Sunday, October 02, 2005

The Walking Wounded

Hello again, seekers:

Yeah, I have been gone, but I do have a good excuse, better than the excuses I used to give Mrs. Rapp in high school homeroom when I was late because of a craps game in the cafeteria. Mrs. Rapp, by the way, was the most beautiful woman on the planet in 1967, which was no small feat. I can still remember how they had these poles that you had to use to open and close these high windows in the classroom, and if you know anything about fashion history you know what skirts were like that year, and when she would reach up with that pole to diddle with the window, let's just say the garter belt or girdle of the day no longer was a secret, and after seeing this free lingerie show that put any Victoria's Secret HBO special to shame all the boys in the class would ask for boys' room passes even if they didn't have to go, if you know what I mean.
Enough about her. I have not been around for a couple reasons. One is that I have been fighting with A-L (you know, I never give the whole name of a business I am fighting with. I am very sly that way), and actually am no longer a member, which means I better figure out a way to move this blog soon before they shut me down (are you listening, Paul Wiggins?)

The second thing is that I have what is described in medical textbooks as "fucked-up shoulder." I swear I saw that in the appendix of Gray's Anatomy. This "fucked-up shoulder" is the most awful thing I have ever had, which is saying something. I've had my leg broken in three places, and I've broken numerous other bones, but this is for some reason unbelievably painful. Even my doctor, who is ass-tight with pain meds, looked at it and right away wrote me a prescription that basically says give this poor fuck unlimited codeine till the cows come home.
I would like to say that I suffered 'fucked-up shoulder" while rescuing triplets who were being swept downriver during Hurricane Rita, or while having carnal enjoyment at the Playboy Mansion, or while throwing 105 mph heaters past the heart of the Yankees lineup. The sad truth is that I was injured while playing fiddle, and some assholes are rude enough to snicker when they hear this.

I still do not have a firm diagnosis beyond "fucked-up shoulder," but I should have one Monday or so. The conventional wisdom of the cavalcade of doctors who have hemmed and hawed while I have been spitting up my lunches from the agony is that it is either a torn rotator cuff or something called "frozen shoulder," which would be strange because it does not feel at allfrozen but rather like someone was banging on it with a fucking iceberg 24 hours a day. So I will find out soon.

I have plenty of ideas of things I want to set you straight on, of outrages big and small, of fuckups and fuckwads and all the other things that make our lives living hell, and of asskissers - Jesus Christ, deliver me from these bastards; I am surely bound to go to both prison and hell for someday beating one to death with a fucking computer mousepad in the office. I just have to limit how much time i spent at the computer, because I sit in front of one all day at work in order to pay the mortgage and have enough leftover scratch to gamble and pour beer down my piehole.

So thanks for your encouragement, and I'll drop in when I can and will let you know when and if the blog is moving. In the meantime, I am back off to Codeineland.

PS: If anyone can find a good definition of "rotator cuff," please send it to me. I have seen about 30 and still don't understand what the fuck it is, other than it is like having a set of balls on your shoulder than someone is constantly kicking.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home