Always wash your hands before handling meat

Always wash your hands before handling meat

Here’s the Sauced Dwarf’s second spectacular contribution to RUFKM.  Fun Fact:  Both tales have involved his balls and some of the funniest analogies we’ve ever read.   Enjoy!

Authored by:  Sauced Dwarf

Ever use Ben Gay?  Ever use Ben Gay mixed with smoldering hot lava??

Back in my ball playing days, there was in existence a tube of sore muscle relief that had the power to skin the hair off a llama and a scent more pungent than a liter of soured badger milk.  Truth be told, the name of this “liquid nuclear grenade” eludes me (which is a testament to the company’s stellar marketing efforts) but when you applied this mystery cream to a sore arm the pain would magically dissipate.   I, for one, believed that it would displace one pain for another by quite literally allowing you to have the feeling that your arm was on fire…..or melting.  Regardless, this ointment was the cat’s pajamas and I lathered myself in this inferno butter frequently.

One particular Saturday, with a double header on the docket and knowing full well that I’d play both ends while donning the tools of ignorance, I had my scalding paste on stand-by.   As game time drew near, I began the process of spreading Hephaestus’* balm on my right shoulder when I suddenly realized…..nature calls.  In a bit of a hurry, I made my way towards the nearest port-o-potty**.  Much to my dismay, padlocked!  Padlocked?  Locked Porto’s are like hookers with a conscience….just doesn’t make sense.

With little tree-line coverage near the field, I feverishly searched for some blockade that would shield me from the gawkers and jealous on-lookers.  And at this point I’m as desperate to micturate as a blind man playing defense in a knife fight.  Suddenly, I spotted a picturesque stream in the distance in a wooded area, approximately 100 yards from my current position.  Perfect.  Nature’s toilet.  I hauled ass to a section of the wooded area where this stream was strategically placed.   I savagely ripped my pants off faster than a 75 year old virgin ex-con with a weekend pass to the Bunny Ranch.

Mission accomplished.  Victory Pee-elation.  The instant relief began with my body going into convulsions, then shock, then…..pure bliss.   As I’m taking my 49 second magic carpet ride to Piss-ville, I notice an unmistakable burning sensation on my three buddies.   Within a few seconds, my crotchal zone had turned into a napalm target.  The burn felt like I had just placed the three most sensitive extensions of my body onto a stick hovering above a campfire.  “What the hell is going on here!?” I shouted meekly.  Then, like a nitwit that just realized he’d driven away with the pump still in the gas tank, it came to me.  In my haste to put my bladder at ease, I grabbed Pistol Pete, Jo-Jo and the Aristocrat with THE hand doused in that plutonic jelly.

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

And it wasn’t as if I was just guiding the exploding tool in one direction or another.  I was hugging those guys like a family man held a loaf of bread back in the Great Depression.  The pain seared through my body as I tried to finish what I had started.  Now, I’ve cried 7 times in my life.  6 of those can be placed squarely on the shoulders of Rocky Balboa, tears of joy and appreciation for a valiant champion.  This….was lucky number 7 and it was unavoidable.  My region was a-blazing and I needed some instant relief.  Plus, wasn’t there something I was supposed to run back to?  That’s right, a baseball game in which I’m slated to play in is about to begin and I’m prancing around like the Keebler Elf in some forest having my man-goods branded by my foolishness.  With my pants down to my ankles, very little brain activity due to the pain and no real solution in sight I decided to do something that I now realize might be a bit…….unusual.  In the stream now, I lowered myself down to my hands and knees and began to dip my sensitive portions into the frigid brook.  I dipped it in.  Then out.  Many…….many times.

And………it………felt……….glorious!  It relieved the burning pain so well and put my mind into such a hypnotized state that I did not realize a band of children playfully heading towards my position.  Perhaps they had the intention to play hide and seek, maybe a couple matches of capture the flag but whatever was on their tiny little minds certainly wasn’t what they were about to see.  And what they saw was a teenage boy, baseball pants down to his ankles and making sweet love to that river.  “Mommy, there’s a boy back here getting naked in the river!”  A little girl exclaimed.  When I heard that, I shot up like Carl Lewis in the ’84 Olympics, tenaciously yanked my pants up and in one fluid motion started sprinting.  I didn’t know where they hell I was going but I was determined to not get fingered as…..that guy.

Navigating through the forest, I did manage to find my way back to the field still feeling the aftereffects of my stupidity.  The only fortune that I would realize on this day was the fact that those kids couldn’t make me out of a jail lineup of Johnny Knoxville, Captain Kangaroo, and Chubby Checker as the Rouge River love bandit.  The moral of the story?  As is stated in the utility room at every Gordon Food Service location; Always wash hands prior to handling meat. Touché.

* Greek God of Fire.

**Port-o-Potty’s are a standard lavatory for every household south of the Mason Dixon Line.  They are also a residence to many upstanding homeless folk in the city of Detroit.  Not fucking kidding you.

Always wash your hands before handling meat