I HATE Fricking Needles, Bitches. Damn.

Oh, sure. You think you’re all prettiful, don’t you, with your colorful tips? But you are nothing but a rainbow of HELL.

Remember when one or both of your parents used to say, “This is going to hurt me a lot more than it will you,” right before said parental whooped your ass? Yeah. Right. My own mother said that to me one time, and unless that hand that she was using to beat my tender buttocks had been stripped down to its fucking raw nerve endings, that bitch sure as shit did not hurt more than I did, especially in the cold, little cockles of her lying heart. And yet, that fabrication of a flaccid excuse carries on as if it’s actually fooling folks. My favorite provocateurs who utter those deceitful words are doctors, armed with nuclear-warhead-sized syringes.

I’ve had to endure the following injustices:

upper-palate shots which pinch and sting like a mother;

two epidurals, which spineless needle-wielding assholes swear will not hurt, but which really feel like a drinking straw of poison and death being stabbed into the most delicate part of your back;

the jamming of a needle the size of the one on the far left in the picture above INTO a nice, fresh, bone-exposing wound on my right thumb;

a hot embrodiery needle dragged through each ear lobe so that I could hang fucking cheap jewelry from the resulting holes;

and my favorite of all time: The vicious needle of annihilation through which an endless stream of novacaine was loaded into my right EYEBALL. Twice. I must say that having a sharp, metal cylinder enter my EYEBALL without my express permission and with the intent of injecting a burning chemical into my EYEBALL fucking sucks. Picture it now and try to feel it for yourself. Now multiply that times infinity. And you still won’t have the complete pain. Doctors LIE about that shit so you won’t have a heart attack and cause them to lose some fees.

I have recent experience with the lying skanks who profess to be all about my well-being. I have had a little injury, the result of which is a knee gone bad. It is trying its damnedest to kill my ass, and it’s doing a superb job of keeping me from, say, sleeping ever or not writhing around in agony most of the time. So, of course, I visited an orthopedic specialist to see what might be going on and what immediate remedies he might offer. And, goddamned if he didn’t saunter into the room a couple of days ago with his smarmy smirk and his “We’re going to put some medicine in the knee that is really going to calm it down and help you heal.”

IN my knee? I instantly realized that there is only one way to get shit inside my knee, and so the whimpering began. I am not kidding when I say that my sweat glands are seriously successful at their job. I protested, but to no avail. I explained that I have a horrible aversion to being impaled, but the dude kept coming. He even said he’d given himself a shot in the ol’ knee before and that it didn’t hurt that much. Buttfucking asshole.

He didn’t even give me time to panic adequately before he “froze” the area (not!) with some spray shit and then drove that metal rod of misery into my knee with that old bullshit line, “Little pinch.” My ass! And then he said, “This may sting a little,” as he pumped liquid fucking purgatory under my kneecap. Oh, and THEN he had to bend the knee back and forth to make sure the waters of perdition flowed copiously through all nerves in the area. 

I didn’t breathe through the whole ordeal; I tried unsuccessfully to push his torturous hand away; I considered ramming a baseball bat up his rectum to check for polyps or just to kill him anally. It was a sports clinic. Surely there was a bat around there somewhere. Oh, and I would have been sure to give him a little local anesthesia before the carnage. And I’d swear it wouldn’t hurt a bit.