I can look back and honestly say, “Yeah, I’m gonna miss this….and now I’m over it.”  It’s time to say goodbye to kids peeing in their pants in class and waist-high children headbutting me in the testicles.   Now I’ll have to settle for large classes of 20-year old women hanging onto my every word as the ultimate purveyor of knowledge and truth.

I’d like to take this time to do a retrospective on my 5 years as an elementary school teacher.  What will I miss?  Perhaps my wisdom will act as a beacon of light in your otherwise dark existence.

1.  Going into the bathroom at school, seeing the toilet seat down, and asking myself, “I wonder what surprise is under there today.”

2.  The special student, Hannah, who would pick large, wet, slimy boogers out of her nose and chase me around the classroom, attempting to rub them on me.  Or when she wasn’t in class, the frequent pop-ins where she’d open the door to my classroom and let our a terrific screech, like a velociraptor, and then quickly slam the door shut and run away.

3.  The cool 6th grade boys who, as soon as they’re out of my classroom and surrounded by girls, shout insults at me in Korean (knowing I don’t understand) while the girls try to not to laugh.  What I won’t miss:  not being able to suplex them on the concrete.

4.  Public school bathrooms lacking climate control due to budgetary reasons.  In the winter, I sit down on the toilet wearing my ski jacket, some thick gloves, and fluffy ear muffs.  In the summer, I strip off my shirt and hang it on the hook to prevent heat stroke.

5.  Corrupting young minds with my rogue ideologies; brush your teeth just once per day while also demanding more snacks, preferably Jello pudding.

That’s it for now; this list will be updated throughout the day as I sit in my office reflecting (snoring loudly) over these last 5 great years.

Paruresis also known as pee shyness, shy kidney, bashful bladder, stage fright, urinophobia or shy bladder syndrome is a type of social anxiety disorder, that can affect both men and women, in which the sufferer is unable to urinate in the (real or imaginary) presence of others, such as in a public restroom.

Paruresis goes beyond simple shyness, embarrassment, or desire for privacy in that it is much more severe and may cause unnecessary inconvenience, because the inability to urinate, although psychological in origin, is physical in its effect, and not under the control of the sufferer. Paruresis can be mild, moderate or severe. In mild cases, paruresis is an occasional event, like a form of subconscious performance anxiety. Some may find that they are unable to urinate while in moving vehicles. In severe cases, a person with paruresis can urinate only when alone at home.

****

First written Jan. 2008, revised Feb. 16, 2010.

I’m standing in the middle of a random bathroom in a random downtown Seoul building. The bathroom is immaculate. Despite the hygienic appearance, there is an awful odor of rotten eggs and dookie. Sky blue tiles cover the floor and walls. There is one sink and two empty urinals. The only stall is taken by an elderly Korean man. He is grunting and mumbling in Korean, trying with all his might to have a bowel movement. As I stand outside the stall waiting for him, I picture him clutching a tall glass of orange-flavored Metamucil, praying to Buddha for sweet relief.

I suppose I could use the urinal. I could be in and out in 30 seconds, long before the old man emerges from the poopoo cave. Despite the apparent benefits, I can’t force myself to use the urinal. I approach the left one slowly, fingering my zipper nervously. “Just do it,” I tell myself, “just pee.” My brains says do it, but my body resists.

As I wait for the colonically congested old geezer, I take a moment to reflect on my unreasonable fear. Where did it come from? When did it first manifest itself?

I’ve been peeing free for years. Nothing held me back. If I had to go, I went. That all changed in 2003, my first year in Korea.

My school, YBM ECC (it’s a school whose acronyms stand for acronyms), had one men’s restroom. Students and faculty shared the same toilets in a claustrophobic closet. Like most Korean bathrooms, they are not laid out with privacy in mind. If you use the urinals, you are completely visible to any female student and staff member that walks by the men’s bathroom on the way to the ladies’ room. I tried using them a few times, but quickly stopped when boys would line up behind me trying to take a look at my wonka-donka. They would push each other out of the way, grabbing me by the shirt to knock me off balance, trying to take a look. I would fight them off, throwing a few karate kicks in their direction, simultaneously maintaining my aim.

After this happened a few times, I gave up and started using the stall. It wasn’t your typical bathroom. It was, after all, a bathroom designed for kids. The toilets were the size of urns. The kind of urn you put your dead Aunt Sally’s ashes in and then display on your mantle. Being only knee-high, these toilets were difficult to aim at. The act of peeing turned into an exercise in focus. The situation wasn’t all bad. There were no more kids bothering me, so this looked like a change for the better.

My students were bitter about my new found peeing freedom. The children, being mostly evil until you beat it out of them, plotted against me. I’ll give them credit for their patience. They waited until I was most vulnerable, a time where they could strike me a killing blow.

My first year in Korea was spent abusing my colon. I had no respect for this most sensitive body organ. I devoured spicy food that turned my face beet red and my eyes water. I would wash it all down with Hite (aka “Shite”), a cheap Korean beer. There’s only so much a colon can take before it takes matters into its own hands.

After eating a plate of Jay-uke-de-bap (EXTREMELY spicy fried rice with pork) for lunch, my colon said, “Alright, this is getting ridiculous. You’re fucking dead, buddy. I’m sick of your shit.” My colon is fond of puns relating to poo.

At about 3:20, my colon began kicking my ass from the inside. I managed to hold on until break time from 3:40 to 3:45. I raced to the bathroom, plopping myself down on the blue ceramic urn. The small toilet forced my knees up around my ears and my ass hung off the sides. Being such a small toilet, Mr. Wang hung off the front of the seat, unable to dangle freely between my legs. Ten seconds hadn’t passed when I heard three of my boy students come into the bathroom. They were laughing and speaking in broken English. There was a long pause and then one whispered, “Teacher is pooping,” followed by muffled giggles.

I saw shadows move under the door. “Go away,” I said in an imitation of a stern adult voice, “it’s not polite.” My voice only confirmed my presence and strengthened their resolve. All three boys dropped to the ground on their backs and wormed their heads and shoulders under the stall door. I can’t imagine how it might have looked to them, but it was probably something like this:

“A grown man loomed over us. He had long, hairy, skinny legs that seemed to be bent up all the way to his ears. His butt drooped over the side of the toilet like Dumbo fitting into a small bathtub. His face was contorted in shock, fear, and murderous hate. It wasn’t his droopy butt or his angry face that held our attention, but something else. The toilet was too small to hold all of him. Something hung over the front of the toilet–some kind of hairy sack with a mushroomed missile above it. We didn’t know what to make of it, so we ran away, laughing at catching our teacher with his pants down, and dying to share it with our classmates.”

After they left, I stepped out of the stall and washed my hands in the sink. I stared at my reflection, telling myself to be cool, that everything was fine. The bell rang and I walked back to class. I opened the classroom door and it was chaos. Kids were running and laughing. In addition to the three boys, there were 7 girls and two other boys in the class. They stopped when I entered and started chanting in some sort of rehearsed Satanic ritual.

“Teacher has a hairy PAY-NIS! Teacher has a hairy PAY-NIS! Teacher has a hairy PAY-NIS! Teacher has a hairy PAY-NIS!” Apparently, I had forgotten to teach them the correct pronunciation for penis.

I didn’t know what to do. The only thing going through my mind was an image of me as some kind of crazed alpha-male neanderthal jumping around the classroom beating the kids with a club while yelping like a caveman. Needless to say, little was accomplished that day in terms of academic enlightenment.

The sound of a toilet flushing brings me back to reality. The old man hobbles out of the stall, hunched over at the shoulders. He’s looking quite pleased with himself. I walk into the stall, locking the door behind me. I push and pull the door, testing the lock’s integrity. It holds. “No one can get you in here,” I whisper, “you’re safe.”

In August 2007, I took a job at a “prestigious” (it was self-proclaimed, never actually proven) private English academy in Seoul.  I had a good feeling about this place.  The salary was extremely high and, unlike previous schools, it had a large number of foreign teachers.

It didn’t take long before I figured out something was wrong.  This school wasn’t all it promised to be.  There was an almost tangible tension floating between different sects of foreign teachers, not to mention Korean management that believed in working you until you bled.

When you travel and live overseas, you’re bound to meet an assortment of odd people and this school was no different.  They include, but are not limited to, the manic depressive, the hyperactive, and the socially repulsive.  Some can be fun and interesting and others need long intensive therapy sessions with strong antidepressants they can suck on like Tic Tacs.

The 20 foreign teachers at my school could be seperated into three categories:  the assholes (the largest constituency), the downtrodden, and the morbidly obese.

At my previous school in Korea, there were 6 foreign teachers and we were inseperable.  We not only worked together, we played together.  When one person went out on the weekend, we all went out.  It was a close-knit group and I was expecting a similar environment for my second tour of duty.

Alas, I was destined for disappointment.  Just like my love life, it appears my professional life is to be filled with the insecure, the mentally unstable, and the rude.  Fantastic.  Not only am I fortunate enough to date women who have conference calls with teams of therapists, I am also doomed to work with them.

Let’s not forget the men.  They were far from innocent.  From day one, I was labeled as an outsider, not cool enough to be one of them.  They refer to me jeeringly as ‘Ken Doll’ behind my back.  Ken is tall, attractive, well-built, and is dating the hottest woman on the plantet, Barbie.  I’m a short goof ball with man boobs.  I’d also like to point out that I’ve never spoken to any of them for longer than 15 seconds at a time.  One of my few work friends, Anna, says to take it as a compliment.  They see me as competition.  Competition for what, I’m not sure since the only game they seem to play is Who Is The Biggest Prick.

That gives you a pretty general idea of who I’m working with, now here are a few specifics:

Rachel and Bernadette, or ‘The Beef Chiefs’ as I affectionately call them, ooze butter from their pores and could create their own wig company using their facial hair.   Rachel, despite being best friends with the Devil-spawn Bernadette, is a very nice person who is more than happy to share food recipes with me which make use of the indiginous produce.  These recipes require massive amounts of pure butter and should be consumed with heart medication.

Bernadette was sent here straight from Lucifer’s cabinet of senior advisors and top aides.  Her satchel-like stomach swings below her private parts like a floppy pendulum.  At any moment, I expect a baby kangaroo to pull itself out of this massive pouch, stretch its legs, and hop away.  Her demeanor is as pleasant as her appearance.  She possesses an Elementary Education degree, but lectures her 4-year old preschool students as if they were in high school.  She makes it well-known that she has no respect for teachers without Ed degrees.  A new teacher named Rick started work shortly after me.  He has an Ed degree and Bernadette decided to take him under her giant blubberous wing.  She introduced Rick to other Ed degree holding teachers like this, ‘This is Rick.  He has an Education degree.’  She said it in a way implying Rick was as divine as Jesus.  Rick is socially awkward and likes to tell you about his dreams where he’s a famous video game character.

Bernadette is also allergic to everything except water.  The faculty room is a boiling inferno because Bernadette has to have the windows open because the odors of everyone’s shampoos and soaps make her physically ill.  I recommended purchasing a bubble to live in, which was not appreciated, and perhaps they’d even make a documentary about her, ‘She was incredibly brave AND she dedicated her life to children.  It’s so tragic the way she died, killed by Victoria’s Secret’s new Body Wash for Sensitive Skin.  I don’t think I’m alone when I ask, was it REALLY for sensitive skin?  We’ll never know.’

I had seven bosses at this school, because one’s not enough.  Four were foreigners, three were Koreans.  One was a beautiful Korean woman who I thought to be in her mid to late 30′s.  Her skin was perfect and she dressed like a fashion model from the runways of Milan.  Despite a perfect face and a mostly great body, I found it odd that she had the buttocks of a 65-year old woman.  I recently found out that she gets extensive plastic surgery on a regular basis and she’s actually 55 years old.

One of the foreign bosses was a nice enough guy.  The other three are bitter, angry people who, despite having Education degrees and extensive experience, never learned the term ‘team work.’  They prescribe to the management style of ‘Divide and Conqour.’  They speak poorly of other teachers behind their backs, not just to other managers, but to other staff and teachers.

So that’s what I dealt with on a daily basis.  If you’ve ever wanted an ulcer or perhaps a migraine headache, I can put in a good word and maybe you can get a job here.

Wait until after midnight, resist the temptation to see him earlier, then show up at his house.  Your first instinct may be to throw a brick through his window, but you’d be wrong.  Creep your way across his lawn to his bedroom window.  Blow on the glass to give it a good misting.  Then draw a heart with your initials and his and the words “til Death”.  Tap on the glass loudly a few times and run for cover behind the bushes.  It’s okay to giggle maniacally at him as he stares frantically out the window with a look of fear on his face.

Let him relax slowly and drift back into sleep.  Remove the lock picking kit from your purse and enter via the back or front door, it’s your choice.

Once inside, break a few dishes and let out a high pitch screech to wake him from his slumber.

Sit down at his kitchen table and remove the butcher knife from your purse.  Be sure it’s still adequately covered in (you choose one or more of the following) chicken blood, your own blood, or the blood of his beloved dog, Frankie-J.

Begin your ritualized pagan chanting, interspersed with a few good cackles, and wait for him to come running into the kitchen.

I don’t think I have to tell you what comes next, but it’s something like “…and they lived happily ever after.”

Happy Valentine’s Day!

However, she has a son who is about 25 years older than me.  He’s been giving me a lot of attitude lately.  Frankly, I’m out of ideas.  How am I supposed to be a father to this kid?  He won’t call me “Sir” or “Mr. Powers” and I am sick and tired of the disrespect.

Day 1

Thailand was supposed to be the greatest vacation ever.  My spirits were high as I imagined a vacation of epic proportions.  It had so many things going for it.  For starters, a university buddy of mine, Grant, who I hadn’t seen in years was to meet me in Bangkok.  Plus I had a good friend, Isaac, who lived in Bangkok.  After a weekend of tom-foolery and wild debaucheries in Bangkok, Grant and I would head to Kho Pha Ngan, the Thai island famous for full moon parties and other forms of trouble (both legal and not so legal).  I would throw the guide book in trash can and let the wind guide the two of us; two handsome bachelors on a whirlwind tour of Southeast Asia.

Sadly, Grant grant canceled just 10 days before the trip.  He cited work and girlfriend conflicts.  This was a disaster.  What was I supposed to do? I sulked and whined.  A huge problem was I couldn’t go to Kho Pha Ngan anymore.  Without Grant to split the bill with, I couldn’t afford the hotels and there would be no discount on air travel that I would have gotten by purchasing two tickets.  Where was I gonna go?  How would I get there?  Argh!

After a couple hours of non-productive whining, I decided I needed a change of heart.  I was suffering from severe culture shock from living in Korea and I needed a temporary reprieve to recharge my batteries.

I was going on this vacation no matter what and damn it, I was going to have a good time too!  Now I just needed to solve the small problem of figuring out where I was going, how I would get there, and do it all without a guidebook.  Not to mention the problem of traveling alone.

I hopped on the flight to Bangkok from Seoul with a quick layover in Hong Kong.  I took a hot, crowded bus that dropped me off near Isaac’s house.

Isaac and I are like peas and carrots.  We were coworkers at a school in Seoul that can only be described as Hell minus all the cool people.  I think he’s the funniest guy in the world.  He thinks I’m the funniest guy in the world.  We’re perfect for each other.  Dare I say it’s man love?  Yes, I do dare.

Isaac recently became engaged to Karen; a Kiwi he met while he was still working in Seoul.  The three of went out for drinks with their other friends.  To be honest, I didn’t much like their other friends.  They love to tell each other how wonderful they all are.  It was a lot of people looking for approval.  I didn’t feel like sitting around for this mutual back-patting session and Isaac and I left.

We walked down the street to a food vendor selling some miscellaneous animal parts on rice and took a seat.  We ordered a giant Chang beer which turned into many Chang beers.

Down the street from Isaac's

We dished the dirt on our lives, our women, our frustrations, and our goals.  Of course we told fantastic jokes, jokes so funny the world would have laughed along with us.

I asked Isaac where I should go.  He said he had a map of Thailand and I could pick somewhere random.  Sounded like a good plan to me.

It was a good first day.

I imagined that my lectures would not only be a place of tapping into their  creative spirits, but also a place where 40 beautiful 20-year old women and one older man could have massive pillow fights where we’re all laughing and accidentally falling on top of each other.

When not pillow fighting, we would have meaningful conversations about their awful boyfriends during my private office hours.  I would hold their hands and tell them they should wait for the perfect man; someone just like myself and that we should finish this conversation over drinks.

Alas, this wasn’t to be.  We had our first staff meeting where it was made very clear that any male faculty member who had, even a hint of, an inappropriate relationship with a student would be fired immediately with no investigation into the merits of the case, no severance, just a boot in the ass.

Gulp.

I looked up to Heaven, “Why do you tempt me so?  WWWHHHHYYYYYY?!?!”

If you read my previous post, you’re aware that my father has an uncanny ability at medical diagnosis.  He informed me I was afflicted with TSB; Toxic Sperm Buildup.  It occurs when a male has no girlfriend, no dates, and no prospects.  It results in no sex; hence the sperm buildup.  The disease’s side effects include, but are not limited to, a general sense of unease, self-loathing, and a trash can filled with violated fruit.

A week or two later, I was able to look back and chuckle at my dad’s email.  Perhaps he had a valid point.  If I’m ever going to get out of this funk, I have to make things happen for myself.  I can’t sit at home masturbating to internet porn and call it companionship.

I need to dust myself off and get back in the game.  It had been 2 years since I asked a girl on a date now was the time to change.  I went out for drinks with the guys that night, but was always thinking about my TSB and how to cure it.  After 13 or 14 beers and arriving home, I decided NOW was the moment to do something about it.  I wasn’t going to ask friends to introduce me to their single lady friends.  No, I needed something now.  I was motivated (and alcohol handicapped) and needed to act.  Like so many other desperate men my age, I sent out some emails to a few lucky ladies on MySpace.

The ladies were chosen for very good reasons, things you can really build a relationship on.  In other words, all of their profile pictures were them sitting around in their bras, bikinis, or low cut shirts.

I felt great as I tucked myself in and gave a little snuggle time to my favorite friend.  I imagined waking up in the morning with a full Inbox and dates lined up for every night of the week.  Cindy, the beautiful girl from Arizona and living in Seoul, seemed the most likely candidate for marriage and carrying my offspring.  I slept soundly and I’m pretty sure with a smile on my face.

16 hours later, I awoke.  My pain could only be compared to childbirth.  I could feel my pulse thumping through the veins in my head.  I didn’t have a single thought for Cindy or any other lady.  I tried to go back to sleep, but had to run to the bathroom in order to expel my entire body weight in diarrhea.  It was at this point I realized it was 8pm and the sun had set.

I swallowed 6 Ibuprofens and plopped myself down on my bed.  Perhaps sleep would have helped, but apparently my body thought 16 hours in one night was plenty.  I stared at the ceiling, massaging my temples.  My thoughts drifted from topic to topic:  cantaloupes, what if my body held the natural cures to every major disease in the world and how much would I charge the pharmaceutical companies for access to these cures, how cool would it be if I had a magic skateboard that allowed me to fly, and…Cindy!  OMG!  How could I forget you, my sweet, sweet darling?

I turned on my computer and my monitor blazed to life.  Despite the relative low light, I had to put on sunglasses to protect my eyes.  In addition to crooked aviators, I was wearing my v-neck undershirt from last night that reeked of tobacco and my plaid pajama pants from Wal-Mart.  Luckily, Cindy wasn’t there to see me.  What the future Mrs. Powers doesn’t know doesn’t hurt her.

I logged in and checked my Inbox.  No new messages.  Not even a friend request?  Impossible!  I checked my Sent mail folder.  All 5 of my messages had been read by their recipients, even the one by Cindy.  I didn’t get it.  What’s wrong with me that make all women hate and reject me?

I had no recollection of what any of my messages said, but I was confident they were charming and articulate just like me.  I clicked on one after another and felt my eyeballs bulging further and further out of my head.

I could spank you.

I wanna motorboat your boobies.

Ding-a-ling.  I bet you love that word.  I bet you’ll love mine.

I wanted to email Cindy to apologize, to tell her that wasn’t the real me.  My heart was racing.  Would she forgive me?  Would she even believe me?  I felt my heart palpitating.  I clicked on Cindy’s profile and was instantly alarmed by her profile photo.  I clicked on the additional photos to confirm my suspicion.  I’m pretty sure Cindy was a pre-op tranny.

Dear Lord, what have I done?

I had obviously been wearing something much stronger than beer goggles; perhaps some kind of beer welding helmet or perhaps a beer facial apparatus designed to block nuclear blasts. Cindy did love ding-a-lings, maybe even mine, just not her own.

Although there were no more pre-ops, the list of potential mates was horrific.  What were these women thinking posting such scandalous photos of them selves?  What kind of man did they hope to attract?  These were not the sexy librarian type that I’ve always been attracted to, but women who put exotic dancers and adult entertainers to shame.

Internet dating was out and I needed a fresh idea; a bold approach for this new age of dating.  Perhaps I could join a book club, take tango lessons, or learn pottery.  These classes were sure to attract the kind of woman I desired; academic but social and attractive.

The week came and went and so did another.  I had yet to learn the tango or fire up a kiln.  I did read a book that involved dragons, elves, and the chosen one who is the only person capable of beating the evil darkness encompassing the world.  The dark being of dark evil things obviously lived in a volcano and had killer trolls do his dirty work.  I don’t think I’m going to meet my kind of woman at that particular book club.

As so many of us to who try to shake off old behaviors and patterns, my desire for a new style of dating died a tragic death due to laziness and the simple truth that I didn’t give a fuck.  So I decided to get drunk at a bar, talk to drunk women, and hope they were the one.

After having a few courage enhancement beverages, I approached the first lady of the evening.  Her name was Kellie.  She was a professional dancer turned English teacher.  She looked more like a competitive eater than a dancer.  She was a nice enough girl, but there wasn’t any real chemistry.  When she went to the ladies’ room, I made a sneaky, but very graceful, exit.

As I was dancing through the crowd surrounding the bar, attempting to meet up with my friend, I was waved over by Sarah, the half black, half Jewish girl.  Emboldened by booze, I made a fantastic joke, “You’re half black and half Jewish; so that means you’re Blewish.”  She laughed hysterically, grabbing my arm to keep herself from falling over.  It seemed odd she had never heard it before.  Either she was lying or all of her friends are humor-deprived (or perhaps more politically correct than I am).

Sarah and I continued cracking jokes and, in general, having a really good time.  “I’m so glad I met you tonight,” I told her with my best Tom Cruise smile, which is just showing as much as your teeth as possible while staring directly at their eyeballs.

“That’s sweet.  Give me your phone.”  I handed over my phone and she called herself.  “Now I have your number and we can call each other whenever.”

“Great.”

“You’re gonna take me out to dinner.”

“Really?”  Not coffee?  Not a drink, but dinner?  She seemed to be moving a little fast.

“You are SOOOOOO perfect for me.  We’re gonna be such a cute couple.”  She said this without a hint of sarcasm or humor; she believed it.

“Umm…,” and then I left.  I met Sarah at a club recently and she told me that I missed an opportunity to be truly happy.  I’m sure I did.  Like most people, I despise happiness.  Unlike most people, I admit it.  What would I complain about?  I couldn’t verbally accost, hate, and ridicule strangers if I was happy and secure with myself.  Sorry, Sarah, but it’s going to take more than that to get this neurotic hypochondriac to settle down for something as ridiculous as happiness.  No thanks.

A competitive eater and a chronic committer, the night wasn’t boding well for my penis and TSB.  I found my friend talking to a very attractive woman and I selfishly interrupted, proceeded to scare her off with my talk of toxic sperm, and told my friend it was hopeless.  The sentence had barely escaped my lips when I made eye contact with Viviana.  She was of Mexican descent, with long curly brown hair, and large bouncy breasts.  I smiled, she smiled back.  I didn’t even finish my sentence to my friend, but walked over to Viviana and started dancing with her.  We were french kissing like a couple of middle schoolers within 30 seconds.

I sent my dad an email the next day, short and sweet as always, “I’m cured.”

This true-life story of a hero is at sometimes crass, chauvinistic, and filled with sexual content.  If you find it disturbing to imagine me naked and copulating in a field of wheat while shooting off fireworks, you should stop reading this immediately.

I have not always been so caring and empathetic towards women.  There were times that I may have lied for sex:  I’m rich.  Look at my hands; they’re HUGE (as I hold up my hand stuffed inside a giant prosthetic hand)! I really like you, there’s a future here.  You’re nothing like your mother.  No, the smell doesn’t bother me.

In college, I was a bit of a social scientist specializing in male-female sexual behavior.  As someone who wasn’t getting any on a regular basis, I felt qualified to postulate on the behavior of all men when put in a sexual situation.

On one particular evening, while hanging out with friends, I took a massive bong hit and was overcome by a coughing fit and the sudden realization that:  1) I should learn to play the guitar because I’m an artist at heart, and 2) the Theory of Non-Resistance.

The theory was so simple.  It was true for me, so it must be true for all men.  The Theory of Non-Resistance states that no single man can resist an offer of sex from a woman who performs the following steps simultaneously.
1.  She looks into your eyes and says, “I want to f**k you.”
2.  She grabs your wiener.

A man confronted with this scenario is unable to say no.  If a woman in a bar said to you, “I wana do you,” you might not believe her.  It could be a cruel joke and all of her friends are hiding somewhere, listening and barely able to control their laughter.

Or if she just grabbed your wiener, you might be intrigued, but you would also fear for your safety.  However, if a woman performs both steps, you cannot resist.  It’s science.

This is the Theory of Non-Resistance; and this is my tale of scientific field work testing the Theory.

***

It’s impossible to tell this story without traveling back in time.  My ex, Shannon, and I recently broke up for the eighth and final time, 6 months after our initial breakup.  It’s been rough for me, but almost as rough for my friends who have listened to hours and hours over the months of a grown man whining about how she was “the one” even though we made each other miserable.

After thoroughly exhausting the friend card and still filled with grief, I turned to mom and dad.  Mom was kind and sympathetic.  She reminded me that I’m a great guy and any woman would be lucky to have me.  She also pointed out the many faults of my former lady and how someday I would meet someone even better.

This is what moms are supposed to say.  It’s written in the Mommy Manual, page 127, paragraph 2.  My mother is the one you go to with problems of heartache, rejection, and insecurities.  My father was never one to pine on about emotions, so I was interested in what he had to say.  After all, my parents are divorced and figured I could benefit from a man’s perspective coping with the loss of a relationship.  I emailed my father and spoke with him as well.  He listened and nodded his head at the appropriate times.

Weeks later, after our 6^th, 7^th or perhaps 8^th breakup, my father sent me an email.  The email was short, only one sentence; “Sounds to me like you have TSB.”

Hmm, what’s TSB?  I had never heard of it.  I was intrigued.  Is this the form of depression my father suffered from after the divorce?  Are there anti-depressants available for it?  Should I see a therapist?  Should I do both?

The email was brief, but I needed more information.  Regardless, I was pleased that my father took several weeks to think of all the emotions and hard times I was going through, do a little medical research, and then send me the name of this rare form of mental illness.  Perhaps my father was someone I could go to after all for emotional and not just career advice.

I did a Google search for TSB.  Scrolling down the list of choices wasn’t promising:  a British bank, the Transportation Safety Board of Canada, and technical search bulletins.  I decided to contact my doctor, WebMd.com.  I typed in the acronym and was ready to receive vague information and a list of sponsored prescriptions that were sure to cure me.  Hmm, nothing on WebMd either.  Strange, perhaps this condition was even rarer than I originally thought.

I emailed my dad, “What’s TSB?”  Our emails are usually about that long.  We cut away the mush and stay on point.  I waited anxiously for his reply.  I contacted my therapist and told her I needed to make an emergency appointment to discuss the possibility that I had TSB.

A few hours later, my Inbox lit up with a new message from Dad.  The moment of truth; what was TSB?  What if there was no cure?  Would people consider me a hero?  Could I write a book about it and get on Oprah?  Could I do it with Oprah?

I clicked on it quickly and scrolled down.  The email, like the one before it, was one sentence; “TSB = Toxic Sperm Buildup.”

I was dazed.  Perhaps even a little confused.  What did sperm have to do with anything?  Was there a correlation between sperm buildup and emotional distress?  I thought on it for several moments and then it hit me.

My dad’s a comedian; a real funny guy.  He was mocking me for not getting laid in months and perhaps the best cure for my woes was a certain part of the female anatomy.

I wrote him back another on-point email, “Hardy-har-har, funny man.”

**Author’s side note–sorry there wasn’t any copulating in a wheat field while shooting off fireworks.  Maybe in the sequel.**