Now of all the antiseptic butt gels on the market, nothing in my opinion, compares to Boudreaux’s BUTT PASTE. Sure there are other brands with more scientific and discrete sounding names such as Bacitracin, Neosporin, or Desitin. But they just don't have the potency that I require. When it comes quick relief of the burning and irritability in one’s nether region that a bad case of chaffing inflicts, I’ll gladly purchase a product with a gay sounding name like Butt Paste.
BourDeax Butt Paste is the original and still the best, hands down. It’s a regular miracle salve: cures everything from diaper rash to jock itch. Heck, I’m even willing to bet it’ll clear up the mange on dogs. I’m sure one of these days some med student over at Duke will find that it even cures cancer or scoliosis of the liver.
Now as far as I know I've never had any problems with mange or scoliosis, I buy Butt Paste for one reason and one reason only: the infamous galded butt syndrome.
“Galded Butt Syndrome” or G.B.S is undeniably the most uncomfortable condition a hunter can endure in the field, second only to being gut shot by a .22 caliber rifle. To endure a bad case of the G.B.S in the remote wilderness without proper medical treatment is a curse from God. Now I can’t quote the exact verse but I’m pretty sure it that G.B.S was one of the afflictions that God gave Job in the Old Testament. It was at the very least one of the 12 plagues that he hit the Egyptians with. I believe the curse of G.B.S came somewhere between the plague of frogs and the plague of locusts.
Galded Butt Syndrome, in short, is the act of rubbing one’s groin region and inner thighs to the point of rawness by excessive hiking and walking. It occurs from a lethal concoction of the following: excessive perspiration in the groin or anal region, the persistent elastic friction of Hanes Cotton Classic briefs on the soft flesh of one’s nether regions and the dry, chapping air of the the Colorado mountains.
When those three key factors collide simultaneously in your pants, you have the makings of THE PERFECT STORM. And once G.B.S sets in, you’ll be walking the next several days like John Wayne riding a wide-backed invisible horse.
To simulate a bad case of being chaffed, for those who have never had the misfortune of being subjective to this horrid affliction, line your underpants with 16 grain sand paper, and go for a three to four mile jog. At the end of your run, squeeze an entire lemon (or lime, whatever is your preference) into your shorts and enjoy. Not a pleasant sensation to say the least, and for some odd reason it’s a condition that seems to affect me more than most folks.
During my first trip to elk camp in ’97, I suffered from an attack of G.B.S so bad I thought they were going to have to amputate me from the waist down. The first day of the hunt, Dad walked my rear end off- over the top of Mount Oliphant and down through Roaring Fork Creek. After we failed to turn up any elk, Dad decided to try a different are the following day. The next morning, we dropped off the road under Bears Ears and hunted our way down the 1144 Trail to Saw Mill Creek. I have no idea what the actual distance was, but it felt like we march over a hundred miles that day. And it was hot, really hot and by mid afternoon I was sweating like an open spigot through my long underwear. By time we got back to camp, late in the evening the inside of my thighs and groin were as red as raw hamburger meat. I rummaged through camp, desperately searching for anything to relieve my discomfort, but the only thing I can find was a dusty jar of Vaseline that looked like it was originally purchased during the Johnson Administration. Beggars can’t be choosers and I was in dire need, so the next morning, at first light, just before we left camp for another long grueling excursion into the mountains, I snuck around back, promptly dropped my trousers, scooped a large gob of Vaseline from the jar and slathered on a thick coat right between my butt cheeks and inner thighs.
Needless to say I didn't see hide nor hair of an elk the entire day. Heck for that matter, I didn't see any four legged creatures of any kind. It was no wonder,I smelled like a walking petroleum refinery. But at least my rear end felt better.
I learned an important lesson that year, which is G.B.S is not something to take lightly. It can cripple an hunter in the field just a fast as a frost bite, hypothermia or explosive diarrhea brought on by a pot of Carl Barnett’s homemade chili. So after years of extensive field research, trial and error and scientific experimentation, I ultimately found when it comes to clearing up a bad case of Galded Butt Syndrome nothing beats Bourdeaux’s Butt Paste.
After a disastrous rookie season in the elk woods, I returned to camp the following year wiser and more experienced. As the ancient native American proverb said “That which does not kill us, makes up stronger.” And let’s be honest, that first bout of galded butt did about kill me. I learned to strip out of my long underwear around mid-day before I started sweating too much and at the first sign of discomfort, no matter where I was, I dropped my pants and applied a generous coating of paste. And that's another great thing about Butt Paste, it's virtually odor free. That second season, I had zero problems with G.B.S what so ever. The same could not be said however, of newest rookie in camp- Mr. Dale Sorrells.
Dale is a long time family friend, roughly the same age as my father. And although Dale had traveled and hunted extensively through the West in his younger days, this was his first experience hunting the elusive wapati.
After the first day of hunting, Dale limped into camp and collapsed on his cot, obviously in a great deal of discomfort. Immediately I detected the onset of G.B.S.
“You got the galded butt, don’t you?” I asked discreetly.
“Yeah, I've got it bad” he moaned.
“Here, try this,” I said, handing him a fresh tube of Butt Paste. “Stuff works wonders.”
Dale looked it over and handed it back to me. “Looks like something for babies. No thanks.”
“Well, I’ll agree with you there, it does have poor package design, but I guarantee if you use it, you’ll be able to walk properly in the morning.”
“No thanks, I brought some Mole Skin with me for blisters on my feet. I’m sure that will work just fine.”
Big mistake, I thought. Huge. But he’ll just have to learn the hard way. And did he ever. The following day, Dale decided to hunt the bottom of a large slide where the terrain would be steep and rough going and he planned to covered a lot of ground that day.
Around dusk that evening, Dad and I drove the truck to spot where Dale had told us to pick him up. There was another hunter's camp situated next to the trail that Dale would be traveling, so in the spirit of fellowship, Dad and I climbed out of the truck and chatted with gentlemen camped at the trail head. It wasn't long before the three of us were engaged in a lively conversation.
Right around dark, we saw a figure slowly and gingerly making his way up the trail. We of course knew it was Dale, but to anyone else, they may have mistaken him for john Wayne from his odd, bow legged gate. The expression on his face pretty much said it all- Mole Skin doesn't work for Galded Butt Syndrome.
The old man with whom we were chatting, took one look at Dale walking promisingly down the trail. “Hell son, looks like you’re riding a horse, but I don’t see the horse!”
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