Scar Wars - Episode VI: Return of the Stupid Pooh Bear Mug SONOFABITCH

So on Monday I started describing all my physical deformations, elephantitis of the wiggly not withstanding.

When we last left off, I was in the middle of describing my approximately 4,000 deformations caused from surgeries and brittleness and just generally being old as fuck.

Let's continue.



The Scars:

13) I used to cook at a raquetball club and - one day - I was slicing some turkey on the deli slicer when the turkey went "flooop!" off the back side of the slicer.

So, being the brain surgeon I was/am, I reached to get it.

That's when the STILL SPINNING BLADE on the deli slicer went nicely into my pinky..splattering blood on the wall and giving me a 1-inch scar.

I hate turkey.

14) I was about 20 and spending the week at the beach - which meant I was hammered pretty much constantly.

I hopped off my motorcycle while wearing shorts and promptly seared my naked calf against my exhaust pipe leaving a nice round area on my leg that won't grow hair.

Looks so cool.

15) Back before I was married I was living with my soon-to-be-wife in an apartment when one day she broke a Disney Winnie-the-Pooh mug.

Thinking nothing of it, I threw the mug - unwrapped - into the trash.

That is what we call 'foreshadowing,' people.

A short time later I pulled the bag out of the barrel.

I could hear the mug roll from the top of the trash, along the inside of the bag, and heard it tear through the bottom of the bag just before the jagged end of the mug dug into my bare foot.

This has the effect of dropping me flat on my ass with a 1-inch gash in my foot.

I wanted to put a bandaid on it, but my then-girlfriend insisted we go to the emergency room for stitches.

It was while I was on the table trying not to kick the doctor in the face for STICKING A NEEDLE IN MY FOOT that he ran his finger along the inside of my arch.

No feeling.

I had severed a nerve.

To this day? NO feeling in that foot from the inside of my arch up to my big toe.

I wonder if it's too late to sue Disney.

Scar Wars - Episode V: The Scalpel Strikes Back

When we last left off, I was in the middle of describing my approximately 4,000 deformations caused from surgeries and brittleness and just generally being old as fuck.

Let's continue.



The Scars:

7) This little ditty was from my herniated disc surgery that I needed because it ruptured causing sciatica SO BAD that I had no choice but to write a post that included stick pictures of me trying to go poop.

You're welcome.

8) This scar is BY FAR my favorite and the direct result from surgery needed after tearing my bicep while curling the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.

I wish.

This is the scar I am most proud of because it's huge and ginormous and basically gave me enough fodder for these blog posts:

- My MRI pictures resemble..well...just read it. It's messed up. Duh.

- You might want to sit down for this.

- Some creative tattoo ideas I came up with to cover my 8-inch long scar.

Also? It's wicked gross looking. So there's that.

9) This little 1/4" scar came from sitting down in my friend's chair at his house when one of those little hobby-type X-Acto knives came shooting down, stabbing me right in the fat of my thumb.

Shit like that happens to me all the time. It's why I can't have nice things.

10 & 11) I got a vasectomy a while ago and if you look really really closely you can see two little scars right there on my nutsack.

Closer.

Clooooooooser.

Clooooooooooooooser.

Meh. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.

12) I totally shattered my hand during karate. TWICE.

It's shit like this that makes me wonder why I try to do anything physical AT ALL.

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Next Episode: Scar Wars - Episode VI: Return of the Stupid Pooh Bear Mug SONOFABITCH

Fire-breathing Double-headed Pain - Part 2

When we last left our hero (me) in Part 1 of this series, the decision to have a tattoo that would incorporate my kids' initials of "C" and "P" was in full swing.

Sadly, the sketches I was coming up with looked more like rejects from the "Draw Scruffy" arts program that you'd find on matchbooks back in the day so I turned to my friend, witch (no shit) and amazing tattoo artist, Lisa from Good Mojo Tattoos in Salem, MA to give me some other ideas using her flair for actually being able to draw shit.

Here's what Lisa sent me:

Design sketch #1: "VINE"


Lisa titled this one 'vine'.

Pros: You can clearly make out the "C" and "P" and it's obvious that Lisa is adding some flair to the concept. Also, this is pretty accurate as my kids are clingy and like to climb on shit.

Cons: My back is kind of freckly and I fear this will end up looking like a bunch of dead grapes.

*******************
Design sketch #2: Stars and Moon


Um.

When I was thinking of writing this post, I mentioned it to Lisa on Facebook:

Me: "Hey..I was thinking of doing a post about my tattoo..showing all the sketches and stuff. Also, as would be custom for me, some of them may or may not be subjected to slight ridicule. Like the moon and stars one where you apparently forgot I'm not an 8-year old girl."

Lisa: "You mean you're NOT an 8-year-old girl?"

Touche'.

****************
INTERMISSION


END OF INTERMISSION

****************
Design sketch #3: Fire and Water


OOH.

This was the first one that I went, "Ah. I think we're on to something."

Pros: Looks cool. Love the fire vs. water concept.

Cons: Both my kids are actually fire. Like a blazing San Diego wildfire type thing. As in when my kids show up, you want to dig a ditch separating you from them and then head for high ground.

But I really really liked the fire...and this got me thinking:

DRAGONS BREATHE FIRE!

Me: "Lisa...I like the fire but Payton will NOT want to be water..so how about a dragon breathing fire?"

Lisa: "You're a pain in my ass."

Actually, Lisa didn't say that because she's not mean to people for no reason like I am but she DID send me back this:


Okay okay..BUT..

*if you listen closely, you can hear Lisa swearing at me under her breath

Let's make it a little more badassish.

So I sent Lisa this sketch of a serpent/dragon thingy wrapped around a sword breathing an arc of fire:


..because the "C" is the fire and the "P" is both the dragon and the sword. See? See?!

Lisa took the sketch and came up with this:


NOW WE'RE COOKIN!

But we weren't done yet because I showed it to my kids who thought it was cool but Cam was a little bummed because his sister was this cool serpent thingy wrapped around a sword and he was basically just her bad breath and that pretty much put the kibosh on this design.

FML.

That and the fact that when I posted it on my Facebook page people were, like, "Dude..snakes don't breathe fire."

Oh. Oh yeah. But what if they have bad breath? Dammit. Nevermind.

And thus? I changed it ONE MORE TIME.

To what, you ask? Well for that, you'll have to stay tuned for the next post.

ENTER THE DRAGON...

(to be continued...)


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If you want a tattoo done by some wicked talented people and you're in the Massachusetts area, make sure you check out Good Mojo Tattoos and tell them the Midget Man sent ya:

Fire-breathing double-headed pain - Part 1

No, I'm not talking about the Kardashians.

I'm getting a new tattoo.

For those who know me and my love of needles and getting tattooed the first time where I thought I was going to effing die, this should make you go:

"Why, Rodney? Why subject that nearly perfectly-sculpted body to such hedonistic torture? WHY MESS WITH PERFECTION? You are an Adonis!"

To which I say, "Thanks, mom."

But the answer, to put it bluntly, is "my kids."

You see, I've always wanted to have my kids' names or initials of "C" and "P" tattooed on my body somewhere.

Because someday, when I'm old and dying, the people caring for me will look at my tattoo and go, "so what does this stand for?" and I'll reply "What have you done with my Korean maid? I like pudding and muscle magazines! Yo Gabba Gabba!" because in this scenario I'm 96 and have no clue where I am.

To begin this adventure I enlisted the help of my friend and - literally - witch, Lisa 'InkWitch' Ainsworth over at Good Mojo Tattoos to help me with the design.

To start, I sent her a couple of sketches of my own on how I wanted the "C" and "P" to look. Please note that I didn't go with a "P" and "C" ordering because I'd hate for someone to think that meant 'Politically Correct' because HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA OMG I shouldn't have to explain that AT ALL.

Design sketch #1:


I did this one obviously myself using my skills honed over many many years in Microsoft Paint.

I actually kind of liked this one because it was ying-yangish but then I stood back and realized that it looked like a lollipop.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of Rodney's back? The world may never know.

Design sketches #2 and #3:


I drew these thinking I could kind of smush the letters together to form some kind of cool design but basically all I came up with was a little game of Tetris and a logo I could sell for upwards of $10 to a company with the initials, "CP."

Design sketch #3:

Taking the smushed initial idea of #2 a little further, I decided to make it more swoopy like this:

Then I realized I actually just drew the head of a mosquito.



It was, at this point, becoming painfully obvious that if the design was left up to me, this was going to be the worst tramp stamp ever.

I mean, um, "shoulder tattoo."

*spits

As such, in stepped Lisa with some sketches of her own to save the day.

Or at least try to. I'm kind of anal about things.

At least that's what my tramp stamp says.

(to be continued...)


**********************

If you want a tattoo done by some wicked talented people and you're in the Massachusetts area, make sure you check out Good Mojo Tattoos and tell them the Midget Man sent ya:

Scarred for Life....or...Am I???

If you come here often (wink) then you know that I had to have bicep surgery that left my arm looking like this when the doctor took my cast off:


After I recovered from passing out in the doctor's office, I was told that it would take 12 weeks for this friggin' thing to heal.

Well, it's been 9 weeks since the surgery as I write this, and my arm currently looks like this:


Gah.

I mean, it's better than the other look with all the stitches in it and blood and

*passes out*

I was at karate and one of the guys there goes:

"You should get a tattoo there. Cover it up."

Yes. Because I love getting tattooed SO MUCH THE FIRST TIME.

(sarcasm)

Regardless, his suggestion for my tattoo?


Yes. A centipede.

He figured since the scar looked like one it just made sense but I kind of poo-poo'd the idea because all I can see is looking down every 5 minutes and trying to GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME!!

Not cool.

So I started thinking of some other ideas for tattoos that I could hide the scar in.

Like:


Then I rethought this again because, you know..

IT'S STILL BUGS.

Ooh! Got one!


That's Oogie Boogie from "Nightmare Before Christmas" and I ended up having to do this as some ying-yang upside-down thing because my scar is, like, 8 inches long and to get this to scale right I'd have to be Popeye.

Still, this is kind of kick-ass.

Then I remembered the scene in the movie where the maggots come out and, you know, BUGS so screw that.

Maybe a bit of a collage?


The only problem with this is that I think I'd have to get the rights to use these images but I've only made $10 from my Cafepress store and my only paid advertiser on my sidebar over there is Ron fucking Paul so that's out.

Plus the guy with the scar kind of freaks me out.

How about this one?


Weird. It just started thundering.

Maybe I'll just leave it alone.

Moog out.

Immunized for Your Protection

Nurse: 1
Panic Attack: 0

Let me explain.

Despite my giant, insurmountable, ridiculous-and-infantile-yet-still-manage-to-be-sexy fear of needles...

I decided to get a flu shot.

The decision to get a flu shot despite the fact that I'm a great big giant pussy when it comes to sharp things PIERCING MY SKIN OH MY GOD IT'S GONNA HURT ISN'T IT, I KNOW IT IS, I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS ANYMORE..

Breathe.

Breathe.

Ah. Happy place.

Let's continue.


My decision to get a flu shot was based on the following information that I gleaned from my nightly news:

1) I could die from the flu

2) That lady who got attacked by that chimp is all sorts of fucked up now

Not that the chimp attack thing has anything to do with the flu, but it WAS on the news (and OPRAH!) and had she gotten a fucking flu shot who knows if things would be different.

Why take chances with crazy chimps running all over the fucking place when you could just get a shot, right?

That's what I thought, too.

"The Flu Shot: Don't monkey around when it comes to your health."


So when work had a 'flu shot clinic' I decided to pay the ten bucks and get one.

The last time I paid ten bucks to get injected with something I actually ended up GETTING sick.

My uncle haunts my dreams to this very day.

I've digressed.

After paying my ten bucks for the shot, the panic starts to set in.

Luckily, I had to fill out this questionnaire, thus prolonging my agony(click to enlarge):


After being made to fill out a SECOND questionnaire (fuck you, Human Resources), I stood in line for half an hour waiting for my shot.

I'm getting closer.

I hate needles.

Closer.

Oh, shit...this is going to kill.

A little closer.

Okay, okay. Now I'm pretty close to the front of the line and I'm watching people come out from behind the wall and WHAT THE FUCK THEY'RE SMILING?!?! How are these people fucking smiling when they just had FLU SHIT shot into their bodies with a needle and you know what?...that chimp attack is starting to look pretty fucking good right about now.


Then it was my turn.

So I go behind the wall of death and the nurse practitioner is there and she's kinda heavy but pretty and I like junk in the trunk because like Spiderman's uncle once said:

"With extra poundage on a broad, comes great big breasts."

That might be wrong.


So I sit down and realize that I'm in a long sleeved shirt.

So I take my entire shirt off.

Why I do this instead of just pulling my one arm out of the sleeve like a normal person I have no idea, but I now realize how fucking creepy this is because I look like a serial killer who's afraid of chest congestion.

Nurse: "Relax, please."

She has to tell me this because:

(a) I'm tensed up like a straight guy's sphincter on his first night in prison and

(b) I was, honestly, kinda trying to flex a little bit.

Worth a shot.


Nurse: "You're all set."

The fuck?

That was it?!?

I'M A CONQUISTADOR, BABY!! I WILL NOW GO EAT A TRUCK!


So I stand up and she looks at me and says:

Nurse: "You will need to stay down here for 15 minutes."

I knew she dug me.

Pec Dance: 1
Nurse's willpower to resist me: 0

Me: "Why?"

Nurse: "Since this was your first ever flu shot, we need to make sure you stay in the area in case you go into shock. Your throat can close up really quickly and if you're not nearby I won't reach you in time."

Oh.

I could die.

How awesome.

Think they'd put that on the fucking form I had to fill out TWICE.

So now I'm all hanging out in the cafeteria sitting there looking at everyone staring at me wondering what went wrong and why am I there and all I'm thinking is shit like:

"Fuck. Is it getting hard to breathe? I think my throat is tightening up and I'm getting hot and OH MY GOD IT IS AND I...oh, wait...just had to burp..."


So I sat there for 15 minutes freaking the fuck out.

Thank you, nurse. That was soothing.

Seriously.

Should have gone with the chimp option.

At least I'd get to meet Oprah.

Enter Sandman

Well folks, much to the chagrin of my UPS guy...

(who stood to inherit both my hot wife and life insurance policy)

...I survived my operation.

I sit here writing, having popped my first Percocet about an hour ago...

...so it will be interesting to read this later on when I'm sober.

Why do green sneakers eat leatherback turtles?!?!

Lesbians are the other white meat!!!

Sorry.

Anyway...

I'm sitting here typing away with one hand, so I'll try to make this post like me:

Awesome and short...

...with a small penis.

Usually, things I do with one hand are over in about 20 seconds...

...but not this time.


I don't recall the actual surgery, so I'll break it up into two posts:

Pre-Op and Post-Op.

The Pre-Op:

First, let's define Pre-Op:

"Pre": (from the Latin word, "Scrabble")...

...and...

"Op": (from the Greek phrase "Optimus Prime enjoys glass dildos")...

Hmm.

I guess that really doesn't help that much.


As such, I'll define it as the trip to the hospital, to the point I passed out.

Here goes...

The Trip In:

My wife took me to the hospital for the surgery. Since we had just got back from vacation, she was a bit worried about taking more time off.

Me: "You know, I can ask Rob to take me."

Wife: "Nevermind. I'll do it, puss-bag."

We're in love.


Anyway...

My wife drove there.

This single fact may have been the cause of my high blood pressure when I arrived...

...as my wife's driving style can only be described as a "Jihad on Wheels."

Seriously...CIA:

Put Osama in the passenger seat of our Honda minivan with my wife behind the wheel, and you can pretty much guarantee that he'll sh*t his burka.


The Johnny:

I was asked to take everything off - including my underwear - for this surgery.

Why I needed to be buck f*cking naked for goddman shoulder surgery is beyond me...

...but all the doctors and nurses were adamant about it...

...and after being served my fourth Momosa from my belly-dancer nurse and toga-clad Orthopedist, I kind of loosened up and agreed.

Fine, guys.

But what do I do with this lube?


The Anesthesiologist:

The first person to pop in my IV was an old freaky broad who, I believe, was actually "Vera" from the TV show, "Alice."

Apparently, it was the day off for any hot nurses.

The actual anesthesiologist swung by a bit later, and talked about giving me a nerve block.

I'll call him "Mel."


A nerve block is designed to numb/paralyze you to minimize "discomfort" after the surgery.

I heard this as, "We're going to be giving you a big f*cking needle."

In true pussy fashion, I had to ask:

Me: "Um...I'm pretty needle-phobic. Is this going to hurt?"

Mel: "Well, we'll numb the skin and inject a different needle into your neck."

I believe, at this point, I poo'd a little.

Me: "I should warn you, the last time a doctor tried to numb me, I kicked him."

He looks up at my wife.

Wife: "It's true - if you're doing his arm, he may punch you in the throat."

*pause*

Mel: "Thanks for the warning. We'll make you sleepy for that part."

Good idea, Mel.


This previous kicking-a-doctor episode happened years ago during "The Pooh Bear Incident," which involved a trash bag, my bare foot, and a broken Winnie The Pooh mug.

Different story for another time...

,,,but like I needed another reason right now to f*cking hate Disney.

The surgery:

Prior to my surgery, my doctor came in to say "hi" and mark the shoulder.

Having a smiley-face drawn on your shoulder truly inspires confidence in the patient.


He then proceeds to drop his pen while trying to shake my wife's hand.

He bends to get the pen and, upon standing, drops three more f*cking things out of his pocket.

Awesome.

I'm being operated on by Gerald Ford.

Wait...

...is he picking up a cock ring?

Me: "Yeah...do me a favor and get those butter-fingers out of the way now."


He didn't say anything, but as he walked away I SWEAR he gave the "shocker" sign to an attending dressed as Lindsay Lohan.

I'm naked, numb, and apparently about to be violated by the cast of the Rocky Horror Picture show.

Awesome.

I'm ready, Vera...take me in!

But can I see Flo's grits first?

Thanks in advance.

The Cold Shoulder

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."

*blink*

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?"

*pause*

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.

*boom*

As I sat there...I noticed that my glass of water had Doppler rings in it.

*boom*

*BOOM*

What was happening?

An earthquake?

A sonic boom?

Did Star Jones go off the Jenny Craig wagon?


Then...it appeared from the elevator:

Therapistosaurus Rex.

Mother. Of. God.

SHE WAS HUGE.

450 pounds of arm-bending, leg-raising, "do this or I'll eat you" therapeutic terror.

Awesome.


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.

*THWAP*

What the f*ck is THAT?!?

I'm thinking:

"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.


Then...

...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.

*flup-flup-flup*

Me: "GAAAAAHHHHH!!!"

T-Rex: "Hm?"

Me: "Nothing."


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.

Really.

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.


Anyway...

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.

Whatever.


Anyway...

I'll see you all on the other side.

I hope.

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.

Moog out.

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