Showing posts with label Hunting of the Snark. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hunting of the Snark. Show all posts

Monday, December 14, 2009

360 Days of Fun Fun Fun!

We're heading into the anniversary weekend. The one year anniversary of when the shit hit the fan.

In retrospect, it feels like a horrible Dr. Seuss book that never quite got published: "Oh What A Year You've Had!"

Complete with Trompsnuzzles and Wangdoodles and they all either end up going to prison or to the poorhouse.

Yeah, we'll call that Dr. Seuss's blue period.

All I can say is that I've never had a more life altering year. For someone stuck in a horrible rut, this last year has been dynamite.

It makes me wonder if people in prison actually wake up in their cell with thoughts such as "Hey, ten years ago, I killed my next door neighbor with an ax! How 'bout cake???"

Do anniversaries count when you're in prison? And if so, what is the typical Miss Manners gift agenda for prison? Does it follow traditional guide for the folks on the "outside"?

1st WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Paper

Prison Anniversary Gift: Toilet Paper

2nd WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Cotton

Prison Anniversary Gift: Cotton Balls

3rd WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Leather

Prison Anniversary Gifts: Bondage Leather (also known as "shower accessories")

4th WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Flowers

Prison Anniversary Gift: Marijuana (Prisoners are known for suffering from open angle glaucoma)

5th WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Wood

Prison Anniversary Gift: It's the gift that keeps on giving, just ask your cell mate.


Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Joints Are For Smoking

It's never easy learning the boundaries of new co-workers.

In other words, it is completely draining to be on one's best behavior ALL THE TIME!

Having come from a very open work place where it wasn't unusual to have someone call from there office "Hey, can you come here for a minute? What do you think this rash is?", I don't know if I should explain my current behavior of visiting the bathroom twice an hour and the drinking fountain 40,000 times a day.

Yes, another bladder infection.
No, I didn't want to ask for time off to go to the clinic.
Yes, I went to urgent care after work.
No, I didn't bother to go into the details with anyone.

I actually did a two for one special and went in with a bladder infection and a possible broken rib (from painting the bathroom...I'm hardcore like that). I know that there isn't jack squat that can be done for a broken rib but I wanted it recorded somewhere in my medical records that I was having this problem. I've found that when I talk about all the times that I dislocate a joint, the doctors will ask "but did you come in for it?"

"Why no, I didn't. I can pop things back in place myself, use one of the 28 joint immobilizers that I have in my linen closet, take ibuprofen, use ice and take it easy all for the low low price of absolutely nothing."

"Well, if you don't come in and see us, it obviously either didn't happen or wasn't a true dislocation..."

So, yeah. Kinda wanted it to be all "official" since the connective tissue in my ribs seems to be the latest, greatest place of discord. That and the kneecaps.

I can't wait to drive myself to urgent care with my kneecap on the inside of my leg. I will then get the triage nurse to visualize it and then I will do what I always do, dig my little fingers under it and slide it back into place. I will then hobble out without seeing the doctor.

Maybe I should just start taking videos of these events at home and taking the video "evidence" into the doctors when I go for something completely different.

"Yeah, I think I have a sinus infection and I'd like to show you the five dislocations that I've had since the last time we've met."

Hey, I'm all about saving money in the health care industry. I think Barack should give me a job.

Anyway, what I'm having is not broken rib pain, just dislocated rib pain.

In other words, I have not "broken my boob". I'm actually quite disappointed. I kind of liked that diagnosis.

This is, in fact, the continuation of a problem I had earlier but didn't go to the doctor for. (This means that it really didn't exist.) Last time it was located in my lower ribs and everything sort of came unmoored quietly and over the course of a few days. This time, it came loose with the sound of a gunshot, albeit a very tiny gun. Perhaps gunshot is a bit dramatic...maybe I should equate it to a very sudden and aggressive bowl of Rice Krispies?

Snap Crackle and Pop are gonna cut a bitch, so watch out!

Needless to say, there isn't anything anyone can do about it. The doctor was kind enough to assure me that "maybe someday, after enough of your joints are compromised and more symptoms appear, we'll be able to figure this thing out."

Thanks doc, you really were very kind. It was a definite improvement from the last time I went into Urgent Care with a joint issue. It was my first kneecap dislocation and although I moved it back myself, it was horribly painful and new and I stumbled into urgent care only to have the doctor tell me "If you're really dislocating your joints like that, I'm calling Mayo and having this disease named after me because there is no way that this can be happening."

I ended up calling Mayo myself and naming the disease for him.

It's now called "asshole".

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Assorted Shenanigans

My epic sister-in-law brought the best shirt with her for me to try on.














I would like to recommend this t-shirt for anyone who has ever had to go to court or would just like to impress a simple message upon that special someone...

Looks puzzling but not inappropriate...

See the white dots? When the judge isn't looking, be sure to face that special someone and match the dots up...























Now you're talking!

Friday, October 23, 2009

Not A Tiny Little Division Of Hallmark

Taa Daa.

It's 3 a.m and I'm up to my old tricks: waking up at the butt crack of dawn in mid rant with the bed covers wrapped around me like a straight jacket.

Reconciliation indeed...

The person that I was ten months and four days ago is dead. Dead and gone.

No more door mat, no more excuses, no more patience, no more swallowing the day in and day out pain of being married to a fucking loser.

The most hilarious thing is (and believe me, when you wake up at 3 a.m, breaking into random hysterical laughter is a distinct possibility), even if he had just been unfaithful and I had kicked him out of the house and there hadn't been any earth shattering awfulness, I STILL wouldn't take him back!

Dear Jesus Christ on Toast! Not only does he think that I could actually stand in front of him without sticking a shiv in his ribs, but he thinks that after wasting 17 years of my life with a person that made me feel like shit on a daily basis, I would be raising my hand and saying "Oh please sir, I'll have another!"

Check this little head trip out: If we got back together do you think he'd still ask me to call him "daddy" while we have sex? Seriously...SERIOUSLY?...I just want to vomit.

Hey! Let's make the perfect Hallmark Card for this occasion! It can be a whole new line of greeting cards for prisoners!

On the cover of the card, in gilded letters with a tacky late eighties pastel color scheme:

As I sit here in my cell,
comparing ways to groom young girls for sex with my cell mate,
my mind harkens back to a far better time.
A time when I could eat all the junk food I wanted,
ignore my family,
and spend hours on end cyber-fucking my girlfriend.
I could do and say whatever I wanted
and there was never a threat of being gang raped
in the shower.
I could go to work and come home
and never lift a finger to help you with anything
and you were the perfect tool
and fitted the job with ease.
I miss you darling,
my perfect little door mat.
I miss wiping my feet on your back
on a daily basis.

Remember the good old days?

And on the inside of the card?

Wish I was there
Cuz I just realized
that in four and a half years,
I just might be homeless




I'd just like to propose my own little love song for this occasion. It's the only thing that I have that even remotely expresses my feelings at this exact moment.


Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Reading It For The Ads

Today was spent at the mall and the movie theater. Two movies today. Two movies to keep us out of the bars and off the streets, Inglorious Basterds and District 9.

But what I'm thinking about is the magazine rack at Barnes and Noble. There was an entire huge display of magazines labeled "Women's Interest". You guessed it...how to have a wedding for only $50,000, how to redecorate your home using baling wire and bubble gum (guest columnist: McGyver), and how to feed your family of 12 on only $3.75 per day.

There was also a "Men's Interest" section. All nine titles: Tits, More Tits, Huge Tits, Monster Tits, Titulation, Titification, Sweater Puppies, TaTas Monthly, and CROTCH-TACULAR!

Now, I'm feeling a bit conflicted here.

Really? Is that what we're really all about? Are there no men interested in things like photography? No women interested in foreign affairs? Don't people generally purchase magazines that interest them personally? Is there no man out there interested in Martha Stewart? (I personally know three men that would tear my eyes out to touch the ratty sleeve of Martha's dirty bathrobe and don't you even look at me that way...you KNOW she pads around her house in socks with holes, chili stains down her v-neck Hanes undershirt, wearing a bathrobe that has served as the birthing mat for seven generations of pug dog puppies.)

But what my real question today was, how does one go about choosing their "Men's Interest" magazines when the covers are mostly covered? Why, there was a fine upstanding gentleman standing right next to me, picking up one skin mag after the other, vacillating on one issue, putting it back, grabbing another, putting it back, grabbing two more and then putting one back. I think I may have made myself a tad obvious when I stood less than three feet away from him, cocking my head from one side to the other, trying to understand his methods. It ran through my mind to lean over to get my ear closer to his crotch as if I were a monkey listening at a termite mound in darkest Africa.

"No....not that one...pick up the next one...nope...no action yet...keep looking...keep looking...wait! I'm picking up some movement!....BINGO!!!! WE HAVE A WINNER!!!!"

He did give me a rather peculiar look when he walked away. I suppose he was wondering why I wasn't reading up on how to lose 50 pounds while baking award winning cookies and having twenty three orgasms a day.

Is it really any wonder that women are better at multitasking?