My Little Butty

Something no one tells you about getting older is that, gradually and over time, your butthole will turn on you and become your greatest enemy.

It’s like having an angry conjoined twin.

Ironically this happens right about the time your penis decides to mellow out and stop causing so much trouble. You think things are finally gonna be fine, but nope! Mr. Butthole decides to jump in and – excuse the expression – fill the void.

The first sign your butthole is beginning to turn on you is when, like most boundary-pushing toddlers, it begins to mouth off.

Sometimes you’re lucky, and it only barks at you in private. A quick, raspy “Hey!” like you stepped on its toe. But soon it’ll become bolder, speaking up in public. It’ll wait to catch you while you’re distracted – a moment of surprise, a burst of laughter, during any sudden lateral or vertical movement. And that’s when your ol’ pal Butty will decide he wants to join in the fun, too! If you’re lucky he’ll just shout his name – short, quick, unmistakable, “I’m Butty!” If you’re not so lucky he’ll blurt something along the lines of, “Hi, I’m Butty! I’m going to be hanging out with everyone from now on! Why has the room gone silent?” This is the moment you find out who your real friends are. Your real friends will ignore it (maybe taking a discreet but understandable step back), continuing the conversation in the mutually agreed-upon charade that nothing horrible just happened. Certainly nothing that would indicate the impending rot and deterioration of old age and death. Butty will just be that guy at the party who keeps pestering everyone to play charades while they ignore him.

Your lifelong friends, on the other hand, will point and laugh. (Bright side: When they acquire their own ‘Butty’ you’ll be able to do the same to them. Just be sure to clamp down on your Butty when that happens, or the whole fucking nightmare will just boomerang back on you.)

Also like an irritating toddler (Oh, shut up. Any kid that’s not yours is irritating - we’ve lived this lie long enough.), Butty will become a messy eater. Okay, not technically an ‘eater,’ but... you know those commercials where they try to sell some food product (let’s say chocolate pudding) by showing an adorable child with it smeared all around his mouth?

It’s not adorable when Butty does it.

Now let’s be clear – I’m not talking about shitting your pants. (I’m hoping I don’t have to write that essay for another 20 years.) I’m just talking about things becoming... less precise. That unhappy feeling halfway through a normal, unremarkable day when Butty might need some attention. Like, right now. So you take a suddenly squishy walk to the nearest restroom, where you clean and scold him like a 3-year-old who got into the Hershey’s syrup.

As he reaches his ‘terrible twos,’ Butty will become irritable and abrasive. Prickly, you might say. Angry. Okay, itchy. I’ll just say it – as you get older you find yourself dealing more and more often with a butthole that feels like it’s been covered in fiberglass insulation and dressed in a wool sweater. Dog owners have all had the experience of shouting in horror as their pooch scoots across a carpeted floor, look of bliss on their face as they leave a thin brown trail. As you get older you understand the impulse and envy that look of bliss. Since you can’t in good conscience scoot across the office carpet, and you’re not fooling anyone by sliding repeatedly down every bannister or railing in sight, you’re forced to become an expert in cremes and ointments. Remember: hydrocortisone is your friend. Tiger Balm is not. On the plus side, you won’t itch anymore. On the downside, you will finally end up scooting across the carpet.

Much like a teething toddler, Butty can become a bit ‘bitey’ at inopportune moments. Namely during your yearly physical, which at your age now requires your doctor to get up close and personal with Butty. Very up close. Extremely personal. And no matter how many long, stern conversations you may have with Butty about not biting the doctor, the instant that gloved finger makes its way into Butty’s anxious maw he’ll clamp down on it like the Great White Shark from Jaws. (Hopefully he won’t shake back and forth violently in an attempt to separate the doctor from his digit, but I suspect it’s just a matter of time.) Like a parent ignoring his child’s bad behavior you fight the urge to apologize in favor of just getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

I hope those of you in and approaching middle-age read this with the sense that you’re not alone. The struggle with Butty is an ongoing and universal campaign that we must each fight and win.

Okay, not win. We’re not gonna win. I’m just hoping to keep the whole nasty business a draw for as long as I possibly can.

Or a narrow loss. I’d settle for a narrow loss at this point.

Even though I’ve accepted Butty as part of me, a permanent fixture in my life (like the old married couple who stay together because at this point what’re you gonna do?), there’s one simple confession I feel I must make.

At the end of the day, he’s really just an asshole.

#assholes #aging