>>> Casual Misanthropy
By staff writer JD Rebello
December 21, 2005

The holiday season is well upon us, and I feel we must be reminded that this is a time for charity—of empathy for those less fortunate, like myself.

For the past eight days, I have been battling a plight worse than cancer, AIDS, lupus and being Mexican. I have had an itchy asshole.

Not just a regular itchy asshole, I mean an ITCHY asshole. The kind of itchy asshole that could end a relationship. An itchy asshole that could kill a medium-sized Korean family. An itchy asshole by which all other itchy assholes are merely unfeeling rectums.

Below is a day-to-day account of my itchy asshole, for your enjoyment.

“I was having crazy thoughts on Day 3, like, ‘God, what if my asshole is itchy for the rest of my life? Who could love me?'”

Day 1: The crazy thing about an itchy asshole is the way it just sneaks up on you. It’s like a sore throat. You know how when you get a sore throat, it comes to you a little at a time? Like you swallow a delicious Nutty Bar and it tastes great but something isn’t right. So you try to cough it off, but that doesn’t work. So you go to bed and the next day it’s like you’re trying to swallow broken glass. That’s what my itchy asshole was like on Day 1. A slight tickle, a mild hindrance, the calm before the storm.

Day 2: I had pretty much written off my slight itchy asshole from yesterday and had spent much of the day dealing with a very calm and decidedly un-itchy asshole. But then, at 6:23 pm, on my way to work, walking down Morrissey Blvd, it hit me like a ton of bricks…if bricks were symbolic of itchy assholes. It literally caused me to jump two feet, like that bullet that jumped up and bit Forrest Gump. I didn’t know what to do, nor did I care that cars and minivans full of children and dogs were driving by and could easily see me. I did what anyone else in my position would do. I scratched.

So, at 6:23 pm, on Morrissey Blvd, I was in up to my elbow. At one point I swear I felt the back of my gums. I didn’t care. I dug and dug and dug until I felt like I was going to shit Comfort. The funny thing is, if you scratch your ass hard enough, it makes you have to pee. I can’t imagine what women must go through when they have an itchy asshole. Because, you know, women are biological mutants.

Day 3: Ugh, Day 3 was to my itchy asshole what 1968 was to the Vietnam War. The culmination of pain and discomfort, a staggering feeling of helplessness. I spent much of the day in bed, afraid to move my butt cheeks even the slightest bit. I was having crazy thoughts on Day 3, like, “God, what if my asshole is itchy for the rest of my life? Who could love me?”

Day 4: I decided to get Proactive and wash out my asshole. I hit the showers, water hotter than ever, and positioned my asshole so it was getting the full spray. I figured something was working when the water turned a lovely goldenrod. (By the way, now’s a good time to mention that you shouldn’t eat while reading my column. Don’t say you weren’t warned.) Alas, the itch was alive and well, and my roommates were pissed because I shit all over the tub.

Day 5: My friends betrayed me. Every time I pleaded for help regarding my itchy asshole I got the same response: “Stop getting fucked up there.” Ho ho. My friends don’t care about my suffering. They just have to make the requisite gay joke. If I told them I had leukemia, they’d probably bust out, “Yeah, because you suck dick.” These aren’t friends.

Day 6: I turned to farting as a means to scratch. After pounding seven bowls of chili and eating my coffee table, all I accomplished was making my bedroom smell like the nice part of Detroit.

Day 7: I actively sought out proctologists, to no avail. The closest I came was when I called Dr. Evan Morris’s office in downtown Chicago. The receptionist was very helpful. I told her my asshole has been itchy for several days. She put me on hold, muttering some kind of obscenity. She set up an appointment for me the next day. I said that could be difficult because I live in Boston. She suggests I find a proctologist a little closer to home. Nobody wants to help me.

Day 8: I’ve spent the day holed up in my room like some kind of hermit. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t write. All I can do is pray, that somehow someway a cure will be found.

Some will find this all amusing, another case of Justin being Justin. “Maybe he’s trying to see if he can be the top search on Google if you type in ‘itchy asshole,’” they’ll shout from the rooftops. I can only say that is not the case. Your eleventh favorite college humorist is suffering.

And so I implore you, dear reader, to help the fight against my itchy asshole. In this time of giving, please donate to my fund. A few cents, a thousand dollars, it doesn’t matter. Something. Anything. Whatever will help me fight this awful disease. I’d say more, but it’s hard to type with one hand. The other one is tending to my itchy asshole.

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