This has been an incredibly strange, eventful and miserable day, which I’ll attempt to explain to you before I move on to other subjects of interest, including today’s episode of Marcy’s Parade of Fonts. Please raise your hand if you get confused, want me to start over, or require further explanation of any part of this story in additional detail. Thank you.
Know what? I pooped today!
Yes, dear friends, “number two” is actually a rather large hoo-hah for me now, and one that involves: 1) sitting up on the side of my hospital bed; 2) raising the bed until I’m standing on my feet; 3) Sam wheeling the bed out of the way; and 4) replacing the bed with my portable commode. If you think this sounds like a lot of fucking work, you ain’t just whistlin’ “Dixie,” pal, because in order to relocate my hospital bed to make room for the commode Sam also has to move a hospital-style tray table on wheels, an upholstered bench, my MacBook laptop, and a two-shelf side table that’s loaded with body lotion, perfume, a large metal mesh trash can, and an attractive revolving leather caddy for my remotes, various electronic devices, my eyeglasses, and annoying shit that would otherwise keep falling on the floor (a thermometer, an emory board and so on).
Unfortunately, late this afternoon when the time came to get up off the commode and repeat steps 2, 3 and 4 (in reverse, of course), my legs had completely fallen asleep and I was terrified to try standing up. I was also dizzy, sick to my stomach and wanted throw up, most likely from too much liquid Morphine. Furthermore, if I lost my balance trying to support my weight on useless legs and fell down like a complete klutz, I could wind up with broken bones.
So I have a brainstorm: TELL SAM TO CALL THE PARAMEDICS! And that’s exactly what he did.
Four nice firemen show up. Together they were probably strong enough to lift a Chevy Impala with front seat passengers and a trunk full of groceries; they just couldn’t lift me. While I’m still sitting on a full bucket of poop, they try:
Yes, dear friends, “number two” is actually a rather large hoo-hah for me now, and one that involves: 1) sitting up on the side of my hospital bed; 2) raising the bed until I’m standing on my feet; 3) Sam wheeling the bed out of the way; and 4) replacing the bed with my portable commode. If you think this sounds like a lot of fucking work, you ain’t just whistlin’ “Dixie,” pal, because in order to relocate my hospital bed to make room for the commode Sam also has to move a hospital-style tray table on wheels, an upholstered bench, my MacBook laptop, and a two-shelf side table that’s loaded with body lotion, perfume, a large metal mesh trash can, and an attractive revolving leather caddy for my remotes, various electronic devices, my eyeglasses, and annoying shit that would otherwise keep falling on the floor (a thermometer, an emory board and so on).
Unfortunately, late this afternoon when the time came to get up off the commode and repeat steps 2, 3 and 4 (in reverse, of course), my legs had completely fallen asleep and I was terrified to try standing up. I was also dizzy, sick to my stomach and wanted throw up, most likely from too much liquid Morphine. Furthermore, if I lost my balance trying to support my weight on useless legs and fell down like a complete klutz, I could wind up with broken bones.
So I have a brainstorm: TELL SAM TO CALL THE PARAMEDICS! And that’s exactly what he did.
Four nice firemen show up. Together they were probably strong enough to lift a Chevy Impala with front seat passengers and a trunk full of groceries; they just couldn’t lift me. While I’m still sitting on a full bucket of poop, they try:
- ripping my arms out of their sockets;
- running huge yellow fiberglass straps under my ass, the kind with buckles that you’d use to move a baby grand piano, but this was a terrible idea that made me scream;
- shoving me off the commode and onto the floor, twice, from different directions;
- lifting me up by my armpits while two of the firemen holler in unison: “Don’t let her go! Don’t let her go! DON’T LET HER GO!”
- and at last … tipping me sideways off the commode and onto the bed, smashing my left arm under my body, knocking my glasses off my face and wrecking my barrette. I was finally on the bed, though … and from this position they were able to drag me around before they left so that Sam and I could fine-tune my carcass until I was actually comfortable.
A few days ago I received, marked and returned my absentee ballot for the November 6 election. I voted a STRAIGHT DEMOCRATIC TICKET … and I want to encourage all of you to vote straight Democratic, too. Let’s take back our government!
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| JBS Tolleson, Inc. has recalled 6.5 million pounds of ground beef. Jesus. |
The recall was issued after health officials identified JBS as the common supplier of raw ground beef found to be the “probable source” of salmonella illnesses after 57 cases were reported in 16 states between August 5 and September 6. The USDA inspection mark on the packaging contains the establishment number “EST. 267.” The recalled products were packaged between July 26 and September 7 and sold nationwide under brand names Wal-Mart, Cedar River Farms Natural Beef, Showcase, Showcase/Wal-Mart and JBS Generic.
If you have any of this slop in your freezer please throw it out immediately or return it to the grocery store for a refund. You’re welcome.
Holy shit. 6.5 MILLION POUNDS OF GROUND BEEF!
A few minutes ago I had a surprise visit from Dr. Wright, the “mobile podiatrist” who shows up every three months to do my toenails and remove a recurring monster corn from the baby toe on my left foot. His visit wasn’t really completely unexpected, however, because he was on my calendar for TOMORROW … not TODAY. Dr. Wright apologized profusely for the mix-up and admitted that his office manager was an idiot. Frankly, I don’t know how it’s possible to run a business when your employees are a bunch of morons!
Thank you for reading this and and I hope you have a pleasant Thursday afternoon. Sam thinks you should also remember the Alamo.
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