Wednesday, February 18, 2015

I fell down last night.

Breaking news, dear readers. I FELL LAST NIGHT AND COULDN’T GET UP. Carrying my dinner into the den I tripped on the edge of the area rug, flew across the room and landed like a ton of bricks. I broke my beautiful glass candle runner on the coffee table, spilled a bowl of chili and a full 32-oz. tumbler of Coke Zero — with a billion ice cubes — all over the carpet, and I injured my stomach on something (I think the corner of the coffee table) because I’ve got a huge red streak across my belly and some broken skin. But I was damn fortunate because: 1) Sam was 15 minutes away at work and not in California (he was in L.A. all last week); 2) the cordless phone was at arm’s length on the coffee table and not sitting in its charger in the foyer where I couldn’t reach it; and 3) I didn’t crack my head on the wrought iron bench in front of the fireplace (I missed it by inches), break any bones or shatter the glass top on the coffee table.

When I stopped crying — yes, I got hysterical for a few minutes because falling scared the shit out of me — I dragged myself to the phone and called Sam to tell him what happened and made sure he knew that I wasn’t bleeding, I didn’t break any bones and I didn’t hit my head. He came straight home from work, called 911 (there’s no way Sam can lift me) and four paramedics showed up shortly thereafter toting a “sling” to hoist me onto the chaise. They were great. The whole incident was over in about 20 minutes, and then Sam spent the next hour cleaning up the miserable mess I made on the carpet (Coke Zero, chili, ice cubes, broken glass, candles, etc.). We had to throw out the area rug.
Today it feels like somebody beat me up with a baseball bat, especially my legs and knees. And since I’m supposed to avoid bruises and falls because I’m taking Coumadin (it’s a blood thinner) I’ll have to keep an eye on that red mark across my stomach and call the doctor if it looks worse or turns purple, which could be a sign of internal bleeding. (Swell.)

To celebrate being alive I just ordered myself A BRAND NEW WHEELCHAIR. It’s an Everest & Jennings “transport” wheelchair, the kind without the giant wheels on the side that you can push by yourself. This one is narrower (much easier to fit through doorways) and lighter weight than my old one, which got busted a couple of weeks ago after Sam almost pushed me off a cliff by accident and I slammed my feet through the foot rests. (I thought they were brakes.) Here’s my new chair.
I bought it from All Time Medical at the lowest price on the Internet with free shipping and no sales tax ... AND A PRESIDENTS’ DAY DISCOUNT! I don’t know what George Washington has to do with wheelchairs but senior citizens should never look a gift horse in the mouth.

And now for the latest installment of BELIEVE IT OR DON’T BELIEVE IT, where I post pictures of old celebrities before they got pruny. Because 1960s pop singer Lesley Gore died a couple of days ago I thought I’d feature a few of her contemporaries this time around.

And finally, it looks like clueless dumbshits Kim Kardashian and Kanye West have single-handedly guaranteed that New York Fashion Week no longer allows children to attend runway shows after their 15-month-old accessory offspring North screamed her fucking head off in the front row and ruined several big fashion events for the designers, the media and everybody in the audience.

The following photos illustrate North West’s week from hell: 1) North screaming her aforementioned fucking head off at a runway show in New York; 2) Kim Kardashian hauling the poor baby around in single-digit temperatures without a hat or mittens; 3) the nanny (who’s wearing a PARKA, by the way) carrying North outside in a tee shirt with no jacket; and 4) and 5) before motherhood Kim used to tote around a tiny white (clearly miserable) Persian kitten like a breathing handbag until it died at four months old. I sincerely hope her newest “accessory” isn’t facing a similar fate.
Just once I’d like to see a picture of these idiot, self-absorbed “parents” taking North to a park or a playground dressed like a real kid. Without leather pants, without fox fur jackets, without her hair pulled into a tight little bun. Kim and Kanye constantly drag this poor child around like a prop — dressed in miniature adult fashions — so it’s no wonder North looks to goddamn unhappy. By the time she’s 14 we’ll be reading a tragic story in the Los Angeles Times about how nobody understands why a child of such privilege bludgeoned her mother and father to death with a pair of Christian Louboutin stilettos.

Thank you for reading this.

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