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  • Writer's pictureMichael Cundall Jr.

A Splinter in My Rear Part 1

The Beginning in my End.

A couple of days ago I took a run with my middle son. He runs track and while he kicks my butt, it’s nice that he’s helping me try to stay in shape. We run a trail near our house and as of now I can make it about two miles (my knees are a mess). At just about the two mile mark there’s a wooden picnic table so I decided to stop and stretch there. I was recovering fine, not gasping for air, stretching the hammies, when, as I was turning to stretch the other leg, I felt my shorts catch and then that sudden stinging feeling: a feeling unmistakable for those who work with wood. I knew right then and there that a splinter had temporarily squatted in a most unfortunate place. Yes dear reader, I now had a nice sliver of wood poking right into my gluteal fold—that space where the hamstring and the glute meet. I tried to work the splinter out by gingerly tugging at the piece that was still in the shorts, but that wasn’t helpful. The splinter broke and I still had a mile and half to walk back to the car. I never knew how much my backside moved while I walked. Happily, my son wasn’t taking video at the time.

My wife was with us that day and when she reached us, I sheepishly announced my condition. She ass-ertained the situation and her response, as any good life-partner would, was to laugh at me. My son alternated between a suppressed laugh and trying to avoid eye-contact in the hopes of keeping that laugh suppressed. The walk back was uncomfortable, as was the drive. I told my partner that since I lacked the flexibility to put my head up my own arse, she was going to have to help me out. She agreed, with an encouraging laugh, a shrug, and few shakes of the head. By the time we got home, I knew the splinter was still there and soon my other two boys would know too. Of course they laughed at me; with my boys I’d expect no less. Watching Dad gingerly walk about and try to sit down has got to be hilarious, if not laced with a little schadenfreude.

My wife and I made our way to the bedroom, found the required splinter-extraction materials, and commenced to try and surgically remove the cellulose residing in my bum. Let me first say that my wife’s eye-sight is not that great. Also the lighting in our room is not surgical grade. Usually when one has a splinter they will find a way to dig it out. A safety pin is my go to, so my wife grabbed it, a pair of tweezers and commenced to excavating the area. You may not know this, and it came as a surprise to me, but the skin around your butt is sensitive. At first my wife was slowed in her treatment because I couldn’t stop laughing. Here I am out exercising, trying to avoid the COVID-19 weight gain, help my knees deal with small amounts of running and the next thing we know I am bare-assed on the bed with my wife and not in the good way. So when my laughter stops, my butt no longer bouncing, and I’ve steadied myself for the upcoming antics, she proceeds to needle around. The pain was fantastic! It was a cocktail of embarrassment, anger, laughter and sharp pain. Of course, a few regrettable words of were used, and my wife apologized for the ordeal. It was literally a giant pain in my ass, but it wasn’t her fault. She’s a champ but she was hampered in trying to hold her cell phone in one hand to light my butt (Don’t try this at home friends) and use the other do get at the splinter. Did I mention that her eyesight isn’t the best? To make matters worse, the area had swollen like, like I’d been stung...on the butt. She really couldn’t see anything. After what felt like a long, long time, but was actually five to ten minutes, we graciously concluded our butt-play. (Hey censors, don’t disappoint me, that’s a good line).

So, it’s Friday evening in the middle of a pandemic, I am vacillating between writhing in pain and laughing (but not my ass off), and thinking that I need to avoid medical facilities. What’s man with a splinter in his behind to do? I decided that instead of broadcasting to Facebook the need for someone to help me get a splinter from my rear, an act that was sure to cost me a few friends and possibly blocked as a user, I decided to head to the Urgent Care in the morning. My sleep that evening was punctuated by twinges of pain as I tossed and turned. I wish I could tell you I dreamt of the land sung of by Sir Mix-A-Lot in his ode to behinds, but I didn’t. I woke up early the next morning with a pointed reminder of my run.

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