As everyone knows, having a blog supported by WordPress requires that you write at least one post with the word “anal” in it. This is because WordPress, the company that supports all of our blogs, fills their executive chairs with anal people who insist on the use of the word “anal”.
Anal Retentive is a phrase made popular by Sigmund Freud in his famous psychoanalytic period of the 1890’s. The characteristics of anal retentive people have been described as particular, specific and fastidious, while those of Anal Expulsive people (a lesser known but equally important Freudian distinction) are casual and more easy-going.
Curiously, when someone in Starbucks announces to her fellow patrons that she is “anal” because she likes “two and one half pumps of caramel”, the description is incomplete–similar to saying you are “lactose” instead of “lactose intolerant”. Either way, you are probably going to have bowel issues which make you incredibly interesting, so please continue to talk about your anus in public.
Because blogs are a forum for bloggers to describe aspects of ourselves that help others understand how incredibly interesting we are, I thought I would describe my anal experience. I do this to provide a total blogging experience for you as required by WordPress, similar to Freud’s experience with his patients, minus the snorting of coke and the confusing erections.
When I was young, my mother decided that the rectal thermometer was the most efficient way to check my temperature. My little bum (that’s butt to you Americans) was tight and frightened as she approached with the silver mercury tube, vaseline poised on the bulbous tip like a Flock of Seagulls petroleum ‘do.
She would slide the thermometer into my rectum with no warning and minimal foreplay. To me, it felt like I was being raped by a very well-endowed glass midget who knew no mercy on my young, pink pucker.
Two minutes later, just as my sphincter was adjusting to the girth of three spaghetti strands, she would withdraw the alien intruder, and I would begin to relax, knowing that someday I could reveal this burden to the world via a blog about poop, hemorrhoids and the importance of understanding our lack of importance.
Since that day, I have shied away from anything anal. I don’t believe I am anal mostly because I’ve never owned a car cover and also because my father took me aside and explained to me that “things come out of that hole, Son, they don’t go in. You understand?”
It takes a certain amount of bravery to talk about your relationship with your anus, and I applaud the many people who announce their connection with this bacteria-laden area as if it were a free parking space or a TV show with Ashton Kutcher. I think the world is better off that we can announce to everyone in Starbucks that our personalities are directly attached to our anuses.
Just as abusers abuse and molesters molest, I now collect rectal thermometers, though I cannot for the life of me understand why. As I’ve grown to learn more about myself with all of my blogging friends, I believe the reason I am now building a museum to Sphincter Temperatures is because I’ve isolated exactly what the true meaning of life is:
If you must be anal, be anal about your anus.