Leave My Fucking Knee ALONNNNNNNNNNE!

If you will kindly recall from the post “I Hate Fricking Needles, Bitches. Damn!” on April 4 (http://bluhoo.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-hate-fricking-needles-bitches-damn.html), I hate fricking needles, bitches.

And you will remember that the original doctor who assessed my knee is a dick; and the second doctor who impaled my knee with a needle the size of a telephone pole is the first doctor’s brother and also a dick. On top of the fact that neither M.D.—which stands for “Medical Dick” in this case—noticed a torn ligament in my MRI, the elder dick prescribed months of physical therapy appointments with a PT who clearly despised his job and seemed repelled by my very existence. The guy was actually really cute—he looked a lot like Justin Bartha from The Hangover and National Treasure films—but looks aren’t everything.

The guy never remembered my name. He always assigned exercises for me to do and then hurried back to socializing with the other therapists. He yawned so frequently that I wondered if he had time to sleep in between trips to the gym, socializing at work and being a dick.

But you know, I don’t really give a shit whether that asshole gets enough sleep. He wasted months of my time giving me useless exercises that did approximately nothing to help my knee. And then the needle-wielding prick for whom he works told me that my only options were to wear a hideous and uncomfortable brace for the rest of my life OR to have an even more heinous surgery involving splitting my kneecap into two pieces. Yeah. That sounds exactly like something I’m into. I fucking love pain! When you get right down to it, I really hope all three of those asshats get painful hemorrhoids that require major surgery.

However, since every single thing happens for a reason, I’m kind of glad the incompetent fucktard of an orthopedic surgeon suggested such a ridiculous treatment plan so that I could go on an immediate search for a second opinion.

I did, in fact, have to go under the knife, but the surgeon I selected is a gentle fellow. At least while I’m awake. And I love, love, love my new physical therapist. Now, I’m not saying that just because she is female that she’s inherently better. I know that’s not true because one day I had a substitute therapist who is also female, and she must have gone to the same school as my original PT—an institute that offers classes like “How to Look Like You Smell Shit When You Have a Fat, Unattractive Patient” and “How to Speak in a Condescending Manner to a Fat, Unattractive Patient Even Though Said Patient Has More Intelligence in Her Fucking Knee Cap Than Your Entire Ancestry Has—Put Together.” Okay. I admit I may have gotten fat and unattractive since I slipped in Fall Mart. Sue me. But I digress.

I was telling you about my new PT. She is the same degree of amazing as my other PT is dickish. She truly knows her shit, and the only thing she’s never been able to answer is why any asshole would ever split someone’s kneecap in two pieces to make it better. Because I am a big, fat (and apparently unattractive) baby, and I whimper at the mere insinuation of pain, at every appointment she says, “I am not going to hurt you. We will stop if anything starts to hurt at all.” Until two days ago. I thought maybe my hearing aids were fucking up because it sounded like she said, “Now, this is going to hurt.” But it turns out that there is nothing wrong with this $4000 set of ears. She really said those six evil words and then backed them up with action.

She noted that the muscle above my knee cap is too tight, so it is impeding my ability to bend and walk without looking like a retard. She explained that it was something, something, something and she would have to break up the scar tissue and something, something, something. Honestly, after the evil pronouncement, everything she said sounded like the teachers and parents in The Peanuts cartoons, so I didn’t really understand most of it. All I know is that she got this plastic tool of death out of the cabinet and proceeded to torture my leg like she was trying to scrape 6-inches of fucking ice off a windshield. I swear to God that she actually reached the bone layer.

To her credit, she talked soothingly throughout the maiming, mentioning that I might experience bruising, increased pain, and probably protracted, painful rectal cancer; but I’m not sure because I quit breathing after the first few swaths of the weapon and may have been hallucinating.

The bad news is that I have to go through the mutilation again tomorrow. The good news is that I still love and respect my PT because I trust that she knows what she’s doing; that she honestly cares about me as a person and about my progress; and that she fully intends to help me get back on both feet and stop walking like a palsy patient. And she doesn’t stab me with fricking needles. Because I hate needles, bitches. Damn!

 

The Politician's Brain

Would I lie to you? This is an actual diagram  of the politician's brain.

If you grab a random sampling of US presidential candidates—or any politicians, really—and brutally slice open their heads with a cranial saw, guess what you will find after you wash away the glowing green fluid? There in the cerebral cortex’s frontal lobes, where decision making and purposeful behavior and conscience originate, is a tiny placard that says, “Out of order.”

It’s true. My uncle was a brain surgeon, and while he never hacked open any politicians of which I’m aware, and I never would have been permitted to look in on the carnage anyway, I have a terrific imagination. Plus x-ray vision. I can easily “see” inside the heads of those soulless skanks we call “politicians.” Something happened in the formation of the political embryos. The construction of those synaptic bridges necessary for activating moral judgment was apparently halted, probably by an inability to “reach across the aisle” and agree on funding. Who knows?

What’s apparent is that when the loaded BMW of conscience approaches the bridge to morality, it sails straight off into the wild blue yonder of gray matter instead of staying in its own damned lane and finishing the journey to Good Decisions that Benefit Others. If money is involved—and when isn’t it if we’re talking about “public servants” here?—the car’s driver is legally blind. Another problem: Too often the little guy between the politician’s legs is driving the car.

The recent National Conventions provide the perfect showcase for the incompletely formed brains of our government’s finest. We ALL know that politicians lie. It’s as natural as the sucking instinct, and we know they do that too.

There’s a group of Fact Checkers who peruse all campaign speeches, looking for “spin,” (a.k.a. bullshit). Members of the Associated Press—who are members of the media, which means they lean so far left they’re practically horizontal over the W on the compass—feel a responsibility to report the crap in political blustering to all us peons. I love the idea that Americans admit such a well-known truth. Politicians flat-out lie. And that necessitates the creation of a group of folks to sift through the trash to find the shit.  

At this year’s Republican National Convention, VP candidate Paul Ryan lied five times according to the fact checkers. The dumpster-divers didn’t find much stretching of the truth in Romney’s speech—probably because he’s a Mormon, so he’s afraid of having to spend 1000 years in Spirit Prison in the Telestial Kingdom. Interestingly, Fact Checkers found that during the Democratic National Convention, President Obama and VP Biden lied 8 times. Guess who’s going to Spirrrrrit Prissssson?

I wonder if Biden will acknowledge Ryan in the “yard.” They’ll both be bench pressing 20, their American flag tats all shiny from the sweat. Maybe Biden will spot for Ryan. Maybe the other way around. I don’t know. But you can bet that when one of ‘em drops the poundage on the other fellow’s head, smashing the skull and spilling brains all over the harsh concrete, nestled there in the gelatinous mass will be a little sign that says, “Still Out of Order.”