Posts Tagged ‘cast’

At least I can blow my nose…

Posted: September 8, 2011 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , , ,

I could make some kind of trite, stupid, welcome-back kind of statement here like thousands of other faceless bloggers across the web offer after a vacation–  but I know my readers are better than that.  Read further:  I’m better than that.   Yes, September 1 came and passed, and as promised, I tossed up the raw video of the unveiling of Jill– and damn was she ugly.  Of course, after an hour of furious (albeit painful) scrubbing to remove the pervasive layer of death that clung to my first love, I realized I wasn’t even close to being out of the cliched woods.

Let’s start off with Jill herself.  Yep, the fingers still work (knew that awhile ago), but the wrist had only about a 35% range of motion.  I expected that Jill wouldn’t be back to her old spry self, not by a long shot, and I was doubly thankful that she didn’t leap up and try to choke the ever loving shit out of me in pseudo-zombie rage.  I don’t think she could have, honestly, because in addition to the wrist– my elbow didn’t want to move.  Apparently this is normal, but Holy Mother of all that’s Unholy–  the amount of pain involved during the first day or so was beyond even my masochistic tastes.  The best part was the doctor telling me that I no longer required any sort of support (ACE wrap, cast, brace, etc.) because I’d been immobilized for six weeks.  I nearly shat cinderblocks.

Of course, knowing I was going on vacation, I asked the doc what types of actions/activities were no-no’s.  His response was priceless, “Let pain be your guide.”

Sounds like a case of badass moonlighting...

If only my conscience's direction was as unmistakably obvious as pain... Just saying...

Well, pain told me that the doc had his cranium firmly lodged in his colon– and letting Jill run around all willy-nilly was as stupid as trying to pogo-stick through a minefield, leading a troupe of hyperactive puppies.  Enter Norco, and my trusty old wrist brace (acquired when I first broke my hand in October 2010), to the rescue.  All is “well.”

Here I am, nearly a week later– and oddly enough, I still can’t fully straighten my right arm.  That’s not the weirdest part.  Apparently I shouldn’t have been worrying about turning into Patient Zero— I should have been worrying about becoming part Wookiee.  Yeah, apparently being in a cast for as long as I was means that hair follicles go apeshit while under cover.  Nobody warned me that I’d be sprouting hair in places that were as bare as (insert inappropriate simile here).  I would have filled in that parenthetical, but remember Mad Libs?  I think I’ve made my point about the fun of filling in the blank for yourself.

Which leaves me here, with partial use of an apparently mutated arm.  This partial usage is key, since I have caught a cold.  I would blame my loving girlfriend for this one, but we’ve both seemed to catch the wrath of the rhinovirus at about the same time, so any finger-pointing from this point forward is purely in jest.  I say this so she doesn’t kick my happy ass.  Needless to say, chicken soup in copious quantities isn’t part of the Kamikaze Diet (which is still to-be-posted), so I haven’t quite started it yet.

So, when it comes down to it…  I have a marginally useful arm, I’m still a lefty, still gimped–  but hey.  At least I can blow my freaking nose.  Now, if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, I’ve gotta to hit the Sudafed again.


One More Time…

Posted: August 31, 2011 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , , , ,

Yes, we have yet another song-inspired title.  Last time I celebrated the impending doom of my cast, and the countdown is now measured in hours instead of days… or weeks like when I began this whole writing odyssey.  In retrospect, it’s been a fun trip (for me at least), but it won’t be over once this damn fiberglass exoskeleton is cut from my body.

Yes, I’m celebrating the last days of my maul-whatever-the-hell-looks-tasty “diet.”  I put on over 20 freaking pounds since my happy ass went under the knife.  I was down to roughly 8% bodyfat when I initially lost the fight with that cursed refrigerator…  and this translates into an almost 25lb gain (I don’t want to even think about the real numerical damage done) since my last act of testosterone-fueled badassery.  Note to all you other guys out there who consider yourselves built like Terminators– knee-jerk reactions involving large objects may give you momentary glory, but you’re more likely to end up one of those dumpy bastards who could be mistaken for a perma-virgin with a WoW subscription.  Consider yourselves warned, again.

Ok, I can’t keep a train of thought to save my life right now.  I’m just stoked that I’m soon to be free, and I’m celebrating with a food orgy in my mouth.   Yes, I intend to swallow every last bit of it.  Savor that mental image, because there’s gonna be more carnivorous goodness going down my gullet than a frat mattress that realizes that they can’t hurt their reputation any further.   That’s kind of where I’m sitting right now with the whole waistline crisis thing.  Unlike that saucy mental image (that I know you’re still reeling from), I have no lasting stigma (nor disease).

My impending kamikaze diet won’t start tomorrow, no– because I’m going on vacation this weekend.  This is going to be a weekend of gut-busting awesomeness, complete with a stop to Primanti Brothers.  If any of you Yinzers out there have any other kinds of destinations in the greater Pittsburgh area that are of this ilk, comment here and put me in the loop.  I’m serious, last time I asked for input, I got three replies.  Three.  United States voter turnout is better than that, and it’s pretty tough to be lazier than that.  Anyway.

The first fix I had to get one last fill of was none other than a favorite from my hometown– AJ’s Texas Hots.

Cue the Heavenly Host

No Greek dog, no chili dog, no saucy wiener greater... than these Texas Hots.

These artery-destroying babies were handed down by God Himself to Johnny Colera of Jamestown, NY in 1936.  Many locals call all of them “Johnny’s” for short, and used to bitterly argue over which location made the best ones (both were owned/run by different branches of the same family).  We purists know AJ’s is the real deal.  Johnny’s Hots changed their recipe when they decided to franchise out, and the locals who’ve been eating them their entire lives know.   They committed rivalry suicide, and now there’s no freaking contest (but believe you me, they are still freaking epic if that’s all you can get your dirty mitts on).

Yes, my lackadaisical eating patterns are over after this weekend.  In the meantime, I’m going to be indulging like Charlie Sheen in Tony Montana’s private stockpile.  It’s not like I can do any more damage over the course of a weekend.

That and I’m just getting my body ready to drop a holy shitload of weight over the next month.  For those of you curious as to what I’m plotting, I’ll post the diet later– as if I needed to further seal the fact that I’ve lost my freaking mind.  I’m merely 13 hours from having an elbow again, and maybe Jill too.


And so it came to pass, the final week of Jill’s confinement is nigh.  I’ve sacrificed the majority of Summer 2011 (and more) solely in the name of healing.  At least that’s what I keep telling myself, but I’ve never taken well to brainwashing– self-imposed or otherwise.  I’d make a great deep-cover spy, in that respect.  Regardless, one basement-bound summer down, September 1 is a mere three days away, and you bet your sweet ass that I’m excited to get use of my elbow back (at very least).   The cliched light at the end of the tunnel sure isn’t freedom.  Looking at this objectively, I really don’t know what’s going to happen on Thursday– beyond cracking Jill out of her fiberglass prison.  For all I know, the doc could be slapping me into another cast.  If that’s the verdict, I’m going to be one pissed off unit.  In the past month and a half of gimptacular goodness– I have gained an unfathomable amount of respect for amputees, stroke victims, and any others who lose usage of an arm/hand (dominant or not).  I really don’t need to say much more.

Important segue aside, I have plans to jump into a pool, or at very least a hot tub, this coming weekend.  Doc and I will have a wee discussion about putting another cast on me, or at very least a swimmer’s cast.  If I’m medically ordered to be off until November 1, he had better not expect me to sit my fat ass on the couch any longer.  Why?  I put on 20 pounds in a month and a half.  I told you, I don’t halfass anything…  I’ve got two asses!  Anyway, considering my armchair obsession with being a walking embodiment of awesome, this full-arm cast has way overstayed its welcome.

Ok, that’s as close to whiny emo as I get.  My hair’s too curly, skin too naturally olive, and I’m flat-out too classy for that kind of non-funny self-deprecation.  Back to releasing Jill from her now-well-tattooed cast.  All ulterior motives aside, I’m more excited than a drunk freshman on a date with the campus slut.  Although I will miss fingerbanging my cast with rapid gusto, I’m actually excited for kamakaze dieting and working out.

In masochistic pre-celebration of this, I’m planning to actually video the unveiling with my hacked-to-bejesus android.  So yes, my monumental date will be recorded in full HD, for those of you with computers that can handle hi-res shenanigans.  Unfortunately, I am not of that lot, so the next step will involve a deal with Mephistopheles himself–  I’ll have to use a freaking Mac.  It’s not mine, since I am opposed to Trashintoss (because it’s the precursor to Skynet).  Anyway, all brand prejudices and commentary aside, I will be posting the first (and probably only) video to the ol’ blog:  the opening of Jill’s tomb.

So I ask you, my handful of readers–  help me with a choice.  I’m going to rip the music track from either of two movies to commemorate the next step in my rehabilitation.  Either I will continue with the whole Zombie Jill thing, and rip the sequence from Evil Dead 2…  

Or, I can do something a little more entertaining (to me at least).

Faces shall melt.

.. and we call all revel in the glory of my head exploding when I see how puny and putrid my first love has become.

So, for those of you paying attention, I pose to you a conundrum—  do I continue the theme, or does Dr. Jones (and equally importantly, John Williams) get the nod?

I leave this choice up to my readers because, well, I’m too preoccupied with plotting my vacation…


So last night, ended up hanging out with my cousin and a friend of ours.  Of course, with this particular crew, we end up talking music and video games…  which inevitably ended up at my cousin’s in front of his epic gamer setup.  I still had my 360 in the car (really can’t play it, explanation coming), so I made sure that I’d brought my copy of Duke Nukem Forever.  These guys have both played prior Duke games, but they lack the… enthusiasm that I have for it (but that’s a different story entirely).

Hail to the King, Baby!

"I've got balls of steel!" - Duke Nukem

This brings me to a major issue, the very heart of the reason that the 360 has stayed in my back seat.  I can run around, I can shoot, I can even switch weapons.  However, Jill’s dexterity is complete shit– and the cast further inhibits any prayer of analog-stick control.  I know, really kills my buzz even thinking about how Jill’s other stick control will have degraded too.  Anyway, after a quick run, they tossed in a fighting game.  Having learned from prior mistakes, I sat these rounds out.

Rounds, however, might be a bit generous of a description– because my cousin is some kind of sick genius at gaming.  If I’m playing a game somewhat regularly, yeah, I will wreck face with extreme prejudice.  This means I will do bad things to the AI, murder n00bs, and actually hold my own against most players.  Then you have my cousin, who appears to be just a walking amalgamation of all that is digital-interface rape.  So to say our friend went “rounds” with him is a bit of a misnomer.  My cousin toyed with him, and because he was screwing around, got beat a few times.  I’m glad I sat that one out, especially with the way my wrist was aching after getting my murder on.

Finally, we went and threw in a game we all know and love:  Star Wars Battlefront II.  Back in the day, my college buddies and I used to play hours on this game (and its predecessor).  Needless to say, they went co-op mode, and I advised them that I’d be the free-kill.  Of course, they’re freaking good at this game, so they didn’t care about another handicapped stormtrooper on their side.  I wasn’t entirely useless, thanks to my many hours of game play in the past.  We were all getting tired, so our last board was destined to be Mos Eisley.  It was time for every BF2 player’s guilty pleasure–  the hero assault.  My gaming skills just got relevant again.  I have a WMD in my back pocket.

Pay no attention to the tin can.

A force-dash powered murder missile.

I don’t have to worry about aiming Darth Maul anywhere– it’s more like steering.  He’s a ridiculously fast, linear weapon, with a wide radius of damage potential.  Essentially– point Darth Maul at something, book ass right into its face, and kill it to shit with a crimson storm of bitchslap.   Steering, oh yeah, I got this.  We three go co-op, again, mainly because you can’t make it a fair fight any other way.  That and we were also engaging in another guilty pleasure: the occasional comp-stomp, with the AI cranked to 11.  For those of you unaware of how much fun this is, I truly pity you.  I didn’t think I was doing as well as I was.  However, I guess I wasn’t spending all my time running around in circles looking for days to ruin.

I outscored my cousin.  I guess while I was running around in circles, I was also picking up kills like the Grim Reaper on coke.



On a positive note, my cast has finally had its proverbial cherry popped.  No, my mother didn’t do it, my girlfriend did.  I now have a heart with our initials, her name, a few doodles, and a shamrock on it.  I know I’m 100% Italian, so the Irish bit kind of doesn’t make much sense– but at least my mom didn’t do it!  Now stop laughing!  Yes, I know I’m saying it in vain, but I need to hold on to whatever prayer of self-respect I have left.

All of this false bravado, and innocuous exoskeletal tattooing aside– I’m facing a major issue.  This level of disturbance is on par with my growing ass and gut.  I’m talking about atrophy.  Gaining poundage isn’t fun, but shrinking muscles are no laughing matter.  Shit, throw some backne (yes, I just hybridized back and acne for those of you not swift enough to catch it) in the mix, and I’m sure I’ll have to keep this fetid cast after it’s removed– just to remember what it was like to have a girlfriend.

She would tell me I’m overreacting.  I am not so positive.  I look at the facts.

The arm-- pre injury

A blast from the past... before I lost a fight with a refrigerator...

I could preacher-curl my own body weight at one time.  Now I look at how far atrophy has kicked my widening ass over the past month or so.

The gap...

My arm has shrunk so much, I can damn near fist my cast-- with the arm in it!!

It’s shameful!  At least when Jill inevitably goes full zombie on me, she’ll be at less than 50% power.  How can I look on the bright side of things, when the added inches on my waistline can be accounted for by lost inches from my arm?!

Oh yeah, best part?  Rosie’s still looking pretty damn good, so compared to this withered limb,  I’m gonna look like all I ever do is…  oh cruel irony.

Screw it, I’m going back to writing up my kamakaze diet– for when I finally get this damn cast removed, and I can finally work out again.  It’ll be a glorious day.


Now that I’ve got  your attention, yes, those were my very words about twenty minutes ago.  Of course, just to be clear, that time is only accurate in reference to when I started writing this.  I am, after all, typing with a buzz and a cast– and due to the former condition, am mocking some schmuck (that I don’t even know) on a friend’s facebook page.  If my ass gets any bigger, or if I end up with acne and my girlfriend leaves me, my transformation into a walking stereotype of failed manhood will be complete.  Oh, all these horrible realizations that have come from surgery– or rather the inordinate amount of time I’ve had to just… think.

So here I sit, nursing a budding headache, and watching Robot Chicken and …  ugh, you know what?  Screw this, Svedka Cherry makes headaches worse.  There’s your FYI for the night, I’ll finish this later.  I need some sleep.

One crappy night’s sleep and half a day later…

I am officially a dumbass.  Rule #1 of headaches, especially of the burgeoning migraine variety:  do not freaking drink more.  They will only get worse, and you will end up with the same headache and a hangover the next morning.  Feel free to point and laugh, because I have been facepalming all morning.

After all the years I’ve spent as a fore-running proponent of the epic lushes against irresponsible alcoholics, you’d think I’d have learned one of the cardinal self-preservation rules.  Apparently I have not.  I should have let my girlfriend put the Svedka away, it would have saved me a case of the FML’s this morning.  Either that or I should have pulled a House, downed two Norco, and not given a flying damn– except I’m saving my remaining Norco for when I start physical therapy in a week and a half.

Yes, I’ve had this cast for over a month now, and finally there’s a light at the end of my gimpified tunnel.  Then again, that’s just the full-arm cast.  I have no idea what the future holds, so I’m being uncharacteristically optimistic.  For all I know, they’re gonna put me in another, smaller cast.

This brings me to something that has been an intriguing footnote to this entire odyssey.  This is the first cast I’ve ever had.  Most people get exotic colors, or have people make like tattoo artists all over their exoskeletons.  My cast is as virgin and vanilla as the day I got it.

The cast, just as "perfect" as the day it was applied...

The cast, just as "perfect" as the day it was applied...

Isn’t this what kids look forward to?  Don’t they look forward to having their friends sign, draw-on, and otherwise deface that which is both healing and handicapping them?  Well, apparently that’s not so vogue when you’re in your early 30’s…  either that, or I’ve progressed farther into becoming a reclusive, obese, basement denizen than I thought.

Everyone, grab your sharpies.  Realize that my two nieces and nephew will probably see what you’ve drawn.  My self-respect is on the line here.  Time to do work.  I will not let my first (and hopefully last) cast ever go into that good night without even a single mark.


Oh dear God, IT ITCHES!!!

Posted: August 15, 2011 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

I was told this cast would eventually itch.  The li’l bastard’s about a month old now, and oh my freaking God— I suddenly have an idea what plague Moses had in store for Pharaoh if the whole firstborn-murder thing didn’t work.  I’ve hidden from the sun.  I don’t exercise.  I avoid heat and humidity with more fervor than a baby seal avoids blunt instruments and sharks.  I figured this would help mitigate the inevitable “cast stench” that I’ve been warned about.  In turn, I figured it’d keep the itch at bay.  My tactics proved futile.

So now, in addition to scraping the crust from Zombie Jill, I’m being tortured by my own body in a way that’d impress the Spanish Inquisition.  I dealt with the pain, and I’m even coping with being largely useless (not really).  This is entirely different, a madness of a kind that makes watching Jersey Shore almost appear preferable.  I said almost—  I’m going crazy, but I will always have standards.

Let this right-handed lefty put it into perspective for those of you who, like I was for 30 years, don’t know this particular kind of torment.  Think of an itch not unlike a bitch of a mosquito bite.   Now think of an itch that, for some reason, you couldn’t scratch (for whatever reason).  Now combine those two, over the majority of your arm.  Any wonder why I’m stabbing into this cast with a chopstick like I was freaking Norman Bates?

Two solutions...

Here's my front line defenses. Aside from booze and medication.

I don’t have far to go to get to crazy.  In fact, I’m wondering if this insane itch is Jill turning full zombie– and when they open the cast on September 1, I’m going to get attacked by my first love.  We all know where that’s going, you’re all doomed, et cetera, ad nauseum.  Crazy, check.

However, I’m resourceful.  Booze and meds dull my awareness of the issue to a point.  The chopstick, well that application is obvious even to a five year old.  Not satisfied with conventional remedies– I got a can of dust-off.  Why?  Think about it, jam that straw in there, and blast in some instant relief.  For my fellow gimps out there who may try this– make sure the can stays perfectly upright.  Failure to do so will result in the can spitting “freezy spray” (yes, that’s a technical term), and now you will also have frostbite inside your cast.  Don’t be a dipshit, not only would that suck complete echidna peen, you’d also have to explain everything to the doctor.  You will then be the running laugh track for anyone who hears about your attack of the dumbass.  However, that “freezy spray” can be fired directly on the cast for short bursts, and the ridiculous cold actually penetrates with Peter North efficiency.  At this point, one of those stars and rainbows should be bursting over your head with the message “and now you know.”

And on that note, time to go scrape the zombie hand, take a shower, and pop some pills (not necessarily in that order).  Distraction is the biggest key to relief, but I’m betting this is a losing tactic too.