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My son (putting on his clothes just now): “Dad, my shirt is too small.”
Me: “Son, you’re trying to push your head through the arm hole.”
And he’s in a gifted and talented school. Seriously.
It’s been about a year since my last installment about the proper and improper usage of bacon and its glorious image, so I felt like it was time for me to take another run at it. Plus it’ll help my ass get out of my non-writing funk, which is a deep enough funk to even impress George Clinton. Yeah.
I already laid out my thoughts on good and bad bacon, so this time I’m just going to show you bacon, and tell you – yes, I will tell you whether it’s a great implement or something from Satan’s Land’s End knapsack.
(Note: I don’t know if Satan shops at Land’s End. But I mean, why wouldn’t he? It’s a fine retail establishment, and there are some good deals there, especially for outerwear, and we all know how nippy it gets in North Hell.
Actually, I bet Satan shops at Aeropostale, which would make sense because I hate that place. But I digress.)
Let’s evaluate the good and the bad of baconry.
Bacon + hotdogs = [I’m sorry, I’m eating bacon-wrapped hotdogs now and both hands are occupied, baby.]
Bacon + bourbon = drunk and full.
Bacon + shoes = a foot that looks like it went through a furnace.
Bacon + costumes = idiocy. That doesn’t even look like bacon. It looks like the world’s worst Christmas scarf given by blind Aunt Eunice. Twice. And don’t even ask me what that faux fried egg is all about. I hate eggs.
Bacon + perfume = Me following women around Target for reasons unknown to me.
Bacon + cologne = Me following men around Target for reasons unknown and disturbing to me.
Bacon + babies = Awesome. This is always true.
Bacon + coffee = a complete breakfast you can drink. I dislike coffee, and yet I’d drink this daily like it was insulin. And you don’t even drink insulin. THAT’S HOW AWESOME IT IS.
Bacon + toiletries = a bad idea. Bacon breath isn’t as hot as you’d think. Well, it’s as hot as someone who just ate bacon talking directly into your face would be. So…ruminate on that.
Bacon + candles = I’ll be honest…I’m not sure about this. If it truly smells like bacon, then this is the best olfactory experience I could ever hope for. If it smells like a burning Goodyear radial, I will want to punch a llama.
Bacon + batter + deep frying = [gurgling sounds of pure, unadulterated joy]
Gaze upon greatness, folks. Stare at it for 20 seconds without blinking; emblazon this image upon your cerebral cortex until it burns in permanently like 1983 Atari Pac-Man on a 13″ black and white TV after 5 straight hours of play. This is battered, deep-friend bacon, and it’s so good that I nearly elbowed the elderly in the chest to get some at the State Fair. On 2 separate occasions. It’s so damn good, I saw visions when I ate it. It was like the Pink Elephants on Parade scene from “Dumbo”. Time slowed. My mind expanded. Taylor Swift was, for the briefest of moments, pleasant to listen to. It was Xanadu on a bun made of bliss and Paradise, marinated in awesome.
You know, I’m just gonna end this here – it won’t get any better than this, and if I find one more image of the bacon bra I think I’m gonna go all Gary Busey on someone.
It’s been just about 2 months since The Incident, or as I like to call it, the “I Really Want to Install A Vibrating Titanium Hook” Event, and it’s been about 6 weeks since my surgery. Things are moving along, slowly, but positively. Since one of my resolutions is to post more, and since I’m also lazy as hell, I’m going to do a pictorial update of my wound.
WARNING: Some of the pictures are a bit rough. If pictures of scars/wounds/stitches/other freaky things upset you, then don’t watch Discovery Health Channel. And don’t look at the pics I’m about to post. You have been warned.
Here’s where Ol’ Lefty was after the incident, but before the surgery.
The initial injury is a horizontal gash starting above the thumb and moving toward the palm. Lucky for you, it was covered in steri-strips so that you can’t witness the carnage beneath. The other areas are additional bites, scrapes, cuts, and whatnot.
My right arm had some punctures, scratches, and abrasions too, so I threw that pic up to show the whole story. Did I mention it all hurt like hell? No? Well, it did.
After the surgery, I was rockin’ the lovely and stylish and completely comfortable half-cast, half-Ace bandage look. This is what I wore in multiple airports as I made my way through multiple airports on my way to Fargo, ND and back again, one week after surgery.
Airports are funny. In the Dallas airport, they swabbed the cast/bandage (which I will hereafter refer to as my “castage”), ran the little swab through the Mystical Terrorist Bomb and Really Bad Chemical Detector Gadget, and waved me on through. In Minneapolis, they did nothing. In Fargo, they pulled me aside and did the swab thing (though to be fair, they may have pulled me aside because I was black in North Dakota), and waved me on through. Then there was Denver.
Apparently the guys in Denver’s lovely airport of the endless concourses and giant blue balled horse statues were bored when I passed through. They noticed my situation, and reacted as though they finally found an opportunity to use that 1 day training they got 6 months prior. They made me identify my belongings (without touching them), then they ushered me into a small, separate room where some sort of contraption lived. All this was done in a very pleasant environment – the TSA guys were friendly and talkative, asking me about the injury and telling me their own harrowing tales of canine terror, all while scanning me and all my crap with some radio wave thing that’s supposed to find bombs and dirty magazines and tooth decay. It was bizarre and annoying, because my gate was B61. Anyone who has ever flown to and from Denver can tell you why that’s bad.
So wasting time with the Call Of Duty: Black Ops wannabes wasn’t at the top of my To Do list. Moving on…
After my post-op doctor’s visit, he thankfully removed the castage so that I could be fitted with something sexier to begin occupational therapy (not to be confused with physical therapy, which apparently is unemployed). In my short few moments of castless bliss, I snapped this lovely photo.
This is just after the very cute but very sadistic nurse removed my stitches, minus the topical anesthesia. “It won’t hurt,” she said. She lied. Hard. It looks like I’m carrying a caterpillar to a picnic or something. But as you can see, the plastic surgeon saw my wound and raised it by two other incisions going toward the index finger and thumb. This he did to locate and reconnect the severed nerve endings, and to try to clean up the tendon damage. And apparently to practice his backward Zorro signature.
After my first visit to occupational therapy, I got to wear this hot little number for a few weeks.
I wore this bad boy day and night, taking it off only to shower or to do therapy. And let me tell you, folks…therapy is hard. I have a good bit of scar tissue in my finger and palm, and the tendon thinks that it’s Kwanzaa and refuses to work full-time, preventing me from moving my finger correctly. 3 days per week I go through torture, flexing and stretching and bending and grabbing and generally doing any and everything to make the fingers move correctly, and to rebuild strength and nerve sensitivity. I would call it fun and relaxing, but if I did, I’m afraid my left hand would punch me dead in the mouth for lying to you. But it’s paying off. When I started therapy, I could barely move my index finger half an inch in any direction. After a month of intense therapy, I’m out of the splint 80% of the time, and I can now do this:
HELL YES. Obviously I still have a ways to go, but this is progress. Happiness is doled out by the teaspoon, not by the pound.
Here’s what the hand looks like today.
Seriously, it’s amazing what doctors can do now. When I finally cleaned it up and removed all the gross dead skin, I was genuinely shocked at what I saw. After seeing the Caterpillar Hand, I figured I’d have to wear a glove like Luke Skywalker for a while just to avoid grossing people out. But this? This is downright pretty by comparison. A hideous deformation has diminished to an interesting conversation piece. Now, pictures are deceiving – I still can’t play the bass yet, and though it looks like it’s better, I would scream like a howler monkey if anything hit that palm area with any force. Yesterday morning, the doctor was checking it out and tapping it with his fingers as he was making a point. It took a lot of effort not to throw his monitor at him, ’cause that just plain hurts. But, all in all, I can’t complain.
After all, I’m typing this post with two hands. That’s progress.
Thank you for a great year, everyone! One of my resolutions is to post more. Hold me to that.
The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:
The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.
A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 13,000 times in 2010. That’s about 31 full 747s.
In 2010, there were 15 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 384 posts. There were 3 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 151kb.
The busiest day of the year was July 15th with 116 views. The most popular post that day was Mel Gibson’s Predictive Text.
Where did they come from?
The top referring sites in 2010 were darkdamian.com, betarandi805.blogspot.com, greenapplemartini.net, weekendsoff.blogspot.com, and Google Reader.
Some visitors came searching, mostly for jillian micheals, lil kim ass, nancy kerrigan, lil kim thong, and taylor swift.
Attractions in 2010
These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.
Mel Gibson’s Predictive Text July 2010
Jillian Micheals Can Bite Me January 2009
I said a hip, a hop, a hibbit, a hibbity… April 2009
Pope Benedict = Darth Sidious? December 2006
The Mystery of Taylor Swift February 2010
Ahhhh, the holidays. It’s time of year when you pack half of everything that you own into a small car with 4 people and drive approximately 1200 miles across-country to eat dinner with some folks you only see once per year. it’s a time of joy, a time of laughter, a time of nonsense, and a time of pure, unadulterated stress. And folks, you know me – I always have a story. This time is no different.
as I sit here typing this up, I have a small confession to make – I’m not actually typing this up at all. I’m using the Dragon NaturallySpeaking software to translate my speech into text for the blog because currently I am unable to type my blog posts. We’ll get to that in a moment.
This Thanksgiving, like every other, the family and I drove across country to South Carolina to visit our family. It was especially meaningful for me to go for Thanksgiving this year because my grandmother has been very sick this year, and I saw it as a blessing that she was still around for us to enjoy for Thanksgiving. And we had a great time. We spent mostly uneventful time in the upper part of the state with my wife’s family, then made our way down to my grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving. Aside from some minor drama with my uncle ( which is not even worth mentioning here), everything was pretty good. Well, almost everything.
My grandmother has been a dog person for as long as I can remember. when we visited her in South Carolina last June, she had one dog at that time, a large adult chow named King who was just about the coolest dog ever. On this trip, however, we noticed that there was another dog in the backyard – another chow in the backyard with King. My grandmother told us that the dog belonged to my uncle, and warned us not to go into the backyard because the dog was mean. Now, I’m not afraid of dogs, and I’m especially not afraid of dogs in my own grandma’s backyard – a place I consider my own home. I was bound and determined to go meet this so-called mean dog. The next morning, I boldly opened the door to the backyard and announced my presence to this dog as though I was the master of the house. The dog looked at me as though I was made of bacon and growled deeply. I closed the door. Obviously, this was not going to be as easy as I thought.
Later that day, I had to go into my grandmother’s storage building, which is located in the backyard. Undeterred, I boldly opened the door to the backyard and stepped outside onto the back porch. King immediately ran up to me to be petted, but the new dog growled at me and looked at me as though I was made of bacon covered with bacon in a bacon gravy. I know a threat when I see one, so I grabbed a rake nearby, just to protect myself as I entered the storage building and retrieved the requested items from my grandmother. The dog showed some aggression, but I noticed that whenever he growled, the growl always ended in a whimper, which to me indicated that the dog was afraid. Armed with that knowledge, I knew what I needed to do: I needed to socialize this dog because he had been abused. DWW agreed with me. Over the course of the next couple of days, I went into the backyard repeatedly, mostly ignoring him, but allowing him to become used to me being in his area. Eventually fear turned to curiosity and the dog even began nuzzling my hand for petting and affection. My God, I had actually done it. Eat your heart out, Cesar Milan!
On Saturday morning, we packed the car to prepare to head back to Dallas. About an hour before we left, I decided to go back into the backyard one more time to socialize with the dogs more because he had made such significant improvements. At that time I felt comfortable enough to allow my 11-year-old to join me in the backyard, which I had not done previously, due to the dog’s aggression. We both walked outside, and the dogs. Both seemed very happy to have the company. The new dog ran and greeted me, then sniffed my son, then went off to play with the older dog. My son wandered off into the yard to look for rocks or some other such thing while I gave the dogs more water in their water bowl. As I stood there with the water hose, I watched the dogs playing and I watched my son wandering around the backyard – just kind of taking in the scene before we had to leave. The young dog suddenly broke off from playing with the older dog, dropped down to his haunches, wagged his tail very hard – then shot off across the yard like a missile and bit my son on the hip.
Oh hells no.
My son had not even been looking in the dog’s direction when it happened – he was completely blindsided. The dog bit him on the hip, breaking the skin, then released him and backed off. My son began screaming and crying in fear, and I immediately ran over to him to assess the damage. Seeing the two puncture wounds and the blood and the torn shirt, my super protective parenting instincts took over – but not completely, not yet. I got between my son and the dog and looked the dog in the eye… And I growled at him the way in Alpha dog would. My hope was, since the dog was very young ( a little over one year old, I would imagine), perhaps he would respond by assuming a submissive position to my dominant display. And I was way, way off. When I looked into the dog’s eyes and growled at him, the dog looked right back at me and growled back at me, basically saying “This is MY turf. And I will eat you if I want to.” And you know what, folks? I believed him 100%. Keeping myself between the dog and my son, I slowly began moving us towards the back porch of the house, never taking my eyes off the dog. When we got near the porch,the dog did the unthinkable – he tried to attack my son again! “Tried” being the operative word here.
Remember earlier when I said my super protective parenting instincts took over, but not completely yet? Yeah well, I lost my damn mind when that happened. Before I even knew what I was doing, I dove on top of the dog as he ran by me on his way to eating my son for lunch. the dog turned, sinking his teeth into my left hand. I quickly grabbed the back of his head to hold him in place while I turned and yelled to my son “GET IN THE HOUSE!! NOW!!” By this time, my sister had seen the commotion from the living area of the house and was now outside with my mother and grandmother right behind her. I screamed at them all to get back inside the house because I just didn’t know what the dog would do if I let him go. He was still chewing on my left hand and the time – which was rather unpleasant, let me tell you – but for me, that was still a better option than him attacking my son again or any other people in my family. Once they got my son inside the house, I ripped his mouth off of my hand and held him by the scruff of his neck with my right hand. He immediately relaxed a little, like a puppy does when you grab his scruff, and while holding him at arm’s length I slowly backed up the porch steps towards the back door. When I got about 3 feet from the door, the dog began attacking my right arm biting me over and over again – but I wouldn’t let him go. Not a chance. When I reached the back door, I turned and saw the handle of a hoe that my grandmother uses as a walking stick.
Let me preface this next statement by saying that I love dogs. I have dogs of my own, and I treat them like members of the family. That being said, given that this dog had attacked my son, unprovoked, then injured me pretty badly while protecting my son, I reverted to a very primal state, thinking only one thing: destroy. I grabbed that handle, and… I hit that dog as hard as I could, over and over again, until I could get inside the house. It was only then that I began to assess the damage the dog had done to me. I had a very deep gash in my left hand was bleeding profusely. I had multiple puncture wounds, scratches, abrasions and contusions on both arms. I needed medical attention right away. My son also needed medical attention given the depth of his puncture wounds. I resisted the urge to go back into the backyard with my grandmother’s gun, opting instead to have my sister drive us to the emergency room where they patched up my son and I. Animal Control was summoned to retrieve the dog, who was placed in quarantine for 10 days. The hospital patched us up and sent us home, and we drove back to Dallas the next day. It was only then, after consulting a hand specialist, that I found out the true extent of the damage to my hand.
- Two severed nerves, leading to a total loss of sensation in my index finger and a partial loss of sensation in my middle finger
- A damaged tendon sheath, preventing full range of motion for the index finger
- Oh, and I’m left-handed. Awesome.
Surgery was mandatory. the good news is that the nerves were repaired successfully, and the doctor feels like I will make a full recovery. However, it will be several months (if ever) before I can play bass again and typing is a challenge that is often too large to attempt. That’s why I’m using the Dragon NaturallySpeaking software right now. I gotta admit, it works pretty well. Sadly, the dog’s fate was not so sunny. Although he passed quarantine, the dog failed the aggression and adoption tests, and was put to sleep. Honestly, despite what happened, I really feel badly about that. In my estimation, the dog never really had a chance. He was very likely mistreated by someone, giving him tons of trust issues which he displayed through aggression. I will never know what prompted him to attack my son, and I don’t regret protecting my son from that dog. I really thought the dog had turned a corner and was on the road to recovery. I trusted him just a little bit too soon, however.