Magnetic Resonance Impotence AND A CONTEST!

Yeah, all those magnetic fields around the gonad region (or "cock area" in scientific speak) probably will ensure that:
1) I won't have kids, or
2) They'll be retarded, or
3) They'll run for public office.

Basically, nothing good.

About 45 minutes I sat like a sandwich in between these huge magnets. "Don't move when you hear it knocking." Okay. That must be the devil trying to get out. Better pretend nobody's home. It basically sounded like I was laying under a car listening to it running. That's not bad. I just thought, "Okay, I'll pretend I'm in my driveway laying under the car listening to it run for 45 minutes...But why would I be doing that?"

And it's hard to remain completely still. Most of the time, I was trying to remember something he'd said. He said something like, "Don't move your ??? because it can move your spine." I couldn't move my spine, because this was what the MRI was for. Okay. No problem. But as soon as he'd said it, I was like, "Wait...what? Don't move my what? Shit, I forgot." I tried not breathing, but I knew that wouldn't last for 45 minutes. Besides, I don't think he'd said, "Don't more your lungs." Wrists? Buttocks?

I noticed he asked if I was having pain in my buttocks before we started (an oft-asked question when your back is fucked up). Buttocks. Not butt. Not ass. Buttocks. I imagine how threatening I'd sound if I told someone I was going to kick their buttocks. "I'm going to kick your MOTHERFUCKIN' buttocks, asshole!"

Imagine if we referred to our doctors in slang, too. Instead of, "I'm going to my OBGYN," it'd be, "I'm going to my cunt doctor. He's the best."

Or, instead of visiting the proctologist, you'd say, "I'm going to visit the assman."

Chiropractor? "I've got an appointment with my med school drop-out."

BLOCKED!
I blocked that person always making the wierd comments on my blog on myspace. It was kind of strange. I talked to her perhaps once--maybe twice--in college, and here she's posting all over my blog. I was subscribed to her blog, too, and she'd update it no less than 8 times per day (no exaggeration). Every time it updated, myspace would send an email saying that she updated. So I'd get excited that I'd have a shitload of email, but then I'd see eight of ten emails were from myspace telling me she updated her blog eight fuckin times. Jesus.



CONTEST
This is a contest contest. You get to choose the next contest. If you win, I'll send you an autographed copy of my book. Well, it's not really MY book--I'm going to grab a random book off my shelf (preferably one I've already read and didn't like), sign it, and send it to you. Add it to your collection of shit that you're probably going to throw away. So, just tell me what kind of contest I should have, and you'll win the contest if it's cool.