See Dick Doc


Health and wellness do funny things to people. We all have that friend or family member who takes every placebo medication under the sun and tries to force their homeopathic remedies on everyone. First of all, relax, it’s okay, you aren’t going to catch the homeo love by contact with these people. Ostracization is not the answer. We are more evolved than that. We need to lock them in a room and deny them everything that’s natural. That’s the 21st century way.


Three cheers for medical research!
Three cheers for medical research!

I used to work in the natural medicine industry and there is something enticingly primal about only taking what you need from the earth. Over time, a superiority complex develops and one begins to look down upon all the poor souls surviving on synthetics. But in the last few years, I have learned that I can still be superior to everyone even without my Coenzyme Q10. I weaned myself off the natural meds and now I only use casually to boost my immune system after an illness.

Words of wisdom from Britney.
Words of wisdom from Britney…

You are right Britney Spears, there are only two types of people in the world: those who entertain health and the ones who observe. Whether or not you are entertaining health in a more natural or a more Western sort of way, you are actively making decisions to become immortal. The observers just sit back and let themselves live or die as the world turns.


The other night Tales and myself were having dinner with my parents. I reminded him that he is well-past 25 now and should go for his first medical. He keeps putting it off and making excuses. His fear, we discovered, is that a strange doctor will hold his balls while he coughs and then diagnose him with an erection.

Sometimes it just happens.
Sometimes it just happens.


My father Jebediah also has a strong aversion to doctors and the word colonoscopy makes him very uncomfortable. He threatened to finish his dinner downstairs when I showed him how far up your ass they shove the scope.


“Jebediah, this is important,” my Mom said. “It isn’t pleasant, but it could save your life. I go for mammograms and they hurt worse than nipple clamps. Dick, talk some sense into him.”

“The fun part is when they give you a plastic syringe and you get to give yourself an enema.”

Of course you should trust your doctor.
Of course you should trust your doctor.

“Dick! That’s not helping,” my Mom scolded as my Dad’s face lost a bit of colour.

“This conversation is over,” my Dad said, getting up from the table.

“Dad,” I explained, “This is actually very serious. The doctors could catch something early and it could save your life.”

“I don’t care,” he retorted.

“Then we will have to send you on vacation. To Colonoscopy Island.”

“Oh, and where is that?”

“Butt-Fuck nowhere.”

Don't be afraid of knowledge.
This is what they teach in Butt-Fuck Nowhere.


Natural medicines and pharmaceuticals both have their advantages and disadvantages and can be exploited in propagandist marketing campaigns. One needs to sift through all the excrement in order to find the kernels of truth that have not been digested. Some things are important. Some things are superfluous. What works for you, may not be what works for someone else. Do your own research. Don’t treat your body like shit. Eat well. Sleep well. De-stress. Exercise.


See Dick Teethe


Every time I go to the dentist they try and force me to get a mouth guard. Apparently, I’m a clencher. Quite often I find my dream-self running around fighting supernatural battles and escaping dangerous villains. I guess it’s only natural, when witnessing myself endure all that action and suspense, to clench my teeth in anticipation for an epic showdown.


So finally I caved. Maybe it was Tales telling me he wouldn’t kiss me if I lost all my teeth. Which then led to dreams of broken teeth. I consulted a dream journal and learned that my mouth is getting me into trouble.


I tried an NTI mouth guard first. This is a small, prefabricated polycarbonate matrix that covers only your two front teeth, leaving a gap so that your back teeth cannot clench. Problem: I clench my front teeth instead and they feel so loose in the morning that I have visions of my toothless refection in the mirror.


How I envision my elderly toothless grin.
How I envision my elderly toothless grin.

When I went back to my dentist, they recommended a full mouth guard. A large woman took me into the back room, sat me down and asked,

“Are you wanting top or bottom?”

“Ummm, what’s the difference…?” I asked, wondering if she was joking or entirely clinical.

“No difference. Some just have a preference for how it feels.”


After I made my decision, the large woman began to explain what I would experience during the procedure.

“You will lean forward, relax your jaw and open as wide as you can. I will shove it in. You will feel it expanding into the back of your throat. Try not to gag. I will finish very quickly.” Once again, I tried to look for a wink or a smirk or something that would reveal her perverted sense of humour. Nothing. Dead pan.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “I got this.”

Just be like Lil' Kim, I thought. She can make a Sprite can disappear in her mouth.
Just be like Lil’ Kim, I thought. She can make a Sprite can disappear in her mouth.

“Some people get the white goo everywhere. Here is a cloth to clean yourself up afterward.”

“As long as I don’t get it in my eye.”

“One time, when we were practicing, my friend got it up my nose.” Nothing. No hint of comedy at all. This woman has the driest sense of humour for someone who engages in such a moist activity. Little does she know how hard this is for me. How hard it is to keep my mouth shut. How hard it is not to spit out something truly perverted. I managed to swallow everything and remain professional, but god damn, she just set herself up so perfectly.


I tried to spit out the white residue, but because my mouth was still numb from having a cavity re-filled, everything just poured down my chin. On my drive back to work I refused to swallow, because I thought it was unhealthy, so my mouth filled up to capacity with saliva and little white bits. When I returned to work, I ran down to the washroom and let it all flow out.


I was a mess.
I was a mess.

When I came upstairs, Naomi pointed out the little bit of schmutz on my beard.

“Good lord, Dick, at least clean up after yourself.” Thank god for perverted friends. Otherwise I would have imploded a very long time ago.


Our friend and colleague Kimberley began shaking with terror, just hearing about my experience at the dentist. After learning about her irrational fear of dental work, Naomi and I decided that it was our duty as good friends to help cure her of this affliction. I explained to Kimberley that every Monday night we would lay her down and practice putting things in her mouth.

“You’ll cry the first few times,” I explained, “but eventually you will become conditioned to receiving foreign objects orally. And then you’ll be normal – just like everyone else.”

A little game I picked up for game nights with Kimberley.
A little game I picked up for game nights with Kimberley.

See Dick Picnic.


My Goal: experience life stories and write about them. Reality One: Too much time experiencing life stories and not enough time to write about life stories. Reality Two: Too much time set aside for writing life stories and not enough life for the stories. I am nearing the end of four whole days off in a row and somehow I have managed to fill my free time with doing all the things. Now for Reality Three: live and write.


My journey with Kimberly today was quite magical. We encountered a strange little castle, complete with turrets and a small toad that, despite how many times Kimberly kissed him, refused to turn into her prince. Maybe that only works with frogs, but there was a castle right there, come on. I was quite sure he was the dashing Prince of Rural Fergus and that Kimberly was destined to reign over all of the dusty side roads. Alas, I was wrong. Failing our attempt to make her a princess, we travelled on.


It's all just practice for when you're older...
It’s all just practice for when you’re older…

Our greatly anticipated destination today was Kimberly’s bush. She isn’t very good with directions so we had to back up a few times and try again, but eventually we got there. Everything else about Kimberly is so pristine that I was a little surprised at the wilderness that opened up before me.


“This place is so quaint,” Kimberly said. “Just follow me down this path. I made you delicious sandwiches for our picnic…” I stood, looking down a dark tunnel of twisting ominous tree branches and sharp curling bramble, an empty MacDonald’s bag to the right of me, a dead sheep to the left. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had reached into her picnic basket, pulled out an apple and said, “Come my child, only a little further.”


Nature walks with Kimberly.
Nature walks with Kimberly.

I decided to trust that Kimberly was a great friend and had no reason to kill me even though I am quite pretty. Our friend Naomi, though, is quite literally the fairest of them all. Naomi, if Kimberly ever invites you here, please make sure that you bring an entourage of small men, trust the birds and don’t swallow (anything poisonous).


We made our way to a clearing (and by clearing I mean an area in the forest where nothing was taller than our thighs) and laid out the picnic blanket. Kimberly’s arugula, mushroom and Swiss cheese sandwiches were absolutely amazing. We also dined on fresh Ontario strawberries, glutarded choco-choco-chip cookies, vegetable skinny sticks and washed it all down with swigs of lemonade straight from the bottle because we’re so fancy. The mosquitoes also had a delicious meal, tapping in wherever the little whores could find a spot to stick it.


Our mosquitoes sang "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole," by Martha Wainwright.
Our mosquitoes sang “Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole,” by Martha Wainwright.

After lunch we decided to walk down to the water, but Kimberly tripped over all the wood and ended up on her back. We opted for a casual stroll down the country road instead. Despite the tractor that almost hit us, the walk was quite peaceful; it was just what I needed after a busy week of work and a busy weekend of playing. Just when I was thinking that nobody actually lived out here and that all the houses were abandoned because some mysterious creature was ravaging the countryside, a young man on a bicycle came out of nowhere. He was lean and muscular with sharp cheekbones and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. He also had blonde dreads swept up behind his head that we decided, after a brief debate, were attractive because it was summer and his skin was like gold.

Hard to find. Harder when you find it.
Hard to find. Harder when you find it.

I tried to leave a voice reminder about the pros and cons of Caucasian dreads and was left with this message on my phone:


Remind me in 5 with stick to talk about white boys having summer dress being OK with a banging can but in the winter can you just add Pacey guy with the winter drives and that’s really trashy.


All in all, a golden tan with luscious twisting dreads are hot. Pale skin and greasy dreads are not. The really hot dreaded cyclist smiled with the corner of his mouth and said hi. If this were a real fairytale, then he would have been the prince that Kimberly took home. Unfortunately, the only thing that Kimberly took home was the stench of dead sheep on her dog’s breath because dear old Mildred must have snuck a nibble from the carcass when we were not looking.


See Dick Bathe.


Since the dawn of bathing one’s body in an unnaturally created body of water, the washbasin has been romanticized. Apparently there is something sensual about lying in your own filth, even taking the time to highlight the experience with candles and prolong the experience with a glass of wine. I can definitely see how this could be relaxing, therapeutic even, but what I want to talk about is how a passionate love affair in a bathtub is not all it’s splashed up to be.


Almost as comfortable as the real thing.
Almost as comfortable as the real thing.

I have to admit there was a period of time where I believed in the quixotic appeal of a traditional claw-footed tub. Tales and I took a mini vacation a couple years ago, you know, like they do in the movies and say: We just need to get away from it all and have a romantic weekend getaway. The bed and breakfast we were staying at was called The Bacchus House and our room was the Cabernet Sauvignon room. Upon entering our bedroom in the house of the god of wine and debauchery, I was ecstatic to find out we had our very own claw-foot tub. After pouring the bathwater and the wine we stepped into the bubbles. As we ungracefully sat down we realized the error of our ways. Two grown men in a bathtub is a tight fit. With both our bodies in the tub, there wasn’t actually that much room for water and there was nowhere to set down our glasses of wine so we just held them while awkwardly trying to find shared comfort in a very unforgiving porcelain bowl.


“My shoulder blades hurt.”

“I can’t stretch out my legs.”

“I hate the smell of lavender.”

“That’s all they had, shut-up.”

“It’s really hard to drink at this angle.”

“I don’t have enough back-fat for this to be even remotely comfortable.”

“Ow, my chin!”

“That’s it, we’re done.”

That was the day my infatuation with bathtubs died. Don’t believe what the media tells you. Bathtubs. Are. Not. Sexy.


They're only acting like it's comfortable!
They’re only acting like it’s comfortable!

Our friends Naomi and Casper recently shared a rather arduous bathtub experience as well. Naomi had the brilliant idea of watching The Sopranos curled up together in their tub. Now, Naomi does have some very good ideas. Like eating all the Skittles and watching horror movies until we are scared and shit rainbows. Great idea. Romantic Sopranos bathtub time? Not her worst idea, but definitely not her best.


Unfortunately no pot of gold on the other end.
Unfortunately no pot of gold on the other end.

If you’re going to be naked with your lover, you should be thinking about getting dirty, not getting clean. Soapy water is not the best environment for sex anyway. Women are left with a uterus full of water and we all know that water and jizz makes glue. Not the kind of crafts you want to be making. Next time you want to be adventurous, trust me, the bathtub is a journey best left uncharted.


See Dick Believe.

Male Angel

When I was a young child, my parents would often send me to my room because I would monopolize their adult conversations and use big impressive words like discombobulated and soporific. I thought I was wise beyond my years and was more interested in what adults wanted to talk about than playing pogs with Billy.

When I did have conversations with other children, I was that kid that destroyed your reality.

“I wonder what Santa will get me for Christmas?”

“Santa Claus is your Dad. Grow up.”

Why do you think he's so rosy all the time?
Why do you think he’s so rosy all the time?

My friend Theodore was telling me the other day that his eldest son still believes in the Tooth Fairy. His son came downstairs two days in a row complaining that the Tooth Fairy kept forgetting about him. In order to redeem the Tooth Fairy, Theodore wrote his son a teeny tiny note with teeny tiny letters explaining the situation:

Dear Norton,

Our sincerest apologies for being late. Sometimes, when it is really cold outside, ice builds up on our fairies’ wings and they fall out of the sky and crash. We have lost many of our sisters this way. Here is your money with interest. Thanks for understanding and enjoy your adult teeth.

I’m not sure how he signed it… The Tooth Fairy Corporation? Only Theodore would tell his son that good fairies are dying in order to bring him his money. What a quaint winter thought: every snowflake is just another dead fairy falling to the ground. I’m sure that J. M. Barrie, the original author of Peter Pan, would like to add that fairies are always throwing wild sex orgies and procreating like crazy so they will never become an endangered species. Thankfully, there will always be an endless supply of fairies because fairies are whores.

Tinkerbell, you minx.
Tinkerbell, you minx.

I may not have believed in Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy or any other fantastical childhood characters, but I did believe a few hindsightfully embarrassing things.

#1. I believed that Ricky Martin was straight. I even took a girl on a date to see Ricky Martin live in concert and we shook our bon bons.


#2. I believed that I was straight. I thought I looked at men because I wanted to look like them when, in fact, I actually liked to look at them. And then just looking wasn’t sufficient. And then Blondie sang, “When I think about you, I touch myself.”

Words of wisdom from Brotips.
Words of wisdom from Brotips.

#3. I believed that nobody else wacked off, but me. I thought I was a one-hand-one-man show. This fiction probably resulted from having too many girlfriends who were afraid to touch themselves.

Ladies, if Blondie doesn't have a problem with it, neither should you.
Ladies, if Blondie doesn’t have a problem with it, neither should you.

Now, as an adult (or as close to one as I will ever get), I have a more educated worldview. But sometimes, as adults, we disbelieve so much that we need to suspend our disbeliefs or go bat-shit crazy believing in nothing and no one. It’s okay to believe in something. It can actually be quite fun. Just don’t jam it down other people’s throats when they don’t want it. That’s like raping people with your beliefs. And don’t accept everything that is pushed on you either. Then you’re an easy believer. Remember: everything is better when it’s a little bit harder.

Hard work gets you wet.
Hard work gets you wet.

See Dick Underneath.


Everyone knows that you introduce your best ideas first in order to attract attention and then last in order to keep your audience contemplating your work. Thus, an accessory, say… a stylish pair of glasses, is like an intriguing introduction and an undergarment is like a concluding paragraph for a well-organized body of literature. My superhero costume would simply be glasses and underpants; I would make a brief spectacle of my adversaries before I destroyed them.

Saving the world from ugly underpants!
Saving the world from ugly underpants!

You all know how much I love my glasses, but do you really know how much I love my underpants? A few of you have had the pleasure – or uncomfortable experience – of walking beside me in my underwear. If I could only wear underwear, I totally would (and apparently sometimes do.) Tales and I both enjoy quality undergarments, but have discovered that they are incredibly hard to find. Lately, both of us have been settling for mass production and/or average underpants. Why, when we put independent eyewear on our faces, should we allow corporations to have us by the balls? So, we decided to go on an underpants mission – not to be confused with an under-the-pants mission.

Allow me to provide you with a brief history or our undergarment complaints:

Maybe not this historical, but that stretchy hole is definitely an interesting feature.
Maybe not this historical, but that stretchy hole is definitely an interesting feature.

Mountain Equipment Co-op: not the most fashionable, limited colour/design, looses shape over time, small fits like a medium.

Lululemon: material thins quickly, disproportionately high-waisted, very average fit/design for price-point.

Abercrombie: cotton-based thick material encourages sweating, boring design, corporation with a bad public rep.

Jockey: fit and colours are decent, elastic band pulls apart quickly, fabric has a tendency to pill.

driWear: cut is okay, fabric sticks together, not very interesting.

As a part of our mission, Tales and I decided to try various styles of underwear as well as brands. Anciently, we only had the loincloth at our disposal, but now we have boxers, boxer briefs, briefs, tighty whities, jocks, g-strings, erotic and theatrical. Personally, I am more of a brief variation kind of guy. Boxers are too highschool, tighty whities are too public school, jocks are too drafty, g-strings are too ass-munchy, erotics are too desperate and theatricals are too ridiculous. But just for kicks, I am trying to convince Tales that we should try something out of our comfort zones, just so that we can be fully informed. Maybe something like this:


Very leftist.
Very leftist.

In the meantime, these are the few brands that have passed the test (for the short-term at least):


Dylan RibbkOFF medium length boxer briefs:

Made in Canada, cotton-based, but higher quality, smooth fabric, clean design with bright colour options, youthful appearance.

JM short boxer briefs:

Made in Canada, microfibre/spandex means less sweat, sculpted fit, shorter in the leg, doesn’t bunch or ride up, a “Gentlemen’s” design.

PUMP! briefs:

Cotton-based, non-flamboyant homoerotic sporty appearance, hugs without squishing, young and sexy.

Under Armour long boxer briefs:

Corporately produced, but made well, poly/elastane so breathable, bright colours, tight fit, doesn’t ride up, for men who move.

The functional purpose of underwear has always been to keep our outer garments from becoming soiled and to provide safety and support for our boys. These days, we are not running around shitting our pants (I hope), but I don’t ever see a time where we wouldn’t need to keep our johnsons tucked away from our daily activities. Unless your johnson is your daily activity.

In conclusion, Tales and I have learned a thing or two about men’s underwear. Thing one: Don’t just have one kind of underwear. That’s boring. Spice it up. Try a few different styles. Some are more suited for certain things than others. Thing two: Know your size. Don’t squeeze into a small or swim in a large. Tales has come to the difficult realization that he is not a men’s medium in all brands. He is sometimes a men’s large. And, after having to fold over the elastic band of a few brands of underwear, I have come to accept that I am sometimes not even a men’s small. In some brands, sadly, I am a boy’s large.



See Dick Caught.


Caught in the act. Caught red-handed. Caught in a trap. Caught a cold. We’ve all been caught before. Not always the most pleasant of situations, being caught, yet our immediate actions and post-caught behaviour say a lot about our character.

I have climbed deep into snow tunnels, got caught and had to back my way out. I have climbed trees too high, got caught and had to back my way back down. I have spent an afternoon playing in a field with poo in my pants because I was having too much fun to go inside (or outside for that matter). There seems to be a backward trend here. I go to far and then have to unravel myself. But I always seem to be able to talk my way out of things. The last time I got caught, I let them catch me. But thanks to my KMM (Korean Mafia Mom) I didn’t have to go to jail. KMMs are great in a pinch. I highly recommend them. And if you’re pinching a loaf, I have learned the hard way that one should never play chicken with a bowel movement. The bowel movement always wins. For the record, I learned this at age four. In case you thought this was a recent development.

Speaking of loaves, the other night I was trying to force-feed Naomi my homemade chocolate zucchini loaf, but she wouldn’t even taste it. Maybe she doesn’t trust me anymore because I tricked her into drinking chlorophyll once and she almost barfed. She turned quite green actually.

One Day Late Classic Joke Tuesday!
One Day Late Classic Joke Tuesday!

Anyway, Naomi was having none of it. None of my delicious loaf. I’ve never had my loaf turned down before so I wanted to know why my loaf wasn’t good enough for her.

“Dick, I don’t want your loaf.”

“Why? What’s wrong with my loaf?”

“Dick, leave Naomi alone.” Tales yelled from the bedroom. “She doesn’t want your loaf.”

“Okay listen,” Naomi said, moving the conversation into our bedroom. “The reason I don’t want your loaf is because…” and she started to lift up her shirt, “… of this!


“What’s wrong with you?” Tales asked, always the direct one in conversation. I always tend to beat around the bush. Nobody wants to go BAM! straight into the bush. That’s just asking for trouble and perhaps an STI. Side note funny story: Tales had a dream last night that Naomi contracted herpes and gave it to both of us. I had a dream that Naomi asked me if I wanted a ride to a funeral in a football field, but I said no thanks I’m eating this orange with these two chicks and she said fine be that way. But back to what’s wrong with Naomi in the real world:

“I don’t know what I ate, but it looks like I’m pregnant. With a rock. I have a rock baby.”

“Is it Keith Richard’s?” I asked.

Naomi's future child.
Naomi’s future child.

“Just look,” Naomi says moving her rock belly around.

“Um… our neighbour Elinor is at the front door watching you.” I pointed out as I made my way over to the front door to let her in.

“I heard you had loaf, but I didn’t know you had a stripper.”

“Yay you want my loaf!”

“So… sometimes I try to convert them, but it never works,” Naomi says quietly and then runs upstairs. She doesn’t say Hey, so I actually have indigestion and my belly is full. Nope. She lets Elinor think she’s a confused stripper instead. Now we’re those people in that teal house with the yellow door that have a gothic roommate who is also their personal stripper. Excellent.

Naomi, there is more to life than stripping for us.
Naomi, there is more to life than stripping for us.

Our actions aren’t always the only things that get embarrassingly caught. Sometimes actual pieces of us get caught. This one time, at home with his wife and four children, Theodore had something stuck in the very back of his throat. Now, Theodore has some truly amazing ideas and likes to execute them as fast as possible. But every so often he has a truly horrible idea and he executes them just as fast as the amazing ones. So, what would you do if you had something stuck in the back of your throat? Would you maybe… gargle? Eat something mildly abrasive? Go see a professional? Or would you convince your wife to take the vacuum cleaner hose and insert it into your mouth, reaching down deep to try and suck it off the back of your throat?

“A little farther honey… farther… farther –”


“Oh my god, I’m sucking up your uvula!”

“Ake it op! Ake it op!” Finally with the vacuum off and a very elongated uvula later…

“Daddy, are you okay?”

“Never do what Daddy does children. Always. Do. The. Opposite.”

Vampire vacuum: I vant to suck your uvula.
Vampire vacuum: I vant to suck your uvula.