Why You Should Always Write “Amputate This One”

The other night, some friends and I were discussing emergency room horror stories (which is actually pretty redundant and could just be called “emergency room stories” since they’re all horrible) and I recalled this little charmer from my days working on a college campus.

One evening, while living in a dorm (ahh, the start to all great stories), I was awoken by a student crazily pounding up and down the hallway, banging on doors and yelling about baseball. When I confronted the ruckus (shaking my fist in the air and shouting, “You meddling kids!”), I found a kid with a mangled hand and pants around his ankles (because, really, where else should your pants be when you’re bleeding profusely in the middle of the night?).

It turns out he had broken his hand either A) in a barfight or B) while punching walls made out of cinder blocks instead of letting me sleep. (Oh, if everyone received such a punishment for waking me from my slumber.) Either way, he needed medical attention, and being the contractually obligated compassionate person I am, I accompanied him to the hospital.

If you’ve ever been to the emergency room for literally anything, and you’re not a Kardashian, you know what happened next: for the next six hours, my charge slumbered on an uncomfortable chair while I fluctuated between irritation and MIND-NUMBING HOMICIDAL RAGE.

Just before I was going to set the place on fire (screw the sick and needy, I was TIRED), my drunken friend was wheeled off into X-Ray. While I toyed with the idea of breaking off my own arms and using them to beat bystanders, a nurse returned and told me that we would both have to wait another hour or so before they could assemble the cast and set us free.

Fine.

I end up napping on a discarded hospital bed when they finally take him for his cast, and when they return him to me he’s so sleepy and half-drunk that he immediately falls asleep while I speak to the nurses. They give me his discharge paperwork, we talk about cast maintenance, and we all say our goodbyes.

It’s close to seven in the morning, and I feel hope inside me beginning to swell and bubble up to the surface, wondering what kind of world will greet me outside the hospital doors. What has happened in my absence? Cures for cancer? Flying cars?

I wake up my wee friend so we can depart, and he groggily takes in his new cast. As we say goodbye to the nurse, my buddy mumbles, “Can I just ask you a question?”

“Of course,” she says.

He pushes up the sweatshirt sleeve of his non-plastered hand to reveal a bloodstained, claw-like talon.

“Why did you put the cast on the wrong hand?”

And that, my friends, is the story of how I ended up murdering dozens of people through sheer force of hate.

Just kidding.

No, instead, I took another nap while they broke off the first cast (off of his perfectly undamaged, clean hand) and administered a second, onto the hand that was basically screaming, “I am clearly the hand that is broken. Seriously. I’m literally covered in blood and I look like somebody chewed me up and then rolled over me with a car. Stop looking at that other hand. It’s obviously fine. This couldn’t possibly be any more clear. Wait, what are you doing?? That hand looks PERFECTLY FINE!! Stop putting a cast on it! Stop it!! Wow, you’re really doing it. I can’t believe you just did that. You are a stupid bastard.”

The end.

 

That Time My Dog Ate:

  • raw meat
  • dirty shrimp tails from the garbage (as opposed to those really pristine clean shrimp tails that live in their own shrimp palaces and have shrimp maids)
  • coffee grounds
  • milk cartons
  • the paper that sticks of butter come in
  • toenail clippings
  • shoelaces
  • gloves
  • hats
  • Steve Madden sandals (two pair)
  • Victoria’s Secret bras (she really only goes for brand names. She’s like The Real Housewife of Ruining My Shit)
  • an entire EOS lipgloss; you know, the kind that come in the cute egg-shaped containers. The weird kind that are full of wax rather than dog food.
  • eight hamburger buns (I know you’re thinking, “Big whoop, I could do that.” But it was all at once. If you’ve eaten eight hamburger buns all at once, without a burger between them, and you’re not a dog, that’s super weird.)
  • a box of cocoa
  • a bag of Hershey’s Kisses with foil wrappers
  • 16 brownies (you know that whole, “omg chocolate KILLS DOGS” thing? Yeah, this bitch laughs in the face of danger)
  • a used tampon (found in the STREET, mind you)
  • popcorn
  • chicken wings
  • chicken bones
  • indiscriminate bones found in bushes, likely belonging to diseased rats and the undead
  • literally anything sticky
  • grass
  • dirt
  • snow
  • yellow snow (especially yellow snow)
  • piles of her own fur that collect in the corners of my apartment
  • her own vomit

Things my dog will never, ever, EVER eat, under any circumstances:

  • vegetables
Brought to you by this embarrassment.

Brought to you by this embarrassing drunk.

 

UPDATE: I totally forgot the time she finished off two white russians. The drink, not the people.

Things That Make Me Want to Punch a Baby, Volume II

You know what I’ve been meaning to do? Write a list of more things I hate! Obviously, Volume I of Thing That Make Me Want to Punch a Baby was just the tip of the rage-filled iceberg, and thus, I present you with Volume II. You’re welcome.

babypunch (1)

  • Dog hair. Just…all of it…everywhere.
  • Everyone’s aspirations on Pinterest. Spoiler alert: your life will never be that awesome. Ever. Your kids won’t ever fingerpaint your portrait in your super organized and expertly labeled kitchen while you bake organic free-range vegan chicken nuggets out of homemade hemp seeds and your husband chops wood in the backyard to carve into floor to ceiling bookcases lined with black-and-white family portraits you took yourself. I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.
This is not your pantry. THIS WILL NEVER BE YOUR PANTRY. And don't even act like you would bake a cake and then shove it in that drawer. You would not.

This is not your pantry. THIS WILL NEVER BE YOUR PANTRY. And don’t even act like you would bake a cake and then shove it in that drawer. You most certainly would not.

  • People who try to make you prove that you know things. For example, I went to Florida State University. Whenever I say, ‘I love FSU!’ or even so much as root for the teams, there’s always that one guy who’s like, ‘I bet you can’t name the running back on the 1994 football team.’ Um, you’re right, I can’t. Do you know what I can do? Smash this beer bottle over your head and then shank you with it. I’ll let you live if you can spell the name of the sixteenth president’s dog walker. Dick.
  • Weather forecasts. Why is that even a thing? Many a day I’ve stood under a plexiglass train station awning, unsuccessfully trying to shield myself from a torrential Sharknado-style downpour, only to have my iPhone weather app look like this:
You're a fucking liar, iPhone weather app.

You’re a fucking liar, iPhone weather app.

  • Pickles, because I don’t understand them and I think they taste like everything that’s evil. We might not agree on this.
  • College tuition. Like, what exactly am I paying for? I mean, after you pay the professor and, like, heat the classroom, where else is that money going? It’s not funding my textbooks, or my laptop, or, like, getting me a job, so I guess that’s where I’m confused. Do you guys really need $80,000 from me and all my friends? I feel like this is some sort of Ponzi scheme, and at some point I’m going to show up to class only to find the doors boarded up and the word ‘Suckers!’ scrawled across the front.
  • Mondays. They’re the worst. Actually any day that involves work is sort of the worst. Weekends should be 78 days long, and then we should all put in a hard day’s work before the next 78 days of BBQing and sleeping in.
  • People who write TO their babies or pets on Facebook, a la: ‘To my kitty cat, Martin: You’re the best cat ever, and mommy loves you so much! Happy birthday, xoxo.’       Um, if your cat or dog or baby can read your Facebook, you need to send them to work and be making some money off that shit.
  • The fact that there’s an episode of Mtv’s True Life called, “My Boyfriend’s Fed Up With My Weight.” This pretty much sums up my feelings about that:

can't even

  • People who don’t wave at you when you let them in front of you in traffic. Maybe this is a Southern thing, but if I let your ass in, I expect a wave of acknowledgement, a wave that says, “Thank you for this. I can never repay you, but I will never forget you.” And then I will smile and feel pleased with myself for doing such an extraordinarily good deed. (But not before some other asshole tries to jump on the bandwagon and also pull in front of me, as if my generosity of spirit is a free-for-all. Not today, buddy. Back of the line for you!)
  • Stubbing your toe SO HARD that you’re afraid to look down because you’re sure that half your foot is missing and is now a mangled stump in a pool of foot-blood. (And then, like, two seconds later you’re completely fine. Wtf.)
  • When people randomly talk out loud in your vicinity because they clearly want you to comment. For example: you’ll be sitting at work or in class or on the subway and someone is reading the newspaper next to you, let’s say. And you’re both minding your own business, but then that someone says something like, “Wow, that is unbelievable.” Not directly to you – that would be too obvious. No, this is more of a sneak attack, a not-so-subtle subtle plea for acknowledgement. And then you keep not commenting so they become more aggressive and say, ‘I just can’t believe it!’ while giving you the side-eye of desperation. They might add a, “What an interesting story,” or “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen,” all the while expecting you to finally leap from your seat and shout, “WHAT IS IT?! WHAT?! TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW BECAUSE I AM SO CURIOUS BECAUSE I HAPPENED TO OVERHEAR YOUR EXCITED EXCLAMATIONS!”                                                                                                                                                                                                             Well I just won’t do it. I see right through your little game and I refuse to participate.
  • Competition shows. If we follow reality tv to its logical conclusion, the only possible outcome is The Hunger Games: Sing For Your Life.
  • Romantic comedies. They’re, like, awful. Also, I don’t care what romantic comedy you’re going to see – I can tell you how it goes. Dude and chick meet. They don’t like each other at first and just can’t see eye to eye! (Oh, the shenanigans and misunderstandings that ensue.) Eventually they realize they’re madly in love and come so close to living happily ever after, but then one of them (the dude) does something stupid or wrong or awful (but not so awful that we stop liking him!) and someone else (the chick) finds out about it and boy is she mad! And she cries and then they’re apart but – wait! – the guy returns with a grand romantic gesture (think flash mob, heartstopping proposal-even-though-they’ve-been-broken-up-this-whole-time, or something to do with a dog) and everything’s cool! I just saved you $11.50.

This Week In Pictures

So a lot of stuff has gone down recently. Some of this stuff is funny, and some of it is not funny. Since you’re probably way too busy and important (with things, like, oh I dunno, a job and adult responsibilities) to keep up with everything, and since I’m pretty much glued to my couch watching Lifetime movies, I’ve decided to do you a solid and sort it all out for you.

You know what happened this week that was decidedly not funny? My dog eating shrimp tails and coffee grounds out of our trash can and then…um…gassing us out.

Also not funny: the fact that Eva Mendes is apparently seven months pregnant with the son of God. Ryan Gosling, I thought we agreed that you would only impregnate me.

Additional non-funny recent events: That World Cup score. I know like….absolutely nothing about soccer except that it involves really nice, sculpted calves and sweaty South American men with thick curly hair…I forgot what we were talking about.

You know what is funny? Last week’s Supreme Court ruling about Hobby Lobby and birth control (I’m pretty sure telling people you shop at Hobby Lobby is all the birth control you need, but whatever). It’s funny because it’s such a ridiculously laughable decision, but it’s also not funny because half of the members of the highest court in America basically told women to go fuck themselves. (Cuz you can’t get pregnant that way. Duh.)

That about wraps it up for This Week In Pictures.

Also, I lied about there being pictures. Sometimes I lie. The world is a cruel, disappointing place. It’s best you learn this now.