We at The Fools on The Thrill are starting a new feature called “Look at This Rash.” Really a lot to explain. So, first look, then listen to the narrative:
Ok, so obviously I’m no doctor. And you probably aren’t either. You might be! But whether or not you are, I am going to tell you the story of how I think I got this rash.
So I’ll just go ahead: I’ve never been much of a “dog guy”, if you know what I mean. But when I decided to marry my wife, my sweet Cheriss, I did so because I wanted to share the rest of my life with the woman of my dreams, my sweet Cheriss. However, in doing so, I also signed on to sharing my life with her big brown Newfoundland, Explorer. I mean, she really loves this pooch! She adopted him seven years ago when he was a puppy, he’s been in every single Christmas card we’ve made since we started dating – sheesh, he was the ring-bearer at our wedding, for Christ’s sake!
But I still never really could warm up to the idea of Explorer, and Explorer never really seemed like he could warm up to me. He always made sure to sit right in front of my La-Z-Boy in the den when I’m trying to watch the game, and for some reason, he always unlocks the door while I’m going to the bathroom. He doesn’t even come in, either – he just unlocks it and trots right on by. Super awkward when we have company over!
But I always made sure that I was never outright antagonistic towards the dog when my wife was around, because I know how much she loved that pup. I’d never make a fuss when Cheriss had him jump up on the duvet while we do our nightly Sudokus just before going to bed – but as soon as she began to doze off, you can bet your sweet bippy that I didn’t wait two minutes before kicking him off the bed and out the bedroom door. “Da-ave!!” my sweet Cheriss would murmur in the mornings, wiping the sleep out of her eyes. “Da-ave, why are you so mean to ‘Splorie?” That’s another thing I couldn’t stand. “Splorie” is just about the worst nickname you could give anything, let alone a dog who answers only when you say it loud and high.
But things have changed – Cheriss has been promoted to the head of HR in her company, and so we’re moving into the city so that she can be closer for early meetings. And as we leave the old colonial on 317 Church Mill Lane, we are also leaving behind….. you guessed it…. Splorie. I couldn’t tell how hard I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out in joy when Cheriss told me – of course, with tears in her eyes. We’re giving him to a family down the street, who’ve got older kids – “I guess this is best,” dear Cheriss sighed angelically, wiping her dewy orbs. “We never found enough time to walk him, anyway. He needs the exercise.”
So you think the story would end there: I won, Explorer lost. But that just wasn’t enough for me. You ever seen those videos where owners take their dogs that are dying on road trips across America, or cook their favorite meal and throw a surprise party for them? Cheriss wanted to do that. I gently told her no, we didn’t have time, we needed to pack up the house and she had a new job to start and I’m sure Splorie is already so grateful for the amazing life you’ve given him for the past 7 years. She agreed, but asked that while she was staying in the city the next night to interview new candidates to fill the position she was leaving, if I could just have some sort of small celebration for Splorie before we had to send him off to the Jacobson’s down the road. I paused. Then, I smiled. I smiled too wide. She sensed something was up. I covered. Sure, I said nonchalantly. I’ll make sure that Splorie’s last night at the house was a memorable one.
That night, with Cheriss finally away from her precious pooch, I was able to do something I had been fervidly dreaming of for the past 7 years. Me and Splorie had dinner as usual – chicken stir fry for me, Pedigree™ Anti-Hip Dysplasia Plus for him. Then, as soon as darkness fell, I took him into the backyard…. took off his collar…. took off my shirt, pants, and socks….
…and rode him.
I rode that dog like he was a little furry horse. I rode him in the way that Cheriss always told me I couldn’t. “He doesn’t like that, Dave,” she’d plaintively moan. “He’s panting, Dave, you’re stressing him out.”
But I did it. I did it hard and good, and it was worth years having to pick up that doe-eyed monster’s giant poops in the park, years of fighting with that smelly oaf to cram hip dysplasia medication into his slobbery maw, years of competing with that plush asshole for my sweet Cheriss’ love and attention.
So, long story short, I now have this rash on my inner thighs from riding my wife’s Newfie. Any tips on how to get rid of it? Please write in comments! Thanks!! – Dave
P.S: Please do not recommend hydrocortisone cream or petroleum jelly. I cannot stomach the smell of either, after years of tending to too many scaly fungal infections at the base of Splorie’s tail.