Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Pooping Your Pants Is Cool

Before cancer, the last time I missed the toilet was 7th grade. The entire bus ride to school I had extremely painful cramps. When we arrived I had no choice but to shit. Back then I hated going in public restrooms, so I squatted above the seat and exploded. When I was done I still felt poorly, so I called my mom to come pick me up.

For some reason, something really stunk in the car. At home I noticed why—I erupted all over the back of my brand new white Adidas shirt. My mom tried to make me feel like less of a loser by saying she’d wash it for me. Too bad the shit stains never came out. The shirt was just too white.

That afternoon my mom had to pick up my older brother and his friend, NoCommonSense. I went with her. “What are you doing here?” my brother asked me.

“Benjamin wasn’t feeling well today,” my mom replied.

“That sucks.”

“…He pooped all over his shirt.”

NoCommonSense and my brother started laughing uncontrollably. If only that damn shirt wasn’t so white.

Fortunately, I’m not the only person that shits himself. A while back my friend called me: “I was in the bar and I really had to take a shit, so I left and started running home. I had to climb this fence in order to get there, and when I got one leg over I felt some shit fall down my leg.”


Chemotherapy either causes extreme constipation or extreme diarrhea. Nothing in the middle, and you don’t get to choose which one. During one of my extended hospital stays, age 19, I was averaging six diarrhea shits a day. This wasn’t the diarrhea you see after eating Chipotle—I’m talking about a low viscosity liquid.

Most times I went during the day, but sometimes I'd get up at night with the extreme urge. I could count the number of seconds I had to reach the toilet on both hands. During the day it was never a problem because one of my parents would quickly unplug my IV pump and I’d rush to the bathroom. But at night I was alone, I was groggy, and I wasn’t given any notice. This is a bad combination.

I woke up with the sensation that a creature was knocking at the doors of my asshole ready to come out. At first I fought it, clenching my anus as hard as I could. But I had to start moving before I burst. I had to get off the bed, bend down to unplug the power cord and walk eight feet to the bathroom, all without compromising my watertight rectum. I was doomed from the start.

Leaking isn’t the appropriate word. I’d go with pressurized shots of liquid shit. The first one seeped through my boxers and onto the bed sheet. Then it started running down my leg, leaving a trail all the way to the toilet. When I finished pooping I cleaned the floor and threw out my boxers. I didn’t feel like facing the embarrassment of telling my hot nurse I shit myself, so I slept on the top sheet. In the morning when my nursing assistant changed my sheets I pretended to be occupied with important emails.

That wasn’t the only incident. A couple months later I got the urge after taking my morning pills. This time I didn’t give the creature enough respect. Either that or my anal muscles were overworked and exhausted (shut up, I don’t swing that way...not that there's anything wrong with that). Nonetheless, my asshole was far from watertight. Right as my feet touched the floor my ass erupted like a volcano. The shit accumulated partly on the sheet, but mostly on the floor in what looked like a small mud puddle.

I buzzed the front desk. “Can you send my nurse in?”

I paced around the room trying to figure out what to say. When she arrived she looked down at the puddle, then at me.

“I couldn’t hold it.”

Before changing the sheet she called in the janitor. My immune system was fucked-up so I couldn’t leave the room. I had to sit there and watch as he mopped my shit. I couldn’t even look him in the eye.

Leia Mais…

Monday, February 26, 2007

The White Chrysler: Part II

Yesterday I got a call from my friend Zeke in regards to my latest entry, The White Chrysler.

"Hey, I read your Chrysler story."

"Yeah, what'd you think?"

"I was disappointed."

"Why, you didn't like it?"

"No, it's not that. I just wanted you to do something to her car."

I chuckle.

"Like scratch it or something?"

"No, not scratch it."

"Then what?"

"Piss on it."

"You wanted me to piss on her car?"

"A little urine never hurt anybody."

Zeke definitely had a point. In fact, after talking with him I was disappointed in myself for doing nothing. But remember this—I won't forget that little white Chrysler. I even remember the sticker on her back window. If I ever see that bitch's car again I'm going to piss right on the door handle.

...Well, if I'm in a bad mood...and it's dark out...and I still have a grudge toward her...and had been drinking...heavily.

Better yet, we can settle it once and for all in a steel cage match. "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan will be the special guest referee.

Leia Mais…

Sunday, February 25, 2007

The White Chrysler

My dad drives a huge minivan, or a “sport van,” as he calls it. He can’t park it worth a damn. Whenever I’m in the car with him he urges me to bring my handicap permit because those spots are much easier to park in. I never use the permit unless the walk is truly a pain in the ass, or when there is a parking meter (if you have a handicap permit you don’t have to pay). So, I started charging him one dollar every time he uses it. On our summer vacations I actually rack up quite a few Washingtons. Sometimes I joke with him about raising the fee. “Next summer I think I’ll raise it by 25 cents due to inflation and other miscellaneous taxes,” I say. The other day I offered to rent him the permit for a monthly fee, but he refused because it’s a felony.

Last year my apartment complex at school had a limited number of parking spots. I didn’t want to waste my time searching for them, so I had the manager install a handicap spot right next to the building. My buddy Duckman, who lived right across from me, got pissed off when anybody parked in either his reserved spot or my handicap one. He printed off notes telling people to move their car or get towed. One time I saw my neighbor’s white Chrysler there, so I grabbed one of his notes and put it on the car. 20 minutes later it was gone.

Weeks later I was walking home from a football game. I glanced over to find that same neighbor next to me, talking to her friend. “I know you,” she said. “You’re the one with the handicap spot, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She continued talking to her friend. “One time I parked in his spot and he put a note on my car.” My neighbor then made the most condescending smirk I’ve ever seen. She thought that she and her perfect gait were so much better than me.

Enter ANGER.

I wanted to do something—punch her in the face, kick her in the vagina, even get her in the crossface chicken wing. But I didn’t. I just watched as she and her friend moved ahead, seeming to mock me for my inability to walk quickly.

That night I was standing in the driveway talking to my friend when I spotted her Chrysler. What ever should I do? At first I thought about bashing the side mirror, but figured it would be too loud. I put my hands in my pockets trying to decide what kind of vandalism would be just. I pulled out my keys. Yeah boyeee. I grabbed the long, skinny key, ready to scratch the fucking shit out of her door. I took a few steps forward, then stopped. What if the Chrysler is her roommate’s car?

That bitch is lucky I’m not more observant.

Keep reading:
The White Chrysler: Part II

Leia Mais…

Friday, February 23, 2007


I’ve had about a thousand physical exams since my original diagnosis. The exam I got two months after finishing treatment for my first cancer, age 17, really stands out…

My examiner pushes on my belly, and then goes downstairs to check the lymph nodes in my groin. “Pull your jeans down,” she says.

By this time I’m lying on the exam table flat on my back, staring at the tiles on the ceiling. She feels my groin for swollen lymph nodes, then my balls for a simple cancer check. Depending on the appearance of the examiner, this kind of attention can bring the little guy out of sleep. Times like these you wish your examiner is a fat, hairy, Italian guy. But she isn’t, so I start thinking about football. Then dinosaurs. Then…fuck, are you done yet?

“So, how’s your PT going?” she asks.


“I’m going to check your leg strength now.”

She starts rubbing my thigh, checking my muscle size and tone.

Champ Bailey is the best cornerback in the league. I think I’ll get his jersey. Football. Football.

She creeps further and further up my thigh. By the time her hands get inside my boxers I feel movement. Oh God, no. At this point there’s nothing I can do but wait until she finishes. I don’t know if she fails to notice or if she just thinks I’m tenting, but she continues to massage me.

“You’re definitely getting stronger. Why don’t you get down from the table and stand on the floor.”

Now I’m fucked. I get off the table and stand up, still with my jeans around my ankles. My examiner starts really getting into it, pushing with both hands on my upper quadriceps and hamstring. I’m so nervous I begin to sweat. I know if she doesn’t stop soon Ole Benito will poke her in the eye.

Holy fuck I’m at 80% salute. Make it stop.

“Uh...we’re done,” she says.

I pull up my jeans and leave the room faster than you can say, “Oh shit, I have a boner.”

Leia Mais…

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Cancer People

Several weeks ago my friend and I were at a bar at UVA, which I attend and he already graduated from. One of the sororities was selling plastic cups for $3 that we could fill with beer for $1. Their proceeds were going to breast cancer research. “We’ll buy two cups,” I said to the sorority girl, “but only because we can get cheap beer.”

“Great. Well, your money goes to a good cause.”

“Fuck that. I don’t like cancer people.”

My friend began laughing hysterically.

“You don’t like people with cancer?” she asked bewildered.

“No, all they do is bitch and moan and ask for research money. It’s pathetic.”

“Yeah but…it’s cancer! It’s not their fault they got it.”

“He’s just fucking with you,” my Canadian friend interrupted. “He actually beat cancer twice.”

The poor sorority girl was so confused. “Are you serious?”

“Ben beat the ever-living shit out of cancer one time. Then when he got it again we were all like, ‘What the hell is cancer thinking? I mean, that’s not even a fair fight.’”

“What does he know, he’s Canadian,” I said before walking away, leaving her to decide for herself.

When I got cancer the second time my mom’s friend gave me a diary. “You could write in it and then make it into a book someday.” I threw the diary in the trash. Strangely, over a year later I had an epiphany: I should write a book. At 2 AM I started typing. Now it has reached the hands of several editors at different publishing houses. They say I’m unknown and won’t publish me. This blog needs to change that.

The name of my book is I’ve Still Got Both My Nuts: A True Cancer Story. My goal is that someday John Doe will complain to his buddy about his day. John’s friend will listen and may even sympathize a little. Then he’ll say, “Yeah, but you’ve still got both your nuts, right?” With your help we can make this happen.

To my parents: I’m going to tell you the same thing I’ll tell you when the book comes out—don’t read it. Many parts will shame and disgust you. You may fall into deep depression at which point you’ll turn to cocaine. Then, you’ll want a bigger high and begin freebasing, then move on to crack rock. Before you know it you’re shooting speedballs. That said, I’m positive you’re going to constantly check this blog for updates and read all the entries very carefully. For the sake of our relationship I need to set one rule: you can’t ask me questions about any of my writing or make comments about anything. Ever. It’ll be better this way.

To everyone else: Start telling your friends. Spread the word. Forward the link to everyone you know. Talk about your testicles, or lack thereof. And most importantly, send me your thoughts. I welcome all questions, comments, compliments and criticism.

Leia Mais…