I don’t know, if this keeps up, I could make a regular feature out of this. Some of these things are hysterical.
Not always. But every once in a while, something comes across my search term section in the WordPress dashboard that absolutely blows me away, or makes me chuckle, or leaves me scratching my head wondering what the heck that person might’ve been looking for and what they found here on my blog. It can be a little creepy sometimes, but it’s funny most of the time.
Here’s one from today:
internet search engines for enemas
*Sigh.* Please, people. Please. At least this one’s not searching for public restrooms too. That’s … that’s gotta be a little improvement, right? I can’t say that I’m pleased to be the first stop for so many people searching for an enema, though. Not sure how to interpret that.
I was really amused by this one, for some reason:
“3rd grade” “wetting my”
Uh … okay. What were you wetting in 3rd grade, whoever you are? Your … lips? whistle? What?
That, of course, reminds me of a story, as it would any old timer in the twilight of their years and faculties.
When I was in third grade, my teacher’s name was Mrs. Smith. She was a big, Amazon of a woman … I think even if I saw her today, she’d be intimidating. She towered over us from her lofty, dizzying height, staring down the end of her bulbous nose. Her heavy, doughy lips and waggling, gelatinous jowls danced over her sloping face when she spoke, like a fleshy avalanche moving over a mountainside. Her hair was blond and seemed set upon her head rather than attached to it, and her chin was a knob poking out of a ball of that doughy floe rising from her collar. Her massive hands at the end of her smooth, featureless arms seemed like the paws of some great primate to us, the children under her tutelage.
For all her fearsome appearance, however, she was a nice lady. She was the first teacher to expose me to cursive. I thought it was so strange, the way the letters rolled and curled, one into the next, and it seemed like a foreign language to me, indecipherable and daunting. She was kind and spoke gently, with a firmness under it that allowed no doubt as to who was running the class. None of us dared step out of line, lest she seize us with those powerful hands and rip us in two, separating our spines between rib cage and hips, discarding our torn forms in the far corners of the classroom like so much detritus.
She wouldn’t have hurt a fly, of course, but she was an imposing figure, and the very idea of making her mad kept us all in line well enough.
Mrs. Smith did have one, tiny little pet peeve: children are to use the bathroom at recess.
During the school year, I’d see hands go up. She would patiently call on the kid, asking what the question was. If it was ever, “Can I go to the bathroom?”, the reaction was immediate and unpleasant. The soft, mayonnaise features would glower down on the kid, jowls waggling angrily, lips slapping together like two hot dogs bumping in a steamer as she growled, “Why didn’t you go at recess??” The room would rattle, at least to my kid ears, as she thundered like Zeus from Olympus; I would’ve sworn then that I heard the distant crack of thunder every time it happened.
When I was in school, the year ran from September (after Labor Day) to June. By October, no one was raising their hand to go to the bathroom during class. They saved it for recess and lunch. We were the only class in the school that did so, I’m pretty sure. I was convinced it was some sort of plot to ensure that we didn’t get to play outside during our breaks. She wanted us to go to the bathroom. Lord help you if you didn’t just have to go “Number One.”
Then one day, it happened. It happened to me.
We were there, sitting in class, all of us in our places with bright shiny faces, listening to our lesson. There was a pressure on me — you know … down there.
Oh no. Oh God, please — not this. Anything but this. Don’t let me have to pee now.
Recess was over. Lunch was an interminable distance of time in the future. The second hand on that big, white-faced school clock ticked over, held, held, held, ticked over. Time was crawling forward at a snail’s pace. The teacher’s voice became a droning background noise; my knee bounced involuntarily; all I could see, all I could think about, all I wanted was for that stupid clock to hurry up and get to lunch time.
Within moments I was sweating. I don’t even remember how much time passed. The pressure was so great I could feel the waistband of my pants cutting into my bladder. My eyes watered, my ears were ringing, my teeth gritted. I dared not shift my position in the hard wooden seat. I pressed my knees against the inverted turtle shell metal desk’s underside. I was shaking violently, sweating, praying with all my heart, soul, mind and what little strength wasn’t devoted to holding it.
No divine intervention came to my rescue, though. I felt something slip internally. I felt something give. I froze, straining, trying to stop it, trying to resist the push forward, trying to hold back …
So, anyway … to the person that was doing a search for “3rd grade” “wetting my” … there you go. Hope that helps.