I recently participated in one of those team building exercises, but I can’t remember the names of the people in my group, nor will I ever see them again.
In one of the activities, we had to answer questions about ourselves, and my favorite question came up. How much television do you watch in a week? Of course, I told the truth – thirty-three hours. You should have seen the looks on all the other participant’s faces. Then, I said, “No one ever admits to watching television, but let’s do the math.” I then asked them the following questions:
Do you watch the news in the morning? Answer: Well, while I am getting dressed, I have it on, but I am not actually sitting in front of the television. If the TV is on, you are watching.
Do you watch the news at night? Answer: Well, I am making dinner, but I am not actually sitting in front of the television. If the TV is on, you are watching.
Do you DVR favorite programs? Answer: Well, I do DVR The Closer, Rizzoli and Isles, Castle, Royal Pains, Jerseylicious, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, Hot in Cleveland, Happily Divorced, The Exes, 20/20, Sixty Minutes … Stop, stop, you have just admitted to watching almost nine hours of television plus the news, which adds another ten hours, so you are up to nineteen, and you haven’t even mentioned Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, which would add another seven!
When all was said and done, half of the participants in the group actually watched more television a week than I do, and those were the ones who gave me the looks of dismaytion when I told the truth. Do you like my new word – dismaytion: of or being dismayed. Use it in a sentence.
Since I don’t care what other people think, I don’t lie when it comes to what others considering embarrassing questions. For example, I relayed a story to a co-worker about how I passed a Popeye’s while walking home in a snow storm and bought a family size chicken dinner, eight pieces, eight biscuits, and three sides then went home, and in six hours consumed the entire meal, mostly over the sink while throwing the bones down the disposal. He likes telling people this story. Everyone has a story like this, but how many of you would admit it? Hardly anyone will admit what they actually ate in a given day, unless they are on Weight Watchers and counting points, but I’ll bet some of them lie, too.
For all of you embarrassed to tell the truth, I have eaten an entire Bundt cake in an hour. I have eaten a dozen donuts in an afternoon. I have consumed a half gallon of ice cream while watching Extreme Makeover, Weight Loss Edition. I once ate an entire box of corn flakes for breakfast. Do you know what I call those whole rotisserie chickens they sell for $5.99 at the supermarket on Fridays? Lunch. The next question you may ask is how much time have I spent on the toilet in my lifetime. I buy toilet paper in bulk.
I am eating while I write this. I have not missed a meal since 1962, and that was only because it was my Bris or Brit Milah. Having one’s foreskin removed affects one’s appetite.
Speaking of my Bris, have you ever calculated how many people have seen you naked? How many doctors, nurses, teammates, tricks, Mohels, cable guys, neighbors, pizza delivery boys … over a weekend, a month, a year, a lifetime? Do you really want to know?
I will make it easier for you by doing my own calculation.
Let’s start with my birth. It was in a Catholic hospital, Mary Immaculate in downtown Newport News. So my mother’s obstetrician was the first to see me naked. Interesting story (or not), I was his first full term birth, and he predicted I would be born on Thanksgiving Day 1962. He was right. I was so large that my mother had a seventeen-stitch episiotomy and had to sit in a chair with a fan blowing on her nether regions to aid in healing. Her friend, Bootsie, came to visit and fainted when she got a glimpse of my mother’s stitched up snatch. I love alliteration.
As a result of giving birth to what was essentially a toddler with a very large head and shoulders, my Bris was held at the hospital. So, I figure about ten nuns, they love white fish salad, the doctor, the Mohel of course, and all the guests, probably around twenty-five. If you’ve never been to a Bris, you must know it is customary to be sure the Mohel does not cut on a bias, so everyone watches.
A man was standing at a urinal and said to his friend who was urinating at the adjacent urinal, “I know who circumcised you. Mohel Greenberg in Chicago. He cuts on an angle, and right now you are pissing on my shoe.”
That means by eight days, I had been seen naked by at least thirty-seven people not including my family.
Growing up, I was told by several of my mother’s friends that they had witnessed, participated in or actually changed my diapers, so let’s add five to the number, bringing us to forty-two. Add my family, and that brings us to forty-seven. Don’t you love knowing that your Aunt Anita changed your diaper?
I went to day camp and overnight camp, was on swim and football teams, so I was seen by peers and counselors and coaches and teammates, and unfortunately, I saw peers and counselors and coaches and teammates (they never look like the ones in pornos), so that brings us to around … are you ready for this ... one-hundred-fifty, and this is before I had my first sexual encounter!
There have been doctors and nurses, so we have now hit the one-hundred-seventy mark. Oh hell, I had surgery twice, so let’s make it one-hundred-eighty-five.
Intermediate school gym class is the most interesting. I remember before entering eighth grade worrying about having to shower with other guys. Our biggest concern then was having pubic hair. My friend, Scott, asked me if I had pubic hair yet because he was worried about looking like an eight-year-old Ken Doll. My how times have changed. Now many guys who work out, both gay and straight, shave everything, so they look like eight-year-old Ken Dolls. I have never had a lot of hair, so I don’t have the urge to shave what little I have. I also worry about guys with smooth legs – it looks creepy to me. Anyway, if I add up two years of intermediate school and three years of high school gym classes, that brings us to three-hundred-ten, and I still had not had a sexual encounter yet.
As an adult, I joined a gym, which had open showers. This is difficult, because five showers a week, a rotation of regulars with newbies and resolutionaries each January, and the occasional pervert, I think we have finally hit the five-hundred mark.
Am I making you wonder about your own numbers? I reached five-hundred without having a sexual encounter, or at least any I will admit to, considering my gym had open showers. Nuff said!
Now, we need to include random sightings of Sasquatch, or as I refer to him – me. I am sure in any of my apartments I was seen walking around in the buff by pedestrians or people in buildings across alleyways. In Rockville, my apartment had a view of the Bank of American office building. Anyone on their upper floors could see directly into my apartment, and the best part was that if I left my bathroom door open, they could get a clear view of me taking a dump, which as you know from my food confessions above, was quite often. With twenty-six years of apartments, I will bring the total to five-hundred-fifty.
I have vacationed twice in clothing optional resorts, so that brings us to six-hundred.
Can you believe it? Without including sexual encounters, I admit that six-hundred people have seen me naked.
What is your number?
And, if you want to know the number including all tricks and relationships, sorry guys, here is where even I won’t tell you the truth! Besides, I don’t think my keyboard could handle all those zeros.
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