Tuesday, March 10, 2009

My Severely Injured Foot: A Complete Guide



The Incident

Okay, so first things first, all ladders are cordially invited to smooch my dong. They are nasty and mean. They smell of sulphur and they worship Satan. They deny the Holocaust, ladders do. 

They also collapse under your old pal C-dog while he's doing nothing more than trying to help his sainted mother hang some posters in her school's library. I mean, okay, you might could make a case that certain people (not saying who) should have checked to make sure all the ladder's joints were locked before heaving his fat ass upwards on the shaky, villainous structure... maybe the accident could have been avoided and maybe not... but the point, really, is this: That fucking ladder collapsed under me and I fell down and I hurt myself!!!

Fucking ladder!!!

A Breakdown of Disaster

1:45pm - The ladder collapses and I, in an avalanche of swear words and attractive facial hair, am pitched outward to hang ever so briefly in the ether before falling... falling... and landing squarely on my left ankle. Details are hazy, but there were definitely some popping sounds, as well as the sound of children everywhere weeping, an antique armoire full of expensive china exploding in disgust, and the weary exhalations of a tiny planet in another galaxy's population dying out

1:46pm - 1:49pm - Sobbing so hard, the school's principal calls in a SWAT team.

1:50pm - The SWAT teams arrives and I beg them for help, mercy, Tylenol, and a hug. They laugh heartily at my condition and make me wear a dress.

1:53pm - My dress is gorgeous but I am convinced that my ankle is broken. My mother suggests that I get up and try to put weight on it. I'm shaking all over like a Mexican-built space shuttle, but I want to appear brave in the face of grave injury, so... with the aid of my mother and a lent forklift... I get into an upright position.

1:54pm - I take a tentative first step.

1:54pm - 2:04pm - Missing time. I'm told that I fainted dead away onto a chaise lounge made of my own shame, but there are conflicting reports that I just shat myself in the fetal position while keening like a war widow.

2:05pm - Suddenly awake and alert, I text everyone's favorite male nurse, Todd (the computer is stupid and not letting me link to him, but you should go to his blog at http://blognameremoved.blogspot.com/). My text to him is garbled, half in French, and mostly swears, but he is able to decipher that I am in great pain and that my ankle might be dying. He gives me sound advice involving rest, ice, compression, and elevation. He also compliments my dress, even though he can't see it, which I think is very thoughtful.

2:10pm - Deep in the throes of shock, I begin to stride around the room like a big shot, deliriously convinced that the whole thing was just a silly dream. My ankle is making noises like two old-timey robots fucking. 

2:20pm - My ankle swells up like a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade balloon and turns all the colors of the world, all at once. It looks like if hate were a foot.

2:21pm - I am ordered to go home immediately because everyone is grossed out by my ankle and, if you ask me, jealous of all the attention I'm getting from sexy SWAT team members.

2:25pm - I drive myself home and plop down on the couch, my leg resting on an enormous stack of pillows to the point where I resemble a lower-case "y" that fell over. I lay there for the next 24 hours, demanding that family members bring me tacos and fresh sodas because the soda they brought me an hour ago is now slightly warm and, what, they expect me... A HURT GUY... to drink a WARM soda??? Jerks.

The Aftermath

It's been a few days since... "the incident." My ankle, we've determined, is NOT broken; we're thinking now it's just a really, really, really bad sprain. The swelling has gone down, but it's still all multi-hued and unpleasant. And yes... yes, my children... it still hurts. Not as much as it did, of course; I can walk on it now, I can climb stairs, I can still lay down old-school breakdancing moves just in time for tonight's Pants-off/Dance-off... but there is still pain. Every step, every stair, every Harlem Shake reminds me of the tragedy that has befallen me. And with every twinge from my ankle, I die a little inside.

And so should you, you ungrateful bastards. I hurt my ankle!!! WEEP FOR C-DOG!!! WEEP!!!

12 Comments:

Blogger Clinton said...

I apologize if the text or formatting of this post looks weird... I'm writing it from my Uncle's fancy Mac and, apparently, Mac's are NOT Blogger.com-friendly.

I'll fix it later. Just focus on my magical, healing words of healing magic, m'kay?

9:46 AM  
Blogger The Unbearable Banishment said...

Well, that's a fine welcome home. Mom puts you to work and disaster ensues. Were you ever attached by a ladder in Brooklyn? No, you were

10:28 AM  
Blogger Digital Fortress said...

What is the world coming to when things such as this can happen to an innocent ankle? Terrible.

3:32 PM  
Blogger Cray said...

I'll assume there was some inappropriate touching betwixt you and the ladder that caused this.

6:06 PM  
Blogger Big Daddy said...

You could always sue the school, get a huge payout.

But then the school would close and your mom would be out of a job.

Why did they allow you to work if your not employed by the school district?

Or ARE YOU?

You did have that post about being a serial killer.

6:55 PM  
Blogger Todd said...

You should not call the ladder anymore, not even for a late night booty call. He doesn't care about you and you'll just get hurt all over again. (Glad you're getting better!)

9:33 PM  
Blogger Bill From Gainesville said...

Clinton - you are funny in Manhattan AND also in Arlington. I think that shit just has nothing to do with where you live but it may actually be inside of you....

11:55 PM  
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Blogger Frederick Milton said...

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1:50 PM  
Blogger Walter Greenleaf said...

This comment has been removed by the author.

6:07 AM  

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