Be afraid. Be very afraid.
A quick “good search” (check out http://www.goodsearch.com/ for a yahoo powered search engine that donates money to the charity of your choice every time you search for something; it’s a great deal) reveals that some experts view the kitchen as the most dangerous room in the house. People, these “kitchenites” must be stopped! Beware the bathroom, for it possesses a preponderance of perils.
It’s hard to cut yourself in the shower, especially in a razor-free one like mine. Ah, but that didn’t stop me from nearly severing the tip of my left big toe while bathing before an all-day drinking decathlon on Saturday. Sometime toward the end of my shower I decided to engage in an impromptu yoga session. This was rather odd, considering I haven’t done yoga in over a year and even when I did yoga regularly it was in a public place under the guidance of a yogi, not by myself in my shower. Regardless, I decided, for reasons still unknown, to swing my left foot upwards…jamming my big toe directly into the bathtub spigot. I remember many times in yoga class when a particular stretch caused me some minor discomfort, but I don’t recall ever screaming, “Fuck!” Ditto for gushing blood.
Fortunately, ten healthy toes are not a pre-req for spending all day in a dive bar. Of course, seeing as how it’s playoff time, I would have, er, sucked it up for the team, anyway. Oh, how I love to drink draft beer from a frosty glass in the daytime! As I learned years ago, though, this activity should come with a message from C. Everett Koop. “Surgeon General’s Warning: Although she may claim to be able to handle consuming alcohol several hours earlier than usual, day drinking greatly increases the likelihood that your girlfriend will have a very public, irrational meltdown over something incredibly inconsequential, i.e. your telling the waitress she looks like your prom date.” One effective way I’ve found to avoid this situation is to avoid having a girlfriend. Alas, last weekend proved some of us need further guidance. “Surgeon General’s Warning: If you day drink prior to attending a birthday party for a guy from Kentucky who adds bourbon to his chicken soup when fighting a cold, and whose friends all guzzle bourbon and will make you - a celebrated lightweight who even on Spring Break took much-needed naps after day drinking - drink bourbon…you deserve whatever befalls you.”
From what I could see, it was a great party. I tried to conduct myself in a manner my parents would have been proud of, and nearly succeeded; I only insulted half a dozen people and my bookie has generously offered me a payment plan to settle the little wager I called in at 1:42 am. Who knew the Panthers wouldn’t win by “a million”?
Aware that perhaps I did not, to quote Tiger Woods, have my “A-game,” I sent myself to bed. Safe and sound, snug as a bug in a rug. Things went south ten minutes later when I got kicked out of said bed in the guestroom, so the guest could go to sleep. I thought there was plenty of room for two, but apparently she’s lesbian.
Tossed back on the street – or into the living room where the party was still raging – I did what any homeless guy would do: had another drink. Hmm. Historians – and my insurance company – may look back and question that decision.
It began like any other trip to the bathroom, though probably a lot more zigzagged. Approaching the toilet, I spied one of those bath-mats-for-the-toilet thingies. It looked soft and fuzzy, like a stuffed animal, a friend. As if.
My left foot hit the mat…and kept going. Suddenly, I was airborne like Yosemite Sam slipping on a banana peel, Charlie Brown flying into the air after Lucy pulls the ball away, and Joe Pesci stepping onto the skateboard in HOME ALONE – all rolled into one. 180 pounds of drunk went flying up and came crashing down.
Perhaps if I had chosen a better class of friends, sheiks or something, the edge of the bathtub would have been lined with lots of soft pillows and such, and my fall would have been cushioned. Alas, I roll with paupers, practically, who line their tubs with nary a rubber ducky. Bathtubs are solid; I thought I had learned that lesson sufficiently in LETHAL WEAPON when Mel Gibson survived a bomb explosion inside of one. Apparently, I needed a refresher course. Funny, none of my New Year’s resolutions mentioned, “End up sprawled on the bathroom floor with the wind knocked out of me.”
Ribs are like toes, it turns out, in that there is no treatment for them when broken. That’s the kind of news a patient in pain likes to hear.
Well, I’m off to order a product endorsed by the aforementioned former Surgeon General. It’s targeted at people over 65, but I’m thinking I might get a head start. “Thanks to LIFE ALERT®, you can live alone without ever being alone. And that’s why I wear one.”
I’m drunken and I can’t get up.
It’s hard to cut yourself in the shower, especially in a razor-free one like mine. Ah, but that didn’t stop me from nearly severing the tip of my left big toe while bathing before an all-day drinking decathlon on Saturday. Sometime toward the end of my shower I decided to engage in an impromptu yoga session. This was rather odd, considering I haven’t done yoga in over a year and even when I did yoga regularly it was in a public place under the guidance of a yogi, not by myself in my shower. Regardless, I decided, for reasons still unknown, to swing my left foot upwards…jamming my big toe directly into the bathtub spigot. I remember many times in yoga class when a particular stretch caused me some minor discomfort, but I don’t recall ever screaming, “Fuck!” Ditto for gushing blood.
Fortunately, ten healthy toes are not a pre-req for spending all day in a dive bar. Of course, seeing as how it’s playoff time, I would have, er, sucked it up for the team, anyway. Oh, how I love to drink draft beer from a frosty glass in the daytime! As I learned years ago, though, this activity should come with a message from C. Everett Koop. “Surgeon General’s Warning: Although she may claim to be able to handle consuming alcohol several hours earlier than usual, day drinking greatly increases the likelihood that your girlfriend will have a very public, irrational meltdown over something incredibly inconsequential, i.e. your telling the waitress she looks like your prom date.” One effective way I’ve found to avoid this situation is to avoid having a girlfriend. Alas, last weekend proved some of us need further guidance. “Surgeon General’s Warning: If you day drink prior to attending a birthday party for a guy from Kentucky who adds bourbon to his chicken soup when fighting a cold, and whose friends all guzzle bourbon and will make you - a celebrated lightweight who even on Spring Break took much-needed naps after day drinking - drink bourbon…you deserve whatever befalls you.”
From what I could see, it was a great party. I tried to conduct myself in a manner my parents would have been proud of, and nearly succeeded; I only insulted half a dozen people and my bookie has generously offered me a payment plan to settle the little wager I called in at 1:42 am. Who knew the Panthers wouldn’t win by “a million”?
Aware that perhaps I did not, to quote Tiger Woods, have my “A-game,” I sent myself to bed. Safe and sound, snug as a bug in a rug. Things went south ten minutes later when I got kicked out of said bed in the guestroom, so the guest could go to sleep. I thought there was plenty of room for two, but apparently she’s lesbian.
Tossed back on the street – or into the living room where the party was still raging – I did what any homeless guy would do: had another drink. Hmm. Historians – and my insurance company – may look back and question that decision.
It began like any other trip to the bathroom, though probably a lot more zigzagged. Approaching the toilet, I spied one of those bath-mats-for-the-toilet thingies. It looked soft and fuzzy, like a stuffed animal, a friend. As if.
My left foot hit the mat…and kept going. Suddenly, I was airborne like Yosemite Sam slipping on a banana peel, Charlie Brown flying into the air after Lucy pulls the ball away, and Joe Pesci stepping onto the skateboard in HOME ALONE – all rolled into one. 180 pounds of drunk went flying up and came crashing down.
Perhaps if I had chosen a better class of friends, sheiks or something, the edge of the bathtub would have been lined with lots of soft pillows and such, and my fall would have been cushioned. Alas, I roll with paupers, practically, who line their tubs with nary a rubber ducky. Bathtubs are solid; I thought I had learned that lesson sufficiently in LETHAL WEAPON when Mel Gibson survived a bomb explosion inside of one. Apparently, I needed a refresher course. Funny, none of my New Year’s resolutions mentioned, “End up sprawled on the bathroom floor with the wind knocked out of me.”
Ribs are like toes, it turns out, in that there is no treatment for them when broken. That’s the kind of news a patient in pain likes to hear.
Well, I’m off to order a product endorsed by the aforementioned former Surgeon General. It’s targeted at people over 65, but I’m thinking I might get a head start. “Thanks to LIFE ALERT®, you can live alone without ever being alone. And that’s why I wear one.”
I’m drunken and I can’t get up.
posted by Jamo at 2:21 PM
1 Comments:
I love your website. It has a lot of great pictures and is very informative.
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