For my Papa.

James Alexander Williams, 79, beloved husband, father, grandfather and friend, died September 17, 2007.

He was the son of the late Albert Waverland Williams and Elizabeth Mae Mauney Williams.

Mr. Williams was a machinist with General Electric for twenty years, and an avid woodworker. He served in the National Guard during World War II, was a state constable, and a member of West Greenville Baptist Church, where he held the positions of deacon and Sunday School secretary.

Surviving are his wife of 59 years, Ruth Burgess Williams; two daughters, Ruth Anne Williams of Greenville, and Linda J. Morgan of Atlanta, Ga.; six grandchildren, Andrew Kilpatrick, Brian Kilpatrick, Crystal Young, David Young, James Kilpatrick, Rick Young; and five great-grandchildren.

He was predeceased by one sister and two brothers.

Memorial Service and visitation will be held Thursday, September 20, 2007, at 2 p.m. at West Greenville Baptist Church.

Memorials may be made in his name to West Greenville Baptist Church, 551 Perry Avenue, Greenville, SC 29611.

Condolences may be sent to the family by visiting www.thomasmcafee.com.

Cinlach is sensitive…

Sappy Chick and I were riding in to work together one morning last week when she said the following :

Sappy Chick : You know I dreamed last night that you and I had a baby.

My reply? Well it went something like this :

Cinlach : Was it good and tender like I like it?

The rest of the ride in was filled with stoney silence.

Geez…was it something I said?

Cinlach tells FOX to go fuck themselves…

Tonight on FOX the first of the final two episodes of Drive is scheduled to be broadcast. When the show was first announced I made a comment to my wife that “Nathan Fillion is a brave man to jump back into bed with FOX after the way he and Joss Whedon got fucked over with Firefly“.

Nevertheless, when the pilot for Drive finally premiered, trumpeted by the kind of marketing buzz that would’ve elevated Firefly to the forefront of American sci-fi and secured it’s place on-air for years, I watched and enjoyed the holy fucking hell out of it.

All the reviews that came pouring in were mostly all positive. But the ratings were low, which from what I’ve read is normal for a new show. All Drive really needed was time to build a presence and if FOX can stick vapid shit like Are You Smarter Then a Fifth Grader? on then surely they can allow Drive the time it needed to solidify it’s audience.

The next week the second episode airs, and it’s better then the first. Then the third episode airs and again the show continues to get stronger. Reviews are now all very positive and it looks like FOX might actually be putting something on TV worth watching other then House.

After the fourth episode airs, FOX drops the hammer and cancels one of the most highly reviewed series on television at that time. Drive is dead.

Was the show given a chance? Did they even pay attention to the fact that it was simply damn good? Did they allow the show to gain a foothold either on it’s original night or try switching it to another day or timeslot?

Fuck no…they just cancelled the son of a bitch.

Once again Nathan Fillion, one of the best character actors around (I’d put him up with Bruce Campbell…seriously, he’s that fucking good) is left with precisely dick.

So when it was announced that FOX would show the final two un-aired episodes of Drive beginning tonight my wife was thrilled. Me personally…not so much.

See, here’s the thing.

Why…exactly…should I invest my time into something that will never see a payoff? Why should I give FOX advertising money for basically being stupid assholes?

Answer? I shouldn’t…fuck FOX.

See, we’re a Neilsen Ratings household. So whatever we watch affects the ratings shown to the network. So why the hell should I help them after they’ve fucked over yet another excellent show due to their gross mismanagement of their talent?

Answer? I shouldn’t…fuck FOX.

If there was a chance that the show might be saved from oblivion, then hell yes, I’d be there with extreme prejudice. But it’s not, and they’re just filling holes in the broadcast schedule and frankly, I’m not interested in wasting my time getting re-engaged into a show that has the life expectancy of a damn fruit fly.

It’s like working all year to get a date with the prom queen only to watch her walk out early on you so she can get fucked by someone else. Who the fuck needs that kind of bullshit in their lives?

“Not I.”, said The Cinlach.

So, Nine o’clock is right ahead and I’ll be goddamned if I’ll grace FOX with my presence. They can have a merry old time without me.

Fuck them…seriously. I’ve got better things to do then support such a incompetent group of idiots, much less reward them with my Neilsen rating.

Drive and Nathan Fillion don’t deserve to be treated that way, and neither do I.

Addendum : It’s now after 9 P.M. and Drive is nowhere to be seen. It seems that FOX changed their schedule at the last minute. So everyone who was tuning in breathlessly to see those final episodes just got fucked again.

Would you all like to know who didn’t get fucked by FOX tonight? That’s right bitches… me.

Suck it FOX.

Cinlach gets “Fantasticized”…

I’m a rather spontaneous individual and so at about 8:30 Sunday night I decided I wanted to go to the movies. I even managed to somehow convince my younger brother A to accompany me.

We headed out to see Fantastic Four : The Rise of the Silver Surfer at the Greenville Camelot. Once we got our tickets and made our way inside, we began waiting for the movie to start. Listening to the tunes playing over the theater’s sound system, I started my favorite activity…”people watching”. I never fail to find some poor bastard who’s made himself/herself look stupid.

Among the throng (and by “throng” I mean no more then about 8 people total) taking in the 9:45 showing on Sunday night I noticed two folks I’d like to single out and spend a little time discussing.

First there was the guy with his wife about three rows behind us, who was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. His whole fashion statement ensemble was set off by the socks he was wearing with his sandals. Chuckling quietly to myself about the socks and sandal combination, I also happened to notice he was wearing a Bluetooth wireless earpiece for the cell phone which was perched conspicuously on his belt.

Oooooohhh…a high roller amongst us common folk. How lucky we are he deigned us worthy of his presence.

But seriously…what the fuck dude. It’s 9:45 on a Sunday fucking night…you’re at a goddamn movie theatre. If you’re anticipating a call that’s so important you have to wear your stupid little ear-thingie during the movie you’re seeing then perhaps you should’ve stayed the fuck home. No matter what you do during the day or week there’s absolutely no reason to walk around with a fucking earpiece in for your phone. Unless you’re the President or a Secret Service agent take the fucking thing off and leave it at home. In fact, please just get up and leave before I snatch that fucking thing off your self-important sandal and sock wearing goofy head and jam it and your formerly attached ear up your ass with extreme prejudice.

Give me a fucking break dude. No matter what your Mommy told you when you were little you’re not that damned important. The world will continue to rotate even without you having access to your fucking cellphone.

Second, I observed two guys coming in together. One was a very burly looking biker guy…stereotypically biker in fact. He had a long scraggly, unkempt beard, a tightly knotted pony tail, a denim shirt turned into a sleeveless wife beater, a harley hat, numerous splotchy looking tattoos on his arms and a pair of sunglasses on his face.

Did I mention the fucking movie was at 9:45? That’s PM folks, not AM. That distinction didn’t stop homeboy from totally rocking the Corey Hart “Sunglasses at Night” look. The guy with him was more “normally” dressed in a shirt and jeans.

They sat about 10 rows in front of us, carefully leaving a seat between them. I rolled my eyes…god forbid they should sit next to one another or else we all might think they were gay or something.

I imagined the exchange going something like this :

Stereotypical Biker Dude’s Friend : What about here? Is this ok Buzzsaw?

Buzzsaw : Yeah Chester, we should be able to see the righteous fire of destruction just fine from here.

Chester : Oh goodie! I can’t wait to see Galactus eat the planet! I’ll just sit right here…

Buzzsaw : Whoa man! What the FUCK do you think you are you doing?

Chester : Sitting down next to you…why, what’s wrong?

Buzzsaw : Give me some room man! Don’t be sitting all up on me like that…people will think were gay or something.

Chester : But we are…aren’t we?

Buzzsaw : Yeah, but that’s not the point. I’m not ready to be ostracized because I’m “different”.

Chester : You’re wearing sunglasses, a denim wifebeater, and covered in KKK tatoos. How much more “different” could you be?

Buzzsaw : Just shut up and pass me some popcorn. Keep this up and you won’t get no sweet, sweet lovin’ tonight.

While this humorous exchange was running through my head, I made a discovery. The movie soundsystem was playing 80’s new wave music.It was at this moment I remembered the music playing over the speakers.

This just keeps getting better…I was watching a Biker have to sit through Big Country’s “In a Big Country”, The Thompson Twins “Hold Me Now”, The Pet Shop Boys “West End Girls”, and Oingo Boingo’s “Weird Science”. I was somewhat certain that this was not his music of choice.

Buzzsaw : What the fuck kinda pansy-ass music is this?

Chester : I’m not sure, but it makes me want to shake my groove thang!

Buzzsaw : … [Glaring intensely at Chester with unrestrained rage.]

Chester : What? It’s kind of catchy. Doesn’t that make you want to get up and boogie?

Buzzsaw : Chester I swear on Hitler’s name, if you so much as shift in your seat rhythmically I’ll break your goddamn nose.

Chester : Fine, be that way…you big queen. You’re just mad because all you can do is the butterchurn.

Thankfully at this point the lights came down and the trailers started.The movie itself wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be…I actually enjoyed it. The only problem I had with the whole flick was Doctor Doom. He spent 90% of his time on screen out of costume. Which for those of you not in the know is bad. Doom never takes his mask off…ever. So to see him standing in front of the Fantastic Four talking shit to the Thing without his armor was a little annoying.

The film does a good job of conveying the constant poking and prodding between Thing and Human Torch. The Silver Surfer was awesome, and even though Galactus in comic form wasn’t in the movie you got the feeling that the entity coming to destroy Earth was a construct of Galactus and not necessarily the big purple G himself.

There were a couple of cool cameos, including Frankie Raye who in the comics becomes Nova and is also a Herald of Galactus like the Surfer.

All things considered I enjoyed my movie trip Sunday night, even though I fully expected it to suck…and I got to see a biker be subjected to Murray Head’s “One Night in Bangkok”.

That alone was worth the price of admission.

The Myrtle Beach Hotel Story…

I’m always being told by my wife that I need to write down some of my more humorous exploits…you know, kooky shit that would only (seemingly) happen to me. Today I’m going to be recounting The Myrtle Beach Hotel Story.

During my highschool days, I hung out with a crew of people from Connestee, SC. My cousin lived near Donaldson Center which was in turn near Connestee.

One summer in the olden days of the late 80’s, a small pack of us, meaning only about 5 or 6 all total, decided to go to the beach for a long weekend. So we gathered up and headed down to the coast. I was also interested in going because a girl, let’s call her Michelle, I’d been courting for a couple of months was headed down as well and she suggested I should come down so we could spend “some time” together. That’s right boys and girls…Cinlach could possible be getting laid during this trip.

Once we got to the beach, I met up with Michelle and we organized a rendezvous for later that evening. She warned me not to stand her up or get cold feet because she was going to make the trip well worth my while. It’s official…I am SO getting laid.

During the day, while I’m waiting anxiously for that evening, I helped my friends get together the necessary ingredients for making a concoction I’d never heard of before. It was called “PJ” and was otherwise known as “Purple Jesus”. It was so named because after drinking a great deal of it you were liable to see anything, up to but not limited to, a Purple Jesus.

Since I had plans later that evening I passed on the PJ and instead sipped on a couple of beers. I was, however, famished from the fact that between all our running around during the day, and my meeting up with Michelle, I had neglected to eat anything. So after the PJ had “settled” for a couple of hours, I finally couldn’t ignore my rumbling stomach any longer and started eating some of the floating fruit. I wasn’t concerned about this decision because after all, I wasn’t drinking the PJ.

This proved to be seriously flawed logic.

The more of the fruit I ate, the fuzzier things got until finally I awoke in a very unfamiliar location and sicker then I’d been in a long time.

Let me set things up a little more and give you some back story as to my reaction to alcohol. Once I reach a certain point, I black out, and when that happens I’m liable to do anything. There are pictures of me in various states of inebriation, confusion, and embarassment scattered throughout the greater southeast. It’s one of the reasons I don’t drink to excess anymore. The other reason is contained below and will soon be revealed.

When I regained consciousness, the first thing I discovered was that I was cold…freezing in fact. I was lying on a slab cement floor dressed only in a too large bright orange jumpsuit and flip flops. I glanced around, and realized that I was in fucking jail.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Had I killed a man? Raped a goat? Stolen a car? What about killed a man, raped his goat, and then stolen his car? I had no idea how I got there, what I’d done, how long I’d been there…nothing. I was not happy.

This was the point I began to panic. I called out for a guard and finally one arrived. It was then that I discovered that I’d been arrested for Public Intoxication. Which I of course had absolutely no memory of at all.

It seems that eating the fruit in the PJ was worse then actually drinking that vile shit. See as it turns out, the fruit absorbs all the alcohol and if you really want to get shitfaced out of your mind then all you have to do is eat the fruit. I decided that this would’ve been a handy piece of information to possess several hours prior to my arrest.

As for the details of my arrest, it was revealed that after I got good and unintentionally snockered, a group of us all decided to head out to the beach. As we were walking down the main street in Myrtle Beach, our group began flirting with a group of girls located on the balcony of a nearby hotel. Pleasantries were exchanged and they invited us up, we of course accepted.

Now, here’s where stupidity comes into play. For some reason, I decided that the quickest way up would be to climb the fucking hotel and not go inside and take the stairs/elevator. As it turned out, this was frowned upon by the local authorities and I ended up in the drunk tank. From what I was to learn later, I was one floor from achieving my goal when I was nabbed by the cops.

Now you see why I don’t drink anymore.

The guard asked if I was ready for my phonecall, which I very much was. I dialed the hotel room and got no answer…shit.

This was the point where my panic, and the PJ, started to assault my body with pain and nausea. I spent the next few hours vomiting, praying for death, napping, and every couple of hours trying the hotel with no luck.

As the day progressed into evening I was getting to the point where I was going to have to call my parents. This was less then appealing.

Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice and one of my friends walked up to the cell. It was then that the obscenities started :

Me : Where the fuck have you been? Why the fuck did you leave me? What the fuck happened? Why the fuck didn’t you stop me? When the fuck am I getting out of here?

Him : Calm down, your bail is $300. We’re all pooling the money together to get you out.

Me : Why the fuck did you leave me in here so long? You all knew what happened to me! You knew I was in fucking jail!

Him : See, here’s what happened. You weren’t the only one drunk last night. Everyone was pretty torn up. You got popped and everyone headed back to the hotel. Along the way they got distracted and by the time they got back to the hotel they were all about to crash. I got up and couldn’t remember where you were, I didn’t go with you guys. I thought you were with that girl you were meeting, and it wasn’t until I saw her on the beach that I discovered you’d stood her up.

Me : Holy fuck…I did stand her up. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!! But it wasn’t my fault! I got fucking arrested for supposedly climbing a hotel!

Him : Well she’s still pissed about it just the same and there’s no doubt man, you totally climbed that hotel. Anyway, once I knew you weren’t with her I headed back to our hotel and found out what’d happened…and here I am.

Me : Why the fuck didn’t those assholes answer the phone?

Him : They were all drunk and passed out. Would you have answered if you were hung over? No one knew who was calling.

Me : Look, I am entirely too hung over to yell at anyone right now. So just please get me the fuck out of here before I die.

And so my release was secured, my trip ruined, my chances with the girl destroyed (she never forgave me and scolded me for such a ridiculous excuse once I finally caught up with her back in town), and my head pounded like Zeus’s jackhammer for three days.

I never drank PJ again, and to this day I still can’t eat fruit.

Playing catch up…

Back Problems : I had an MRI done about 3 weeks ago and when the results came back I was told I had a “classic SI Strain”. I gotta be honest, I was a little disappointed. I was hoping for a “seminal SI Strain” or maybe a “one for the ages SI Strain”, but I guess “classic” is just have to do. I mean who wouldn’t rather have a “Led Zeppelin, Physical Graffitti” style strain instead of a “Garth Brooks, No Fences” style strain. But I guess such is life.

As a result of my diagnosis, I was directed to get physical therapy. I reported for examination on time, like a good little robot, on Tuesday morning.

After a quick exam, my therapist told me my hips were out of alignment. My left hip is sitting about an inch and a half higher then my right. As a result, my bottom two vertabrae are cinched up on the left side causing the cartlidge to bulge between them. Also it seems that at some point I’ve taken a “substantial hit” on my left leg which drove my Sacroiliac Joint up and nearly dislocated it. This misalignment is what’s been causing my SI problems for the past couple of years. It’s just been getting worse and worse.

I decide to inject some levity into the situation and joke with the therapist that he’d have to hang me upside down from my left leg in order to get it back into place. Strangely enough, I wasn’t too far off the mark. He ends up literally grabbing my left leg at the ankle and pulling the absolute shit out of it in one quick jerk, moving me down the examination table about a foot and a half.

He examined my hips again and said, “Well, I think that actually might’ve done it.”

Hold up…that one fucking pull on my leg fixed it?

“No fucking way! You’ve got to be shitting me!”, was my reply but I was assured that he was not pulling my leg…about the success pulling my leg seemed to have.

I was then instructed to lie on my stomach and place my face into a oval slot in the table. I did so and then felt that the therapist was slowly pulling my workout pants down. Now look, say what you want…but when a complete stranger asks you to lie on your face in a closed room and begins pulling your pants down you start asking some fucking questions.

I casually mentioned I was a little nervous but that I trusted him to do what was best for my health. Then I felt something cool and wet being rubbed onto my left buttcheek. I glanced up and he literally told me, “Don’t worry. It’s just a little lubricant.”

See now…that distressed me and while I know that’s not what he meant all I could think about this classic SNL Jeopardy sketch :

Sean Connery : I’ll take “The Rapists” for $1000 Alex.

Alex Trebek : Uh, that’s “Therapists” Sean.

Sean Connery : That’s what your mother said Trebek!

I confided in him that I could count on one finger the number of times I’ve had a strange man pull down my pants and put lube on my ass and this was that time. We chuckled awkwardly and then settled on a light conversational topic…religion.

No, I’m not making that up.

With the almost certain trainwreck of a conversational subject in place, the therapist then proceeded to torture me for 30 minutes non-stop. He discovered that this “substantial hit” had occurred to my left leg a very long time ago and I had a knot of scar tissue about the size of a golf ball in my sacroiliac joint. His plan was to torture…I mean “massage”…it and encourage it to flee…I mean “break up”…so that I could escape…I mean “live a normal life”.

I shit you not, I hurt for 3 days afterwards and had a knot right on the spot he worked on which was acutely painful to the touch. So sitting down all day long for my job was a little slice of Heaven with ice cream and a cherry on top.

The good news is that he thinks that three sessions should be enough to get everything squared away. I’m sure I’ll still need to do some maintaining exercises but no more intense physical therapy once these 3 are finished up.

The bad news is that I’m still tender and have another session scheduled for Tuesday morning at 8:45, with yet another set for Friday morning at 8:00. I can only imagine how intensely uncomfortable and painful these 2 will end up being.

Mom Stuff : Everything is slowly coming together. We went and bought her new stove and dishwasher a couple of weeks ago for her new place.

When the delivery men showed up and as I was walking up to meet them I heard a cat absolutely screaming. I figured the guys had run over one of my grandparents cats but when I located the source I saw a solid black kitten about 2 feet in front of the truck. If they’d pulled 2 feet farther up they would’ve hit him. But I get ahead of myself…more on the new arrival later.

As they’re bringing in the new stuff and I’m clearing off the old stuff, one of the delivery guys tells me they can’t take the old dishwasher unless it’s disconnected. When we bought the new stuff, was asked explicitly whether or not the old stuff would be hauled away. We were told that it was not a problem. At no time did anyone say anything about “uninstalling” the old appliances.

I was not happy but try as I might, I couldn’t seem to figure out how to unhook the old dishwasher. Between dealing with that and the screaming kitten I finally resigned myself to the fact that the old dishwasher would have to get disposed some other way.

During the arrival of the new appliances, the Lowe’s installation department calls and informs me they’ve faxed the forms over to the installation dispatcher and I’ll have an installer contacting me within 48 hours.

Once the new stove and dishwasher was unloaded, the stove installed, and the old one on it’s way to the shitcan, i did some cursory cleaning and wrapped up the house duties for the day.

The new stuff was delivered Monday and I was promised I’d hear something from the installer by Wednesday, so on Thursday when my phone still hadn’t rang I contacted the Lowe’s installation department with a “what the fuck?” querry.

They apologized and told me I’d be hearing from someone that day, which I did at about 3:30 that afternoon. Unfortunately, I was in a meeting and unable to take the call so I retrieved the message and returned his call at 4:30 the same day.

By Saturday I still hadn’t heard back from the second installer and I was more then a little cranky about it. I decided I’d just put the fucking thing in myself and thereby save Mom $115 in installation charges as a Mother’s Day present.

After checking online and seeing just exactly how the fucking thing comes out, I had the old dishwasher out in less then 10 minutes. I wrangled everything into place for the new one only to find out that the drain hose from the old dishwasher wouldn’t fit. So I unhooked everything, took out the old hose, attached the new one, and then re-installed everything.

After about an hour I had the new dishwasher in place, fastened to the cabinets, and the wiring done. I was now ready to trip the breaker and hope like hell an explosion wasn’t the result. The power was restored and there was no electrical unpleasantness…go me!

However, there was a problem. The dishwasher made all kinds of wonderful noises but there seemed to be a distinct lack of water to be had. I checked the water lines and saw that I had indeed remembered to turn the water supply back on, so scratch that.

I scoured the instruction booklet thinking there might be a plug or valve missed in installation…with no such items to be found.

I then tried to deduce why exactly it wasn’t getting water. I pondered on this for about another hour…nothing seemed to help.

Then it hit me…it’s not getting any air! Because the air inside the lines cannot escape, there’s no way for the water to enter the dishwasher. I located the drain vent, loosened the cap on the top and immediately heard water rushing into the dishwasher tank. It’s official…I am a golden god!

Nevermind that I should’ve thought of it sooner…that’s irrelevant.

So with the dishwasher installed, we headed out to my favorite restaurant, Lieu’s Chinese Bistro for a Mother’s Day feast.

As I’m pulling back into my subdivision, my cellphone rings…it’s the second installer. He’s trying to set up an appointment to come out and put in the dishwasher. Typical. Tough shit spunky…I did it already, you just lost $115 bucks fuckknuckle!

When I get up Monday morning and turn on my phone, I have a voice mail…it’s the first installer trying to set up an appointment to put in the dishwasher. Double typical. Well tough shit to you too Jethro, you had you’re fucking chance.

I called Lowe’s, got the money refunded, and told them to tell the installation folks “thanks but no thanks!” As of today, Monday the 21st, I’m still getting phone calls from plumbers trying desperately to install the dishwasher.

New Kitten : For those of you brave enough to make it this far, you’ll remember me mentioning finding a kitten when the new appliances were being moved into Mom’s house.

He’s solid black, with slate gray eyes and appears to be about 6 weeks old. The irony of finding a solid white kitten 6 months before finding a solid black kitten is not lost on me.

The difference between Loki and Ozzy (my mother’s name for him…Ozzy, the kitten of darkness) is that while Loki was almost certainly born and lived outside, Ozzy came to us with a small collar, a bell on said collar and trimmed claws. Ozzy was obviously someone’s pet. Now whether he escaped or was set loose is something we’re still debating.

He wasn’t malnourished, and had almost no fleas, and also had no visible sickness. We took him to the vet and they gave him a clean bill of health. We’d initially investigated turning him over to a no-kill animal shelter but in the days leading up to making contact with them, my Grandfather fell in love with Ozzy and so he’s been welcomed into the family.

He’ll spend the next couple of months with my Grandparents, and when Mom makes the move into her new house Ozzy will accompany her.

So far, Ozzy has been a complete blessing for my Grandfather, who’s suffered with arthritis and assorted other health issues. Now instead of sitting and just dwelling on how he feels that particular day, he spends time taking care of Ozzy, or should I say trying to avoid being devoured by Ozzy.

Sometimes I question the sanity of my loved ones…first my wife names a kitten after the Norse god of mischief, and then my Mother names one after the heavy-metal madman himself, Ozzy Osbourne. The chances of either of these kittens becoming anything other then furry, terror mongering, feline buzzsaws are so remote they can’t even be considered.

Work : Yeah, they still gotta pay me to do it, would still rather be doing something else. Lots of changes and reorganization going on, which has pretty much been the mode of operation for the past few years. We continue to scramble to find a solid foothold in our industry which is disheartening sometimes given the fact we dominated it for so long. It appears as though there’s automation coming with what I feel is a goal of reducing labor costs and thereby saving money. Which is fine I guess, we’ve got folks who certainly have been on autopilot for about the last 10 years. But the thought of doing my job to an outstanding degree, and at a continual high standard only to lose it anyway really irks the fuck out of me. I absolutely hate the idea that nothing I do makes a damn but of difference as to whether or not I keep my job. It’s not that we’re not making money, we’re just not making the money they want us to make. But this is, of course, all due to their marketing and management strategies. It’s got nothing to do with how well we do our jobs.

So anyway, there’s a few updates to tide you all over. I’m going to try to update a little more regularly (raise your hand if you’ve heard that one before) because whether or not anyone actually reads this it’s still semi-therapeutic just to write it all out.

So until next time…same Cinlach time, same Cinlach channel.

Updates aplenty!

I figured the last thing you folks (all 3 of you…) would expect would be a post relatively close to the last one. So surprise suckas!

Just figured I’d give an update on a couple of things…

Sciatica : It’s a hell of a lot better then it was but it’s still not 100%, more like 85 to 90%. I know, I know…I need to call the doctor. What are you people, my fucking mother?

Work : Yeah, right…like I’m going to incriminate myself with that one. It’s still work and they still have to fucking pay me to do it. I’m not doing it out the goodness of my heart that’s for damn sure.

Mom : With her divorce all finalized she’s now a free woman (back the fuck off or I’ll end your life…no pawing my Mom dude) and the cleaning, or should I say disinfecting, of Dad’s former home has begun. I’ll try and get pictures posted from before the cleaning began…it’ll blow your mind how shitty it was. Crack addicts wouldn’t have stayed there because it was too goddamn filthy.

Dad : Oh, now…this is good. So it seems not only was he busted for DUI a couple of months back and placed on probation but he also got arrested again for “assault and battery of a high and aggravated nature” about 3 weeks ago. More then likely, he got drunk again and beat up on the braindead sycophant he calls his “girlfriend”. The beauty is that considering he’s ALREADY on probation, he’s looking at guaranteed jail time. Oh my friends, the irony is so thick it’s staggering.

Considering when Mom was in prison (because of his inability or lack of desire to work for 13 years) he made the statement to her innumerable times that he “didn’t see what she was so upset over, she had everything she needed in prison. They fed her, gave her a place to sleep, a job.” On more then one occasion he said “I could do your time with my eyes closed”. Well guess what motherfucker…time to back that big ass mouth up with some deeds.

Let’s see how he likes not getting visits from his family, or financial support, or someone to write letters to, phone calls of support every week…close your eyes and do that time big man. I have a funny feeling it’s not going to be the fucking picnic you’ve imagined all these years.

Strangely enough, he made an effort to contact my brothers earlier this week. He’d previously spoken to them last in September, 2005. Yeah…nearly 2 years of silence. Now suddenly, when he’s facing jail time, he gets all nostalgic and want to re-establish contact with them.

Coincidence? Somehow I doubt it.

Especially considering that the terms of the divorce settlement clearly state he can’t harass Mom for any reason. What better way to do it then by going through his own children by means of taking advantage of their love for him?

Unfortunately, my brothers want nothing to do with him and neither of the are even remotely considering returning his phone calls…oopsie!

Loki : Is a crazed, bloodthirsty demon from the pit of hell. But goddamn he’s SOOOO fucking cute. We got him “snipped and clipped” and he’s calmed down considerably, but he still delights in torturing his big sister, Domino, at every opportunity. Domino tolerates him only due to the fact she loves us so much, otherwise I’m sure she’d have escaped by now.

Hmmm…I guess that’s it.

I’ll try and tack up some pics of the shithole my father was living in pre-cleaning…let you see how “real men” live their lives.

It’s staggeringly unbelieveable.

Cinlach is getting pretty fucking sick of hospitals.

Ok, ok…so I’ve been really quiet recently.

But considering I’ve been working like a freakin’ madman since October I feel I deserve a little slack.

But that’s not what we’re here for is it?

Nope…I’ve got a cautionary tale to share with you all, but it’s always best to begin at the beginning.

About 5 weeks ago I started having tightness in my extreme lower back, and a pulling sensation down into the back of my leg.

Now a normal person would’ve taken notice of this…and seeing that I am a normal person, notice is what I took.

I mentioned it to my wife, who suggested I take a couple of anti-inflammatory over the counter painkillers to help shrug it off.

This sounded like a fantastic idea not only to myself but to my left leg as well, and so the self-medicating began.

Things started slowly, with the pain migrating down my left leg, into my knee and finally down into my calf muscle. But sure enough, within a couple of days things seemed to be headed back to normal thanks to my new friends called “Advil” and “Liqui-gels”.

Then comes last Friday…

My grandmother hasn’t been doing too well lately and the decision was made to put her in the hospital for possible surgery. The only problem being that surgery is a bad thing for her. Her last surgery had her literally dying on the operating room table…she had a near-death experience and everything. That’s some scary shit right there.

To top it off, after that surgery, she developed blood clots in her lungs and nearly died AGAIN.

Her doctor then informed her that most likely the next surgery she had would be her last and has completely forbidden any for her over the last 15 years.

Well the problem is that if this surgery ended up being necessary, and she chose not to have it, then she would die. And of course, if she did have it she would most likely die. So things were more then just a little stressful over the last couple of days leading up to the first big Cinlach medical breakdown of 2007.

Since I’d been working like some sort of fucking lunatic for the last 5 months, and I knew that this month would be “lighter”…if you can call something “lighter” when it still means you have more work then you can theoretically do in a given 8 hour period…I decided to be a completely selfish prick and take off early last Friday afternoon to accompany my Mom up to the hospital to see my Grandmother.

You know, given that it might be one of the last times I got to do so…I kinda felt it was important. Silly me.

So after clocking out, I made my way to my mother’s 1998 Saturn…henceforth called the Saturn Shoebox of Torture.

I contorted myself into her car and experienced a level of pain I hadn’t had the pleasure of being aquainted with in quite some time. We then took off to my house to pick up my brothers.

I managed to remove myself from the car…and then got back in again when it was time to go. More pain…same places.

We get to my grandmother’s house to feed her dogs…I’m back out of the car, then back into the car.

We head to the hospital…I get out of the car and receive the best news of the day…no surgery for grandma. Then, god help me…it’s time to get back in the car.

By this time I’m literally writhing in pain in the front seat of this demonic, torture machine from hell. I mean, damn…I’m hurting pretty severely but this point.

So off we go to eat supper, which I didn’t really feel up to but I knew everyone else was looking forward to our weekly family dinner out. So I sucked it up, put on my game face and made it happen. Once more into and then yet again out of the Saturn Shoebox of Torture.

I got the luxury of riding in my car on the way home…a 2001 Buick Century that thankfully doesn’t require you be a contortionist to get in or out of…but I had to get Sappy Chick to drive because I was still hurting from my 15 rounds with the Saturn Shoebox of Torture.

We skipped our traditional shopping trip to Target and I was ferried home after a long and uncomfortable day.

Once home, and free from the confines of what I’m now calling the world’s smallest passenger vehicle, my back and leg improved immensely.

When it was time for bed, I more humorously then omniously said to Sappy Chick, “Let’s just hope I can get up in the morning”. Ha, ha, ha…very fucking funny God.

Let’s say I didn’t sleep well and leave it at that…I tossed and turned and just couldn’t get comfortable. My back, leg, knee and now ankle were still apparantly pretty pissed off about our sojourn in Mom’s Saturn. My leg hurt so much that the middle three toes of my left foot were numb. That can’t be a good thing…can it?

At 5am, I got up to go pee and was greeted by a level of pain that I honestly was simply not prepared for. I couldn’t bend over to open the toilet seat…I had to use my right foot to raise the seat. Thats classy right there.

I did my business, and rapidly (or as rapidly as possible) hobbled my way back to bed…a few minutes later I had to go again, only this time because my stomach was rolling due to the pain. I eased myself onto the toilet…took care of “the business” at hand and reached with my right hand for the toilet paper on my left side.

I gasped as I turned.

My vision went white and I nearly passed out. Welcome to a new level of pain…one never dreamed of or imagined before. Welcome to the main event folks. This made the kidney stone of 1998 seem like a splinter.

I quickly realized I was fucked…really fucked…majorly fucked. I couldn’t so much as pull my underwear back up. What to do, what to do?

I somehow managed to finish up and hobbled to the medicine drawer in our kitchen to find solace from my new friends in the form of 3 Extra Strength Advil Liqui-Gels. Hoping against hope that if I laid back down and gave them time to work I’d be ok. Sadly, my new friends decided they had better things to do.

After laying in bed for an hour and a half, fighting tears of pain I realized that THIS…this singular moment…was as good as I was going to get. I was at the bottom of the pain mountain and sooner instead of later I was heading back to the summit as a passenger on a fast trolley.

I woke Sappy Chick…and as I begged her to take my to the Emergency Room, I began to cry like a baby. I was near-hysterical.

Without so much as a word or complaint, she got up and started getting dressed…I figured I needed to do the same. Since it hurt to so much as look at my feet, socks were completely out of the question, so I blindly rammed my feet into a pair of jeans and pulled a ratty t-shirt over my head.

I made my way down my hall to let my Mom know what was going on and where we were going. More crying, more hysterics…all from me of course. God, I’m such a manly man.

As my Mom walked me up and down the hallway, through the kitchen and living room while I cried and gasped for air between the intense stabbing pains throughout my left leg, Sappy Chick finished getting ready and then the 2 of them somehow were able to get me out of the house and lowered into the car.

My thoughts of the Emergency Room visit to come were not pleasant. I was expecting to wait several hours behind all manner or mangled motherfuckers who made me look like I had a blister or a headache. “Oh I’m so sorry your leg hurts Mr. Cinlach, but I have to remove a hatchet from some dude’s face…we’re going to have to get you to wait over in the Pussy Waiting Room. Someone will be over soon with your blankee.”

As were headed up the road, my wife tells me, “I’m taking you to Hillcrest.” Now, I have absolutely no idea where the hell that is. As it turns out, we have a hopsital in Simpsonville. Who knew?

By this point I was ready to go anywhere…take me to a med-school. Let the students have a look, how much worse could it possibly be then what I was already going through?

When we got to Hillcrest I was stunned to see there were NO cars there…we actually wondered if they were open. We got parked near the ER and walked into a totally empty lobby. We filled out a form and waited about 10 minutes for a Nurse to call us back.

I was placed into a room immediately, filled out my forms and was admitted to the hospital all within the span of 20 minutes.

The doctor came in, examined me and said…”You have all the classic signs of Sciatica”.

For those of you unfamiliar with the joy that is the sciatic nerve…click here.

A nurse came in, gave me a shot of painkillers and one of steroids (which I wasn’t thrilled about, but took nevertheless) and let me sit to enjoy the best the pharmacy had to offer.

The steroid made my right leg hurt just like my left leg and the painkiller only made me extremely nauseous. Go me…like I needed anymore fucking whimsy in my life at that particular point and time.

I laid in a near torpor for who knows how long before the Doctor came back in with all my paperwork and a few restrictions…

No work for 4 days…hopefully that included Saturday and Sunday, because I really need to get back. However if I can’t do it then newsletters and shit are gonna have to wait a little while longer.

No lifting over 10 lbs for 5 to 7 days…so I guess I’ll be needing help in the bathroom a little longer. Come on, you know that’s funny.

And last, but not least, no extended sitting for 10 days. This is going to be a problem, especially considering all I do all day is sit and shuffle papers from one folder to another. I haven’t really figured out how I’m going to make that work yet. Nevermind the extended period of time I’ve been sitting writing this all out…we’ll keep that our little secret.

After I was released, I was actually so nauseous that Sappy Chick and I had to sit in the car for 45 minutes behind the Hospital because it was literally all I could do to keep from yakking while riding in the wheelchair the 50 feet it took to get me out to the loading area.

So here I sit…hopped up on pain meds alone at home.

Oh, by the way…did I mention today was my birthday?

Yeah…life’s just peachy. I took today and yesterday off in order to take care of things in case Grandma needed surgery. As it turned out I needed them for myself.

Luckily my Mom rocks and bought me Brisco County Jr. on DVD.

So the morale of the story I hinted at earlier? Don’t sit on your wallet.

That’s right…my fucking wallet was the damned culprit.

So if you’re a dude with wallet in his back pocket as you read this, take that son of a bitch out.

Buy a purse, buy a fanny pack, get an organizer…ANYTHING.

I’ll be buying my wallets from the ladies department from now on. Maybe I could find something that matches my eyes and will go with all my outfits for under $40?

It could happen…

Gratuitous Pussy Shot!

Say hello to the newest member of the Clan Cinlach…Loki.

Loki is a 8 week old, male, flame point siamese kitten.

He adopted us on Thanksgiving Night as we were leaving my Grandparents house.

Here’s how it all went down…

Sappy Chick and I are standing out on the back porch of my Grandparents place, saying our goodbyes and attempting to roll our over-stuffed asses out to the car, when I heard a cat meowing…loudly.

Now normally this is no big deal, my grandparents place has always been a home for wayward animals. Due to the area they live in being rural, and the fact that some people are fucking scumwads, animals have been abandonded out there for as long as I can remember.

We’ve had rabbits, goats, horses, cows, and more cats and dogs out there then I can recall over the last 35 years. Currently my Grandparents have 4 outdoor dogs and 6 outdoor cats thanks to the strange mystical energy field that surrounds their property and attacts kitties and puppies like moths to a flame.

So hearing a cat meowing there is not a major occurance…yet for some reason when I heard this one I had to go and investigate.

I called out to the cat and followed the replies about 100 yards away in some underbrush behind Mom’s (soon to be) house. In a small thicket I spotted a small white lump…it turned towards me and meowed.

When I called out he dashed out from the brush, and started climbing my pants leg.

I picked him up, nuzzled him against my chest and looked down at the blue-eyed little darling you see above.

He started purring, rubbing his face against my chin, licking my face, and nibbling my ears. It was like he was saying, “What took you so long daddy? I’ve been waiting for you…it’s fucking freezing out here!”

I’m not ashamed to admit…I started to cry. It was the absolute sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.

As I stated above, I’m no stranger to wild beasties but I’ve never seen an animal react like that before. Most times they’re so scared or skittish that you have to coax them to come to you and often you end up stumbling after them in order to capture them. Not so with Loki…he was ready to come home. I’ve never seen one just run up to you without a hint of fear or hesitation.

While I walked back up to the assembled family at the porch, I managed to compose myself a little along the way. Carla looked at Loki feverishly rubbing and licking my face and started to get a little emotional too.

My grandfather started to make plans and arrangements for Loki’s care at their house, joining the menagerie of cats and dogs already in place. But I had already decided…Loki was coming home with me.

I knew it as soon as he kissed me on the nose…he’d been waiting for someone to come save him.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but he’d been waiting for me.

We went to WalMart on the way home and got the necessary kitty items and made a vet appointment for the following Saturday morning. Apart from ear mites, a little hunger-induced weight loss and a minor case of fleas, Loki was given a clean bill of health…all for the low, low price of $123.50.

We had a flea scare (or more to the point I had a flea scare) in that I was bitten 3 times by fleas after we got Loki home. I got bitten on my shoulder, my left foot and in an area I’ll just call “unmentionable”…but after a quick treatment of the living room carpet and our bathroom tile, things appear to be all quiet on the flea front. Thank God because the scalding hot showers (seven in 3 days) were getting old.

So…now we have a feline family member to go along with Domino, our 75lb baby girl.

The integration is going well…slowly, but well. They seem to like to play (Loki sometimes more then Domino) but the size difference between the two is a subject for concern. It wouldn’t take much for Domino to seriously fuck Loki up, so Sappy Chick and I are constantly playing referee between the two of them. Spray bottles are awesome!

Our sincerest wish is that Domino’s maternal instincts will kick in and she’ll take to Loki like a mother. I can’t tell you how awesome it would be to see the two of them sleeping together in one large furry lump by the couch.

Time will tell…Domino has ,up until recently, been an only child and has had very limited interaction with other animals.

So far, Loki’s favorite things to do include:

• Running
• Hiding
• Stalking
• Playing with the laser pointer
• Clawing Daddy and Mommy until blood seeps from their numerous wounds
• Sleeping
• Peeing and Pooping
• Eating
• Attacking everything within sight…and sometimes things that are totally invisible

All things considered I think things are going well and our new addition has certainly made things interesting…especially when you’re barefoot and trying to get to the shitter at 3am.

Moments like that are when Casa Cinlach rings with the sounds of “Loki! You little bastard! Feet are not toys!!”

See…Cinlach DOES have a heart!

On Monday, November 13th, I woke up with a little discomfort in my chest. I chalked it up to simply sleeping wrong or straining it somehow during the previous day and proceeded to go on to work.

During the morning and early afternoon, the discomfort in my chest became worse and steadily turned into a strong feeling of intense pressure in my sternum. It started to lessen around lunchtime so I ordered some pizza. Afterwards the pressure and discomfort intensified and new symptoms started to rear their ugly little heads. I began feeling pain in my ribs which migrated up into my upper back and shoulders, tightening in my jaw, and my right arm hand started going numb.

Now I might not be the smartest fella in this particular zip code, but I know enough to know that any combination of a couple of the above symptoms is worthy of serious attention…much less all of them all at once.

Knowing I had to tell someone, I went to Sappy Chick, who works with me, and said,

“Yo…I could be having a problem here biotch!”

She strongly recommended that I call my doctor immediately, and so I did.

I explained my symptoms to the nurse that answered the phone and she uttered the words that I knew I’d be hearing.

“Sir, I really think you need to go to the Emergency Room…now.”

Well isn’t that spec-fucking-tacular.

I trudged back to Sappy Chick’s desk and drop the bombshell, it appears I’ll be going to the hospital and checking myself into the Emergency Room. We get our shit together and head off to Greenville Memorial. It’s just a little before 4pm.

Of course, once we’re on the road to the Emergency Room my symptoms almost completely disappear. Which is God’s perverse sense of humor at work…or so I believe anyway. It’s the same phenomenon that causes your car to make a god-awful grinding sound for 3 days straight only to have it miraculously cease the moment you pull into a auto mechanic for service.

We finally arrive at Greenville Memorial Hospital and I register at the front desk, stating my complaints. We then attempt to find a seat in the ER lobby. I say “attempt” because the place was absolutely packed to the rafters with sick motherfuckers of every shape, size, and description. There were people on beds in the hallways, and a dude puking in the bathroom…so yeah, it was kinda bad

Much to my relief, if you wander into the ER of a local hospital complaining of chest pains and exhibiting heart attack symptoms they get to you pretty fucking quick. Sappy Chick and I sat in the lobby for only about 5 or 10 minutes before we were called back to the Triage area. After answering all sorts of questions involving my medical history, and ascribing numeral values to my pain level (It’s a 2 now and was about a 6 earlier), we were given a private room in the “Chest Pain Area”.

Once in my room, the nurse asks me to take my shirt off (easy ladies…there’s no need to shove. There’s plenty of Daddy to go around.) and I climb onto what had to have been the most uncomfortable bed in the history of man. I’m not kidding, it was like laying on a piece of plywood covered in vinyl. This bed was to be the bane of my backside for the next few hours.

Another nurse (henceforth known as “Abdullah the Butcher”) arrives to hook me up to the heart monitors and start my EKG. In order to attach the 10 or 12 EKG electrodes to my chest I’m told she’s going to need to shave spots on my chest. With thoughts of that horrific scene from The 40 Year Old Virgin fresh in my mind, I reluctantly submitted to being sheared like a human sheep. She slaps on the electrodes, hooks me up to a heart monitor, wraps a blood pressure cuff tightly around my upper forearm (that’ll be important later), and sticks an oxygen sensor on the first finger of my left hand.

I knew it was just a matter of time before I was introduced to the business end of a needle and I didn’t have to wait long for it to happen. Unfortunately for me I had Nurse Abdullah the Butcher as opposed to someone who didn’t suck ass at drawing blood. Nurse Abdullah informed me she was going to be drawing 5 vials of blood from my person this evening and she was ready to get it done. I timidly stuck my right hand out as she requested and looked away like the giant pussy I am. Folks, that woman then proceeded to poke and prod me in such a manner that I thought was specifically reserved for torture victims or prisoners scheduled for death by lethal injection. It was excruciating.

I found out later that Nurse Abdullah put the needle in, wasn’t getting the blood flow she wanted and decided to move the needle around…WHILE IT WAS STILL INSIDE MY SOFT PINK FUCKING HAND FLESH! I’m literally on the verge of tears and just about to pass out when I finally hear Abdullah say,

“Well, I think that’ll be enough, but I might have to come back and get some more though.”

Oh great…so I’ll get to be tortured by you again. This is SOOOO my fucking night. Carla told me once we were home that she could see the needle protruding out the top of my hand while Nurse Abdullah attempted to draw the blood she needed. It’s seven days later and I STILL have an extremely tender yellowish-purple bruise larger then a silver dollar on the top of my right hand.

After Nurse Abdullah leaves, I ask Sappy Chick for a cold rag to put on my head because I’m literally moments away from yakking all down the front of my fancy new hospital gown. I then lay quietly trying to compose myself and not engage in an involuntary personal protein spill all while fighting to not pass out.

After the blood drawing trauma, I’d just managed to get comfortable and control my heaving insides when I hear a machine start up and the blood pressure cuff on my right bicep begins to inflate. It inflates, inflates, inflates some more, and then inflated a little more just to be a pain in the ass. The blood pressure cuff would inflate so tightly that I could see veins popping up in my right arm and it made my still stinging right hand throb.

So we sat there, Sappy Chick and I, listening to the EKG monitor, the periodic attacks from the killer blood pressure pump and watching TV. It’s now 6pm.

The doctor finally comes in and asks how I’m doing, I tell him that I’d much rather be home if all things were considered but I’m feeling much better then I did earlier in the day. We go over my symptoms and he gives me a quick examination (which for some reason included taking my shoes off and feeling my feet…I did draw the line at pinching his nipples though). Somewhat dejected, the doctor tells me the EKG is completely normal and says that he thinks I’ve got acid reflux. Regardless of his suspicions, he’s still duty bound to have all manner of tests and procedures performed on my guinea pig ass until every possibility has been explored.

As he’s leaving, Nurse Abdullah the Butcher returns and verifies that yes, she’s going to be needing more blood. Luckily for me, she isn’t going to be drawing it right then (I suspect she was relishing the thought of making me sweat while I dreaded it) and she sits a strange medical instrument on the counter next to Sappy Chick. This was apparently being used to test some of the blood she managed to forcibly remove from me earlier.

Nurse Abdullah leaves the machine with us and it sat by Sappy Chick, quietly humming to itself. Soon enough it began beeping excitedly and Abdullah returned to retrieve it. I began to ask some questions:

ME : “So…what’s that telling you…a brother sure could use some information here”

NURSE ABDULLAH : “Oh everything’s fine…this test came back negative for heart enzymes”

I took it to mean a lack of “heart enzymes” was a good thing…I still have no idea what part these “heart enzymes” played in this whole equation. But as long as it’s good news I was willing to accept it. She leaves and I immediately begin dreading her return.

Nurse Abdullah the Butcher pops back in a few minutes later and thrusts a small paper cup of a green, thick substance in my hands.

NURSE ABDULLAH : “Drink this…”

She then turns to leave. Now, maybe it’s a character flaw or simply a desire to be in control at all times, but this sort of scenario just does not work for me. I need a lot more information first…such as :

ME : “What is it?”

NURSE ABDULLAH : “It’s philashutupandfuckingtakeitalready.”

ME : “What’s it for?”

NURSE ABDULLAH : “It’s for the acid reflux you’ve been diagnosed with.”

After she’s answered all my questions to my satisfaction, I allow her to leave. I know what I’m about to swallow isn’t going to be pleasant and I was not disappointed. It tasted like Pepto Bismol with Rolaids, Tums, and Alka Seltzer crushed up into it…nasty. A few minutes later I notice that my tongue feels funny, as do my lips and throat. They feel like they’re going numb and I’m beginning to have trouble swallowing. I, fool that I am, become slightly alarmed at this unexpected turn of events. Nurse Abdullah comes back and I tell her what’s going on. She tells me that it’s supposed to do that because it contains a numbing agent. Well now we see why I asked so many questions when I was handed this shit in the first place…no one said ANYTHING about numbing my tongue and throat. How dare I become alarmed? For all I knew I was allergic to the shit and my throat was closing off.

Nurse Abdullah returns about an hour later to extract more of my blood with a dull, 3 inch thick PVC tube. She decides to spread the love and attack my left arm this time, inexplicably at the inside bend of my elbow as opposed to the top of my right hand. As she jams the needle into yet another of my veins, she ends up placing my left hand squarely in contact with her right breast. I mean…uncomfortably so…I seriously think I might need sexual assault counselling now.

As my sweet precious red blood fills her vials, Nurse Abdullah jokes :

“Maybe I’ll get all the blood I need this time”

I politely, but firmly, tell her :

“You’d better get extra because this is my last visit from Mr. Hypodermic Needle”

She takes another 3 or 4 vials (making it 8 or 9 for the night) and shuffles off to torment some other poor, heart-attack suffering bastard. But not before spilling my blood all over the sheets of my bed. Classy.

It’s now 8pm and I’ve got to pee so bad that I can almost literally taste it. An orderly arrives to take me off for a chest xray and I manage to impress upon him the seriousness of my bursting bladder. He tells me where the bathroom is (located about 20 feet down the hall to the left) but says he has to get a wheelchair in order to take me there.

So you know what happens right? While he’s getting the wheelchair I walk on my own to the toilet and have the most glorious pee experience I think I’ve ever had. Homeboy doesn’t look happy when I walk out of the bathroom but fuck him…I sure feel happier.

The orderly rolls my infirmed ass down to the xray machine and I get irradiated a couple of times and then a different nurse wheels me back and reattaches all my electrodes and gizmo’s again.

It’s now 9pm…Sappy Chick and I settle in to watch Heroes.

A new Doctor arrives and goes over all the tests they’ve run so far and tells me the results of each…all normal. She tells us they’re getting together all my discharge paperwork and we should be on our way home in about an hour. This is almost enough to make me cry…seriously, I really want to go home now.

At 10:15, a new nurse arrives (Abdullah is either busy torturing another patient or I’m just finally getting lucky) with my paperwork and helps get me unhooked from all the myriad machines I’ve been monitored by for the last 7 hours. As she leaves, I begin trying to remove the EKG paddles stuck all over my body. It takes me about 20 minutes to remove them all because they seem to want to take my SKIN with them when they’re removed. Considering that I’m fond of my skin, it takes me awhile to convince them to let go and leave it with me. Because I need it more then they do.

I finally get all the fucking demonic EKG paddles removed and we walk to the discharge desk. We pay $100 downpayment for services rendered, and with paperwork for my doctor in hand, make our way out to the car. This is the highlight of my day.

We stopped and got a light supper on the way home since neither of us had eaten anything since about 11am…McDonald’s French Fries are the bomb.

We get home, I get undressed and fall into what can only be described as coma.

I was still sore for a couple of days and aside from the bald spots on my chest, the horrendous bruise on my right hand and the small, nickel sized one on my left arm from the second blood drawing I was no worse for wear.

I tried to get the xrays of my heart so I could taken them to work at post them up at my desk.

I’d finally be able to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that yes…I do actually have a heart. It’s right there in full black and white. So suck on that!

As it stands though, you’ll just have to take my word for it…my heart actually exists and it’s not black as coal nor is it two-sizes too small.