The bad news:
I'm going under the knife again.
The good news:
It's not my balls this time.
(my penis begins clapping)
But I digress...
Tomorrow, March 5, I will be undergoing surgery for my shoulder.
I'm not sure that my pharmacist is the right guy for the job, but he DID come in with the low bid.
My Pre-Op Testing happened this past Friday.
Pre-Op Testing includes the following fun things:
1) I get blood taken
2) I meet with a physical therapist
Interestingly, these same two things happened after my last exorcism.
DAMN YOU, GARY BUSEY!!
But I digress...
The blood-letting was odd.
As you know, I f*cking HATE needles.
As I sat down in the chair, I asked the phlebotomist (Latin for "Ricky Martin"...which is in-turn Spanish for "I Eat Penises") which arm I should give her.
Me: "Which arm do you want?"
Phlebby: "As long as it's full of blood, I don't care."
Me: "Yeah. Um. That's pretty creepy."
She looks at me and says:
Phlebby: "I actually wanted to be a mortician. How creepy is that?"
Me: "I want to leave now."
After draining my life fluid from me (yes, I got a free handjob), I went to see the physical therapist.
As I sat there...I noticed that my glass of water had Doppler rings in it.
What was happening?
A sonic boom?
Did Star Jones go off the Jenny Craig wagon?
Then...it appeared from the elevator:
Mother. Of. God.
SHE WAS HUGE.
450 pounds of arm-bending, leg-raising, "do this or I'll eat you" therapeutic terror.
As I sat across from her, she began rattling off the shoulder exercises I would need to do post-surgery.
T-Rex: "..then you raise your arm like this..."
She raised her arm.
From underneath her short-sleeve shirt...
(Seriously? Short sleeves? It's February and 15 f*cking degrees outside)
...flops out what appears to be a giant pile of flesh-colored Jell-O.
What the f*ck is THAT?!?
"OH MY GOD...IT HAS WINGS, TOO!"
Realizing that there's NO way she'd ever be able to actually fly no matter how hard she flapped those things, I relax a bit.
...she raises her other arm.
As soon as the wing flops out of her other sleeve, I look down to avert my eyes.
This is when I see that her shirt has raised itself up over her pants...
...and her stomach (all three square miles of it) has gleefully rolled out.
At this point, I believe I either vomited or passed out...
...because all I remember is saying:
Me: "Got it. I've done this before. Thank you. Have a nice day."
...and fleeing as fast as my tiny little legs could take me...
...with the distant rumbling of the pursuing Therapistosaurus Rex dwindling behind me.
If you're going to be telling people how to f*cking exercise, shouldn't you instill confidence that you know what the f*ck you're talking about?
The only thing I felt confident from her is that she could recommend an excellent Chinese buffet.
As such, I probably won't be posting that day...and maybe not the day after...
..as I'll be on painkillers.
If I DO post, it will probably look like this:
ShIRlk FRinG' SquIBry@
(translating using AltaVista's Babel Fish Translator (Percocet to English)):
F*CK, MY SHOULDER HURTS!
I'll be going under with full anesthesia, so there is a distinct possibility that I'll be violated anally.
This happened when I had my tonsils out as a child.
Dr. Mike Jackson, DMD, performed the surgery.
Why he kept calling me his "Billy Jean" is still a mystery...
...as well as why he had me lay on my stomach for the procedure.
The only side effect I've had from that operation is the strange ability to fart without making noise.
Odd...when you consider it was all about the tonsils.
I'll see you all on the other side.
If I don't, if someone could see to it that my wife's privates are super-glued shut and that she joins a convent, I'd appreciate it.
Thanks in advance.
You can also check out my other non-Blogger articles over at Scrivel too!
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
The bad news: