I Is Risen (Thanks, Bill)
You can thank Bill in Texas for all this. That is, if you care to thank anyone at all for this horseshit.
Let me explain, as if there can be an explanation for any of this. I used to write a blog in this space. Then things got all sort of, you know, fucked up, as they used to say down at the cannery when I worked there.
I lost my password, repeatedly, then kept supplying the wrong address to get it sent to. At least that is what I think happened. And you may remember me complaining about some ailment that I think was called fucked-up shoulder. Well, this turned out to be a corker, let me tell you. I had one operation on it that hurt to beat the fucking band twice, and if that wasn't enough the surgeon decided it was still FU and had at it again like five weeks later, before the morphine haze cleared from the first time he stuck me.
Please do not read anything negative about the surgeon into any of this. He is a nice guy and did a crackerjack job of returning the use of my right arm, as did the cute young physical therapists who yanked my arm around and whipped the living shit right out of me three times a week for nearly 10 months afterward. When those women were tormenting me, I could not help but think that some assholes would probably pay $200 or so for some beautiful young woman to crawl around on their back and pull their goddamned arm until sawdust came out of their armpits and their breakfast dampened their undergarments, and I was getting it for an $8 co-pay.
I hope the doc went to Tahiti with the money he made off me, for he bloody well deserves it. Anyone who can put up with an asshole like me for a patient deserves every penny he gets, in spades. I would even mention his name, but believe me, anyone in the medical community does not want anything to do with an endorsement from the likes of me.
So back to the story of how this blog became a fart in the cyberwind. I was still suffering from this shoulder business, which made working my regular gig painful enough without spending more time at a computer, and then dealing with the password business, and life in general, and my various vices (to my credit, I do not smoke, but I do damned near everything else, and don't bloody care if you know it) and well, you know how it is. I gave up trying to get into this blog and figured it would remain as sort of a Flying Dutchman on the Internet, to be spotted by a few unfortunates along the way whose lives would run aground on the rocks within hours of having wasted time perusing it.
And then, guess what? My left shoulder got the same fucking thing my right shoulder had. It is called frozen shoulder, and if your heart can stand it you should look it up. If you do a Google search on "shoulder" and "excruciating," you are sure to find it. At least this time I recognized it for what it was early on, for once you have been through frozen shoulder, if it sets in again you hotfoot it to the doctor within minutes and beg to either have it dealt with or have a .45-caliber bullet go through your brain, for no one deserves this, not even George W. Fucknut Bush, and in his case I would laugh until I pissed myself frontward and backward at nearly anything awful that happened to him. Anything except frozen fucking shoulder, that is.
So Liz took me to the hospital, sweetheart that she is, and the doc put me out and went to work again. The nurses even recognized me. Can you believe that? I think they recognized me because I set the world champeen record for morphine injections in the hours that followed the last two operations, and I was so fucked up that God knows what I said or did to them. I have always wondered what all those people in the operating "theater" say while you are out of your mind on whatever that is they put in you to put you "to sleep." But I guess that is something best not thought about.
So now I am recovering from this operation, and instead of having cute young women crawling all over me and yanking my arm around while telling me I "can do better," I now go into an Olympic-size pool while a muscular young fellow named Ken pulls me around. He is a good sport and a good therapist, and puts Grateful Dead on for me while he does it, which tickles the shit out of me because there usually are other people in the pool and they usually are all over 130 years old. I am sure they have no fucking idea that it is the Dead they are listening to, and probably think it is some kind of death metal or something, which would suit them because death is not far off in any of their cases, metal or not.
Ken can talk your fucking ear off, but I enjoy listening to him. He is a terrific therapist, and seems to really be helping me get better. So I have to thank him, even though there is a small part of me that would prefer the young women be tormenting me. I am not sure what that says about me, but it sure as shit can't be very good.
So anyway, I gave up on the blog and started spending a lot of time on Facebook. I think Facebook is great. I have hundreds of "friends" on Facebook, which is a pisser to me because among all these friends are people I love, people I hate, people I don't give a shit about, people I don't know, people who don't know me and people whom I can't for the life of me recall how I became "friends" with them in the first place. But I shoot the shit with them about nothing, and waste a lot of time, and if I could somehow harness a way to make money at wasting time I would be a fucking skillionaire by now, let me tell you.
So in the course of "befriending" all these people I ran across Bill in Texas. I do not know Bill, but we do the same job at different newspapers in the same newspaper chain, and know some of the same people, so we became friends. I guess Bill was checking me out, which of course I do to people too, so I hold no grudge about that. And in the course of doing so he found this blog and mentioned it, and asked me why I wasn't posting here. It was embarrassing, sort of, to tell him I don't post here because I am such an asshole that I lost my password and didn't have the energy to try to recoup it somewhere.
But having Bill tell me he got a kick out of this horseshit motivated me to get the password back, and I managed to do so and am back in business. I have a lot to tell you, for in no way did the world become any less fucked up than it was when I went on hiatus, so I guess I can get back on the stick and start making amends to the people who actually looked forward to this nonsense.
So thanks for stopping by, and I hope not to let you down again. I have made disappointing people my life's work, so if it happens again, let me give you an unsincere "sorry" in advance.
Let me explain, as if there can be an explanation for any of this. I used to write a blog in this space. Then things got all sort of, you know, fucked up, as they used to say down at the cannery when I worked there.
I lost my password, repeatedly, then kept supplying the wrong address to get it sent to. At least that is what I think happened. And you may remember me complaining about some ailment that I think was called fucked-up shoulder. Well, this turned out to be a corker, let me tell you. I had one operation on it that hurt to beat the fucking band twice, and if that wasn't enough the surgeon decided it was still FU and had at it again like five weeks later, before the morphine haze cleared from the first time he stuck me.
Please do not read anything negative about the surgeon into any of this. He is a nice guy and did a crackerjack job of returning the use of my right arm, as did the cute young physical therapists who yanked my arm around and whipped the living shit right out of me three times a week for nearly 10 months afterward. When those women were tormenting me, I could not help but think that some assholes would probably pay $200 or so for some beautiful young woman to crawl around on their back and pull their goddamned arm until sawdust came out of their armpits and their breakfast dampened their undergarments, and I was getting it for an $8 co-pay.
I hope the doc went to Tahiti with the money he made off me, for he bloody well deserves it. Anyone who can put up with an asshole like me for a patient deserves every penny he gets, in spades. I would even mention his name, but believe me, anyone in the medical community does not want anything to do with an endorsement from the likes of me.
So back to the story of how this blog became a fart in the cyberwind. I was still suffering from this shoulder business, which made working my regular gig painful enough without spending more time at a computer, and then dealing with the password business, and life in general, and my various vices (to my credit, I do not smoke, but I do damned near everything else, and don't bloody care if you know it) and well, you know how it is. I gave up trying to get into this blog and figured it would remain as sort of a Flying Dutchman on the Internet, to be spotted by a few unfortunates along the way whose lives would run aground on the rocks within hours of having wasted time perusing it.
And then, guess what? My left shoulder got the same fucking thing my right shoulder had. It is called frozen shoulder, and if your heart can stand it you should look it up. If you do a Google search on "shoulder" and "excruciating," you are sure to find it. At least this time I recognized it for what it was early on, for once you have been through frozen shoulder, if it sets in again you hotfoot it to the doctor within minutes and beg to either have it dealt with or have a .45-caliber bullet go through your brain, for no one deserves this, not even George W. Fucknut Bush, and in his case I would laugh until I pissed myself frontward and backward at nearly anything awful that happened to him. Anything except frozen fucking shoulder, that is.
So Liz took me to the hospital, sweetheart that she is, and the doc put me out and went to work again. The nurses even recognized me. Can you believe that? I think they recognized me because I set the world champeen record for morphine injections in the hours that followed the last two operations, and I was so fucked up that God knows what I said or did to them. I have always wondered what all those people in the operating "theater" say while you are out of your mind on whatever that is they put in you to put you "to sleep." But I guess that is something best not thought about.
So now I am recovering from this operation, and instead of having cute young women crawling all over me and yanking my arm around while telling me I "can do better," I now go into an Olympic-size pool while a muscular young fellow named Ken pulls me around. He is a good sport and a good therapist, and puts Grateful Dead on for me while he does it, which tickles the shit out of me because there usually are other people in the pool and they usually are all over 130 years old. I am sure they have no fucking idea that it is the Dead they are listening to, and probably think it is some kind of death metal or something, which would suit them because death is not far off in any of their cases, metal or not.
Ken can talk your fucking ear off, but I enjoy listening to him. He is a terrific therapist, and seems to really be helping me get better. So I have to thank him, even though there is a small part of me that would prefer the young women be tormenting me. I am not sure what that says about me, but it sure as shit can't be very good.
So anyway, I gave up on the blog and started spending a lot of time on Facebook. I think Facebook is great. I have hundreds of "friends" on Facebook, which is a pisser to me because among all these friends are people I love, people I hate, people I don't give a shit about, people I don't know, people who don't know me and people whom I can't for the life of me recall how I became "friends" with them in the first place. But I shoot the shit with them about nothing, and waste a lot of time, and if I could somehow harness a way to make money at wasting time I would be a fucking skillionaire by now, let me tell you.
So in the course of "befriending" all these people I ran across Bill in Texas. I do not know Bill, but we do the same job at different newspapers in the same newspaper chain, and know some of the same people, so we became friends. I guess Bill was checking me out, which of course I do to people too, so I hold no grudge about that. And in the course of doing so he found this blog and mentioned it, and asked me why I wasn't posting here. It was embarrassing, sort of, to tell him I don't post here because I am such an asshole that I lost my password and didn't have the energy to try to recoup it somewhere.
But having Bill tell me he got a kick out of this horseshit motivated me to get the password back, and I managed to do so and am back in business. I have a lot to tell you, for in no way did the world become any less fucked up than it was when I went on hiatus, so I guess I can get back on the stick and start making amends to the people who actually looked forward to this nonsense.
So thanks for stopping by, and I hope not to let you down again. I have made disappointing people my life's work, so if it happens again, let me give you an unsincere "sorry" in advance.
posted by Fiddler at 10:41 PM
3 Comments:
The graf about Facebook is spot-on.
Great; you're back!
And here's a comment that doesn't really do justice to the long-ass entry you posted: I have facebook too; it's the devil. it's 3+ hours of hardcore procrastination each day. It's why I wake up some mornings with my very own natural eyeshadow thick [think 2-bit] on the bags under my eyes.
Anyways, if you aren't creeped w'oughta be "friends" on facebook. You can join the multitude that I don't really know.
-Drammy.
I'm so puffed up with pride that I may not be able to stuff myself into the pickup and go to work this afternoon. Being mentioned in your blog ranks right up there on my "brush with greatness" list with Gene Autry in 1958, John Glenn in 1972 and Robert B. Parker in 2003.
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