My Mother Dear's Thoughts About My Blog

Dear Max,
having read your blog, I must say how disappointed I am. You are SO Brilliant Max [Rampage], I was hoping to be enlightened. instead I feel sick to my stomach, even angry. Guess i won't read your blog any more, unless of course you have something interesting to say. Which I know that you do !
I keep
telling people that my totally fantastic and genius son will some day soon write for the N.Y. Times, The New Yorker, the Economist., Books,....I hope nobody who matters reads this pap. Sorry to be so critical. I know who you are and what you've got. Hope to see it in written word soon. I guess i thought it was just so immature. Potty talk ??!!? You can do better Max !
I love and admire you, and hope I have not offended you. If you want to discuss this and tell me what was on your mind,or any thing else, I would be very interested. Perhaps you were trying to be funny and i just missed it. hope to talk with you soon, love , your Mother

Boners and the Toilet Bowl: The Education of Steph Shih

I've woken up with Morning Wood every day since I was 13 years old. This has caused several awkwardnesses, raised eyebrows, blows jobs. (Yeah right. I could never lure the dog into the room while I was asleep) Friend's have been delighted to see me awake so early in the morning, thinking they have caused such delights. Others have been less than thrilled to see me at attention at such a tender hour, or rather any hour at all.

Nevertheless, this is a fact of life and has nothing to do with them. It really such means I have to tinkle on the ivories. My mother noticed this when I was around 15.

Mommy Dearest. (she doesn't like my blog)

Waking up in the Woods, always meant that my first activity in the morning was not chocolate syrup covered self-indulgence, but taking a piss. This required a certain, maneuvering, a fancy footwork. For in order not to expose myself to mother who idled in the kitchen next to the bathroom burning my breakfast as I readied for school, I had to obscure my adamantine, usually by walking quickly with a crook in the back and my wang (or is Called General Tso's Chicken) tucked carefully beneath the elastic band of my boxers.

Attention: If you plan on using this strategy, you have to wear a t-shirt. Otherwise mommy will think you have cancer.

But the real snafu was when I had arrived at the pisser.

Let me make an admission: I sit to piss.

In the privacy of my own home, I will relax, take a seat, enjoy Reader's Digest or O Magazine.

But with a protuberance, this can become a fiasco, because the last thing I need is to place my Sesame Chicken on the dirtiest piece of porcelain in the house. So one must adjust to give the breakfast buddy some space, but this can actually create a trajectory that allows one to eject a stream of urine between the toilet seat and the toilet.

Nothing is quite like Mommy Dear banging on the door demanding I clean the yellow off the white wall opposite the shitter as I am preparing to go to school.

Fortunately, a piss is usually a quick affair and I could the pocket the tiger with control.

The real problem was when I had the nocturnal tumescence and I had to drop the Jefferson's off at the lake house. This can be a problem. Not only are the precious wares in an unsanitary place bumpin' on the bowl, but the danger of disease or disfigurement seems accentuated by the discharge. The perils can be further enhanced with the possibility of splash back, yes, a real big one smacking the waves and sending a torrent of fecal fouled fluids on to the Morning Magnificence.

Come on Steph Shih, of course guys drop the deuce with an engorged member: haven't you ever given a blumpkin?

A Warning to Ferry Lincoln: Life With Weasels

I put down my xbox controller and shot a glance into Ferry Lincoln's piss sodden cage. Amid the stained red blanky and his composting wood chips, he could not be seen.

I screamed.

How could I? I thought. How could I have abandoned my ferret the way I found him? Sick with cancer, hobbling around the streets of Allston, blind as Helen Keller and even more deaf. Yes, I thought this is how Ferry Lincoln became mine: someone let him out of the cage and then took a bike ride to Newton Center and back.

I hustled out of the living room and began overturning backpacks, my powerdrill box, a pile of clothes in Phil's room. My wee Lincoln! I shouted to him, hopping to break his hearing barrier and signal to his ferret mind. Surely if he could smell like moonshine fermenting in a construction worker's portopotty in the heat of former Rhodesia, he had other superpowers. Latent superpowers.

I desperately bungled my way over to his favorite hiding place and tore the sheets off Phil's bed. But I despairingly knew in my heart Ferry Lincoln would never climb into such a disheveled chamber; Ferry Lincoln is a gentlemen.

I drew in deep a smell of air, hoping to locate him using the smells from his anal gland. (Please do not tell my room mates that it is his anal glands that give him his distinct bouquet, because they do not know. Fools! Where else could such a malodorous experience come from? Hmm? Idiots!) Alas, my roman nose could not place the little weasel.

I called to him using the English accent I think he perceives most readily. "Ferry Linlcoln!" I cried in Northern English phonetics. He responded silently, if he responded at all. I rapped on my room mates door. "Come in," he said. "My ferret is missing," I said. "Oh shit," he said. We tore through the house. I peered under my bed and then I peered atop it. I threw my boxers and hoodie to the ground.

My heart sank. He lay there underneath my fitted sheet.

"YOU FILTHY BASTARD!" I reached under my freshly cleaned fitted sheet and yanked him out from his resting place on the raw mattress, my nice fresh mattress. "YOU DISGUST ME. I'LL HAVE TO CLEAN THOSE AGAIN." I shook him for emphasis. This is how they taught Helen Keller. Screams and violent shakes, that thick dumb bitch. I tossed him back into his diarhheal den.

Watch yourself, Ferry Lincoln, for if you ever sleep in my sheets, you will find the front door open and your bogged cage on the sidewalk.