Yesterday I got out of a ticket for speeding through Cow Town*, NH, with the “I have to pee!” excuse. Do give that a whirl! If you aren’t suffering from quick-onset obesity like I am, just slouch and tenderly pat your abdomen. Fucking breeders.
After escaping the law, I was glued to a story on NPR about organ brokers and illegal tissue harvesting. Finally, the profession for me! I’ve always wanted to be a surgeon, but this would allow me to skirt the pesky medical degree. I could do it from a home office. I’ve toyed with the idea of hanging out my illegal cosmetic surgery shingle, but who likes seeing how sausage is made?
Although I’m glad I haven’t had any recent illegal and unscreened tissue implants. I do feel bad for poor Alistair Cooke‘s family though. I used to love me some Masterpiece Theatre when I was a kid. And, oh hell, the families of other less-famous people too. And the unsuspecting people who received potentially contaminated tissue.
Annie Cheney was on the program discussing her book Body Brokers: Inside America’s Underground Trade in Human Remains (excerpt). Among other interesting facts, the hotel ballroom where you are having your wedding reception may have recently hosted a hands-on seminar for doctors, meaning a bunch of torsos or ankles might have been laid out around the room for surgical training or product demos.
Over dinner, I told Mr. H that he is 100% allowed to donate any of my organs, and that he may sell the rest or donate it to science as he pleases. Or have me stuffed and mounted over the fireplace or posed in lingerie. I honestly don’t care. I’ll be dead. I think part of the problem is that people aren’t allowed to just sell their own loved ones. Eliminate the middle man of the shady funeral home, and let people seize commerce as they see fit. No touchy the folks who don’t want to be recycled. Then regulate the shit out of the whole deal to avoid implanting diseased tissue. Someone’s already making money on this, so why not just make it legal and cap the profit margin? Wow, that was a hard-hitting FOX-news-y opinion.
Then Mr. H told me he had lunch with a friend who’s graduating from medical school in a few months. The friend was agonizing over going to his next class, saying it would be boring because all they’d be doing is dissecting a brain. Mr. H said “Are you kidding? My wife would love to dissect a brain!” He knows me well. I need to have our friend over for a home-cooked dinner so I can butter him up for an invite to brain lab. What food is most reminiscent of brains?
*The mayor is actually a goat. Whoa, recycled joke!
Oh, I have been gritting my teeth all week against the pain of a gland problem that has landed me screaming on a table in the ER many times over the years. For this round, I had to wait several days from the onset of PAIN to have a second try at the surgery that is supposed to correct the problem permanently. Luckily, while I waited I received a prescription of Codeine from Dr. Roommate. Isn’t that where everyone gets their painkillers these days?
The surgery went just fine, for at the helm was a brisk German with a heavy accent and a Van Dyke. Helen was there, to talk trash with me and squeeze my paw while i felt small and tired in a blue gown. But finally the sweet sweet drugs came, and I couldn’t stop laughing and reaching for the lights over the operating table and calling for the Mother Ship. Apparently, the nurses had never heard that one before.
Afterwards, I lay in white hot pain with Helen at my side until they brought me some Percocet. She said my eyes went Anime-wide as soon as it kicked in, and I was able to enjoy the sunny afternoon ride home and sushi on the porch with her and Stu and Mr. H.
On this perky fog, I can enjoy just about anything, like getting stuck in Red Sox traffic on the way home from the hospital or being here at work the next day. To say nothing of the two yards of bloody gauze I had to extract from the surgical incision this morning. It was like that magic trick where you pull scarves out of your pocket in an endless rainbow. Only more disgusting. I bet I could even eat a lima bean or be sympathetic to the ugly and downtrodden today, without feeling put out in the least.
I wish life came with painkillers for every day.
Diese Woche habe ich unter ein sehr schmerzhaftes Druese problem gelitten. Ich wurde gestern operiert und heute geht es mir schon viel besser, besonders wegen dieses tolles Schmerzmittel!
Ich fing letze woche mit einem neuen Bild an, und ich glaube meiner kurze Aufenthalt im Krankenhaus das beeinflussen wird. Das sieht Ihr selber wenn es fertig ist.
This morning I awoke from a bizarre Tylenol PM-fueled dream that I was a spectator at a reality TV show featuring celebrity amputations. There was a glossy multi-tiered set, a cheering crowd, a dapper host (Ryan Seacrest?). I woke up, groggy and rubbing my eyes, not sure if I dreamed that or not. The name of the show escapes me, but I know it was something incredibly twee, like “Cut It Out!” Come to think of it, they should have gotten Dave Coulier.
The celebrities were pleased to be featured, and they were trotted out and an extraneous extremity was pruned with the benefit of local anesthetic, their choice of machete or mini guillotine. White uniformed medical professionals were in attendance, overseeing everything very seriously. The amputations had little catch phrases depending on the part in question. Jennifer Anniston got all the toes on one foot off; that one was called “The Footsie Tootsie.”
It all started getting hazy after something went awry with the severing of Jim J. Bullock’s forearm from the rest of him. A hazard of live TV I guess. Paramedics came, and then suddenly I realized the set was in the middle of a giant Pier 1. And Kirstie Alley was there, trying to sell me some fake sea grass. Arghhhhhhhhhh!
Can someone please tell me why there are C-list stars in my dreams? I am never taking Tylenol PM again, even if I stay up for 3 days. I’ve worked 7 days straight, looking at another 5. My marbles are rolling around in my head, all loosey goosey like.
A young woman’s fancy turns to shoes. Sassy wedges, kicky slides. My kingdom for a pedicure! Oh, to a find a crooked surgeon who will amputate my little toes in a cosmetically-appealing fashion and ply me with narcotics. The better to cram my wee goat feet into the casual buckle-detail mules.
My weekend was a sad ordeal through no fault of my own. I didn’t do anything fun like take candy from babies or set women in fur coats on fire. There were no acrobats, no jugglers, no mysteries of the trapeze. Instead there was a lot of driving. And listening to bad radio stations. Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock, together at last… If you haven’t heard that painful spot of nouveau country, consider retiring to a remote mountain cabin posthaste!
I’m still in a foul mood, no way around that. So I had some more coffee and put on some show tunes! Broadway right in my living room, promises the cable radio display. Seems I can add jazz hands to my own personal raft of the Medusa (er, the couch with the puffy pillows) with the click of a button! Some Bernadette Peters sure soothes the savage beast. At nine, Bernadette received her Equity Card. At nine, I was still biting my sister.
I used to work at the Art History department at BU, and we called the circulation desk cubicle in the slide library the Raft of the Medusa. The work wasn’t bad. Filing, reminding professors that the little dot on the slides went to the upper right. Occasionally overhearing students pleading about grades, or even faculty pissing contests. I almost got a degree in Art History, but I realized that would lead to years more of expensive graduate education, not to mention the emotional price of seriously discussing Tracey Emin or Damien Hirst. I did write a rippin’ good paper of the “storms of fortune in the paintings of Poussin.” hoo dee doo. I’m sure continuing to do such things would have been ever so financially compelling. Thank god I’ve always been more motivated by cold, hard cash.
-yr dime a dance gal
Dear Kitty Winn,
I wrote to you a few weeks ago and your advice about the breast implants was swell, but I must admit that I knuckled under and paid off my credit card debt instead. But I do have a few bucks left, just not enough for elective surgery. So Iâ€™m slinking back to you to ask how I should fritter $1,000. Is it time for a vacation? Some shiatsu massages? Or should I be practical all the way and tuck it back in a musty bank vault? And then thereâ€™s always charity. Surely thereâ€™s some starving children somewhere. Is Biafra still trendy? Kitty, youâ€™re my last resort since I usually do all my financial planning in a whirl of penitence following a drug binge. And Iâ€™m out of drugs!
-Moâ€™ money, moâ€™ problems
Now I know how the workhouse master felt when Oliver Twist asked for seconds. We don’t double dip in askery here. Do you think Dan Savage has to sit around all day, dreaming up new places for his readers to stick their rude bits? Well, I’ll take this indignity on the chin since you have caught me at a blank in my schedule. That impossible black hole when Rockford Files is over and Magnum, P.I. won’t be starting for another 40 minutes.
However I think you will find you have answered your own question- what you really seem to need are drugs. And if crawling around on the floor for a couple of days, playing with scotch tape and string cheese while blaring Scott Walker does not give you any ideas, well, you will be out the money anyhow. Tidy, isn’t it?
Now go away.
Your lives are terrible. You’re lonely, you’re poor, and your hair is doing terrible things. Fret not, Kitty Winn has the answers!
Dear Kitty Winn,
I’ve recently inherited a sum of money. It’s not enough to spend the rest of my days drinking champagne from the navels of painted whores or nothing, but it’s enough for either some short term stupidity or a stab at fiscal responsibility. So I ask you, should I give in to my base urges and blow it all on penny whistles and moon pies, or do I save for a (boring) rainy day? Yes, the economy is uncertain, but the native boys aren’t getting any younger!
-feckless in rhode island
You are overlooking the obvious. You can do something fun that will also ensure you a lucrative future- Breast Implants! There is nothing like a little unnecessary surgery to provide a girl with frivolous joy. And think of all the fun and career opportunites you will have with a great swinging set of hooters! Yes, fabulous breasts will line your pockets with cash and keep you knee deep in casual sex. Go for the whompin’ ‘taters!
You’re all in luck, I am pretty freaking incoherent today. A heady blend of dayquil and giant starbucks latte is coursing through my veins. My eyes are glassy, I can barely hear a damn thing save a dull roaring, which could be my monitor or possibly the voices screwing with me. It would be easy to sneak up on me and scare me if anyone were so inclined. And what do I have to do today? Lots of busy work. Print shit out. On the scary big “tabloid” sized paper. Use a 3-hole puncher. I should probably swear off using the paper cutter. Yes, normally I do fairly complimicated technical work, but these days I am the secretary. Secreting everywhere. And it’s not even like I have James Spader for a boss!
Speaking of amputation, it is my fondest wish to have my little toes removed. They serve no purpose, and they make it hard to wear fashionable shoes! I’m not talking about any kind of accident, I want full anesthesia, a reputable cosmetic surgeon, and a prescription for some top-notch drugs for my extensive recovery period. Yes, I want it to look like they were never even there. Tootsies as smooth and gleaming as other parts of my anatomy.
Lambchop, I have set out a bolt of the finest burlap, and it is my fervent hope that the gnomes will scurry out and whip up a flouncy frock for you! I’ve called several bridal supply stores, and they were a bit brusque as they informed me they did not carry any live animals, nor do they have any truck with burlap. I guess we’re going to have to do this ourselves.
In other news, my sister is being stalked by a crazed Saved By the Bell fan! Godspeed, li’l tofu boots!
Lambchop is feeling glum today. (reads the sign on the door of my plague house).
but thats what weblogs are for. no matter how useless I may feel, the public is served by hearing about it. after all, unlike everyone else, my woe is INTERESTING!
so i perk up a little every time eudora makes that Log! from blammo xylophone tune, expecting to hear from people who have better things to do with their saturday than to mire in self-pity (and the log tune is itself so gosh darn zippy). alas it’s all just the usual notices about how i can be taller, thinner, richer, or more blessed in the cock dept. I am inadequate in ways i never even thought of!
actually, it would not be the first time it has been suggested to me that what would really put spring in my step is having a johnson. Lickety has been telling me for years to consider the graft of a donkey member. but thats because the dear girl really thinks i would make for a fine husband. well, who wouldn’t with such equippage? there cannot be two opinions on the point!