Friday, January 29, 2016

Dr. Seuss Slipped A Disc...

So I've had really bad back problems for the last 6 months with no relief. Surgery hasn't helped and I feel pretty lost. I can't quite describe how painfully frustrating it has been for me. So I figured I'd let Dr. Seuss take a stab at it.

There once was a Chap who was perfectly fine. He steered clear of all trouble almost all of the time.

But he found himself stuck in a floopidy flam and his back couldn't handle all the plans that he planned. 

He was helping a person bail out of a flood but instead he wound up on the ground with a thud!

The pain that he felt made his eyeballs see white as he squirmed on the floor without much of a fight.

He winced and he moaned and he whined until dawn, still his body resembled the shape of a prawn.

He went to see doctors and surgeons and flipples and a Peabody Poobear who would cut off his nipples.

So he spoke to the Poobear who would cut off his nipples and he begged it to help him in exchange for some pickles.

So the Peabody Poobear who would cut off his nipples said he'd help him as long as he paid him in pickles. "But tell me" he said, "if it isn't your nipples, then why would you part with a gallon of pickles?"

"It's my back!" cried the Chap with a tear in his eye. "I've been looking for someone to give it a try."

The Peabody Poobear raised his paw to his pong and then cawed at the Chap and said, "Hey man, what's wrong?"

Well the Chap started chirping and his brain began mixing and he listed a list of the things that need fixing.

"It's my back its gone fishing! That much you knew but because of my back I can't do things like you."

"I can't tie my shoes. I can't put on my socks. I can't even pick up my bagels and lox. I can't wash my ass or my feet or my back and I can't climb a hill with a Jill or a Jack. I can't drive a car and I can't walk my dog and I certainly can't kiss a two headed frog. My face I can't shave and my clothes I can't wash and I feel like a radish trapped under a squash. If I still were in school then I couldn't play hooky and I shan't even ask Mrs. Chap to make nookie. By the look on your face I can see you can see that this back thing has got me hung up in a tree. So help me Sir Peabody Poobear my friend. Please help me right now or I fear it's the end."

The Poobear just stood there like his feathers were plucked then he opened his snout and said, "you Sir are fucked!"

"You are fucked with your shoes, you are fucked with your socks. You are fucked to the moon like a big bag of cocks. You can forget about shaving and washing and nookie. You can tell Mrs. Chaps I'll take care of her cookie. By the look on your face I can see you can see that this Peabody Poobear thinks you're fucked as can be."

So that's kind of where I'm at right now...

Friday, January 15, 2016


Maybe it's because my back is killing me.

Maybe it's because I've had this chronic shooting pain in my leg since the summer.

Maybe it's because the surgery that was supposed to fix it all doesn't seem to be working.

It could be that someone less than considerate stole all of the damn tires off my Jeep the other night.

Or perhaps it's that my oldest daughter told me to "fuck off" on Instagram the week before last.

Whatever it was made me sit in my car, alone in the driveway, in silence.

It made me pick up my phone and scroll through my voicemail messages.

I wasn't checking for anything new.

I was looking for something old. 

I knew exactly where it was. 

Third from the bottom, right after the message from the meatball when she was 3, asking me if I'd be home for dinner. Man, she had such a cute voice. 

I save old voicemails like I save old photographs.

I keep them stashed in their digital drawer and forget about them for awhile.

So I press play and you talk to me as if it were a message from this morning. You tell me how your phone is "driving you bananas". You can't seem to remember why you called or if I had called you first and like every other phone call ever, you end it by saying, "love ya brotha". 

This happens every so often. 

I just need to talk to my best friend. I just need to complain a little and then hear you tell me to "stop being such a pussy."

That's all.

Put the photograph back in the drawer until the next time.

I miss you brotha.