

Unfortunately these penile Olympics are a no-win proposition. Those who spy larger organs than their own are chagrined: their fears are confirmed. A man whose penis is the longest in the locker room that day receives scan consolation. With each new contest he will be up against new and unmeasured competition.

Perhaps one of the reasons behind this forlorn quest is the enormous disparity between the penises of father and child. At the age of three or four the parent's phallus seems immense by comparison. Not until many years later at puberty does the son's organ begin to catch up. By then the damage is done. Most men are never really sure that their penis has finally caught up to daddy's.

------------------------------

Now, I am apt to think a lot of that answer is a dish of roasted bullshit with a side of crazy sauce. I highly doubt there are or have ever been magnifying mirrors above urinals to make your junk look bigger...but when we get down to brass tacks; I don't know. How could I? I don't really hang out in men's bathroom's that often and just because I've never heard otherwise doesn't necessarily make it false. AM I CRAZY, OR IS DOC REUBEN?

Likewise, re: this statement:

Most men are never really sure that their penis has finally caught up to daddy's.

First of all, sir, did you really have to say "daddy's"? Couldn't you have said "their father's?" Don't verbally molest your readers if you don't have to. That's my motto. (And you're welcome.) But more to the point: what?! Men are constantly measuring the size of their dicks to their fathers?? When have they seen their father's dicks to begin with? OR IS THAT NORMAL? Oh my god, I'm so confused. Right after I read this last night, Alex called and the following awkward exchange went down:

Meg: ALEX.
Alex: Hey! I had fun tonight at—
Meg: WHATEVER, HAVE YOU EVER MEASURED THE SIZE OF YOUR PENIS AGAINST YOUR FATHER'S AND FELT INADEQUATE?!
Alex: [Makes a series of disguised and horrified noises] Jesus, god, no! This is like the time you asked if my mom taught me to jerk off.
Meg: And much like that time, it's a Doc Reuben thing.

I asked Andrew as well, who was equally horrified, so I'm thinking I'm the sane one and Dr. Reuben is the crazy one. But really, who knows?! That's only two people out of the entire world! I JUST DON'T KNOW. All I know for sure is that I am absolutely starting a funk band and naming it "Penile Olympics." And we'll be going on tour with Dr. Rebuen & The Blanket Statements.


Do all women have these changes at the menopause?
Irene was noticing the general changes from estrogen starvation. Weight gain, shifting in fat deposits, increased wrinkling of the skin, and dryness of the hair are annoying. There are worse things to come:

"But this is the reason I'm here, doctor. In the last few months I've started growing hair on my face. And my voice is getting deeper. But that's not all..."

Irene began to sound embarrassed.

"I can't even have relations with my husband anymore."

"Why is that? What seems to be the trouble?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to describe it. My—my—it just isn't—can't even—"

She was gritting her teeth.

Patient questioning by the doctor revealed Irene was trying to tell him her vagina was shrinking. The atrophy had progressed to the point where the vaginal opening would no longer admit her husband's penis. Irene's sexual desire had vanished more than a year before and intercourse was a monthly event. One the most recent occasion, it was as if the vagina had vanished.

------------------------------

WHAT IN THE SICK FUCK?!!??!!?!?!? Your vagina VANISHES during menopause?! Are you fucking kidding me?! There is no way that is true. None. 100%. I refuse to believe it. I'm willing to go along the hot flashes and the facial hair and the boob sagging, but I refuse to believe that your vagina packs up it's bags and heads to a time-share in Boca for the rest of it's life.

...That being said, who knows?? It could be true. My first reaction after reading that was to call my mom and straight-up ask her, but a.) I just don't want to know anything about the size of my mom's vagina b.) Ew c.) God d.) It was 12:30 at night at the time and I didn't want to wake her up with questions about menopause and gettin' it on. Because hasn't she already been through enough?


Why not? [re: Menopause doesn't have to be the end of a woman's useful life.]
Because she has been castrated by Father Time is no reason for a modern woman to give up the battle. She has many weapons at her disposal, if she will only use them. If she is determined and if her doctor is skillful, they can virtually turn back the clock.

------------------------------

Castrated. By. Father. Time. I believe Dr. Rebuen is in the wrong field. Because this shit is sheer poetry.


Are there some women like that? [re: Women who do not masturbate]
Yes, and many suffer intensely as a result. There is a condition which plagues middle-aged women, especially those who live alone. it is called pruritus vulvae, a medical way of saying itching of the vulva, and a ferocious itch it is. These women have a constant compulsion to scratch their sexual appendages to relieve the itching, burning, tingling sensations they have there.

------------------------------

...So what you're trying to say is that it is your medical opinion that if a woman doesn't masturbate, she'll get a vicious case of crotch-rot? I mean...this book has been re-printed over 30 times. It is 100% possible that indeed if I don't use it, I'm going to lose it. To a "ferocious itch." Before it falls off completely when I hit menopause. And my husband won't want to put his always-in-the-shadow-of-Daddy's-dick in me anymore, even if he could.

In addition to my request to be buried in my Jack Daniel's pajama pants, I would also like to request someone take me out back and put me down like Old Yeller when I reach 50. And I thank you.

Dr. Reuben's Q&A of the Day

You know what they say: If you need a shoe fixed; go to the cobbler. If you need ass-backward answers to your sexual questions; go to Dr. Reuben.

Why do children begin to masturbate so early?
Because their mothers teach them to. Frequently it develops like this:

Marie is in the pediatrician's office. She is worried. Her four-year-old boy, Jimmie, plays with himself. This is how she tells it:

"But doctor, it's the most embarrassing thing in the world. I just can't stand it any longer!"

"What seems to be the trouble with Jimmie?"

"The trouble? Why he does this horrid thing to himself all the time! He takes his...his...his male, you know, and plays with it, right in front of me!"

"How long has he been doing this?"

"For about a year now but it's getting worse! Last week he did it in front of my mother!"

"Perhaps he has some irritation of the penis—that's common in young children."

"Why, I can't imagine how that could happen. I scrub his...his organ very carefully at least twice a day."

"How long have you been doing that?"

"Oh, about a year."

Just in case Jimmie didn't figure it out for himself, his mother showed him that gentle rubbing of his penis feels good. He got the message and started to produce these good feelings himself. But he finds it hard to understand the rest. If he plays with his own penis, his mother gets furious; if she does it, it's okay. Besides there must be something really great about the whole business if mother won't let him do it. The other things she forbids, like candy and staying up late, are a lot of fun, too.

This is the characteristic pattern of masturbation—discovery (or revelation by mother) of pleasant sexual feelings and the start of masturbation—prohibition (usually by mother)—guilt—continued masturbation with added guilt. The same thing happens, of course, with little girls.

------------------------------

Marie and Jimmie, sittin' in a tree. J-E-R-K-I-N-G. This Q&A makes me makes me ungodly uncomfortable for many reasons. I think mostly because I foresee this being a Narwhal situation where I think something is crazy and mind-boggling only to find out that it's common knowledge. And I don't think I could handle living in a world where I'm the weirdo for figuring out out to masturbate on my own without my mom's help. Don't get me wrong; moms are great. They're the best! They teach us how to do all sorts of useful things like tie our shoelaces, ride our bikes and tweeze our eyebrows. Mine, however, sure as Christ didn't teach me how to get off. And I refuse to believe that I'm the exception to the rule. Thus, I conducted a very scientific poll (scientific = asking Co-Blogger Chris and Alex via gchat) and 100% of people surveyed did not learn not masturbate this way and were shocked and horrified that I even asked.

Christopher: why are you asking? is this a dr. reuben hypothesis?

me: of course it is.

Christopher: OF COURSE it is.

Now, I understand that when you bathe someone, you're naturally going to have to have some interaction with the genitals, but how much time are you spending down there, Marie, that your son has moved on from playing with his rubber duckie to having a sexual awakening? Perhaps too much time.

For me, what it all boils down to is this:

"Why, I can't imagine how that could happen. I scrub his...his organ very carefully at least twice a day."

Is it just me or is that a lot of dick scurbbing? Like, I'm all for hygiene and all, but isn't meticulously scrubbing your son's Johnson morning, noon and night a little overkill? And why are you scrubbing his penis at all? Like, of all the verbs to use, scrubbing is just horrifying.

Things I Routinely Scrub:
- Pots
- Pans
- Sinks
- My bathtub (if company is coming over...) (And apparently Helena ≠ company)
- Stains out of sweaters

Things I Do Not Routinely Scrub:
- MY GENITALS
- MY GENITALS
- MY GENITALS
- MY GENITALS
- MY GENITALS

And I feel like that shouldn't make me the weirdo! OR SHOULD IT?! Oh my god, I feel like I'm high on glue. If I get even one email today berating me for not taking a Brillo pad to my how-ya-doin', I am going to renounce society, move to an Indian reservation in Arizona and assume the name Dances With Carringtons.

And speaking of being mind-boggled by quote, "common knowledge," check out this series Q&A's!

What kind of [douche] is best?
[...]Actually they are all about the same; their primary effect depends on washing the sperm out of the vagina. The liquid of choice, with one exception, is just plain water. Cheap, sanitary, harmless, it is as effective as any of the others.

What's the one exception?
Coca-Cola. Long a favorite soft drink, it is, coincidentally, the best douche available. A coke contains carbonic acid which kills the sperm and sugar which explodes the sperm cells. The carbonation forces it into the vagina under pressure and helps penetrate every tine crevice of vaginal lining. It is inexpensive (ten cents per application), universally available, and come sin a disposable applicator.

How is it used?
After intercourse, the woman doesn't even have to get out of bed. She merely reaches over to the table, picks up a bottle of warm Coke, uncaps it, places her thumb over the top, shakes vigorously, and inserts the neck of the bottle into the vagina. A bowl under her hips to catch the overflow helps. Instantly she has an effervescent douche. The six-ounce bottle is just the right size for one application.

------------------------------

WHAT IN THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK?!?1 Coke is the best douche available?! OIFJWOIEJF23R! I just feel...drunk on unbelievableness right now. I have the spins. I could pass out at any moment. If you held a gun to my head and said, "Meg, either shove this coke bottle up your snizz and explode 20oz of warm coke into every crevice of your uterine lining or get shot in the head," I would recommend you tape a trash bag to the wall behind me because you are going to have to pull that trigger, sir. Honestly. Who does this? Who? I mean, I already feel like enough of a cum dumpster when I have to get up to go to the bathroom right after having sex anyway, I can't imagine being like, "Welp baby, that was great. Now would you mind passing me the large porcelain bowl and lukewarm coke on the nightstand next to you? I'm just going to quickly shake this up and douche out the exploded sperm cells. I'll try not to get any on you. But don't worry, we can totally cuddle after that."

I just...I can't. My name is Dances With Carringtons and from here on out I am celibate and asexual. Good day.