A day at the Dentist

“Your blood pressure is elevated,” the snooty dental hygienist accused.

“You think?” I’m not a fan of snootiness. “Why do you need my BP to examine my teeth anyway? Are you going to stop a heart attack with an emergency tooth extraction?” Maybe it came out more, ah… less civil than I’d hoped. But in my defense, I was quite traumatized at this point.

*Crickets.

“I apologize. My pressure runs borderline anyway. Add to that a 300-pound dude in a lab coat jamming “bite wings” down my throat while he shoots radiation through a plastic basketball hoop attached to and dangling from the side of my head and you might understand my anxious state. Danged thing herniated a disk in my neck. And why do they cover my torso in a lead vest while leaving my face in the path of directed radiation? Is my face not as important? Why no crotch flap? I’m pretty sure that’s important too. Also, I saw my own toes sticking out of my own nose, my innie is now an outie, and I think I have a hernia now.” I took a short breath and spoke in the general direction of the x-ray tech. “Thanks for that by the way, Gigantor.”

Feeling better, I turned and almost attempted my best disarming smile. I don’t know that it’s ever disarmed anyone and may even more closely resemble a snarl that has at least frightened some children. She was about to get intimate with my teeth anyway so I deprived her of the opportunity to experience disarmament and kept that smile in check just in case she got paid by the number of exposures to my teeth. You aren’t getting double time pay out of me, snooty one.

“We need those x-rays, Sir.” That sounded like a weak excuse. Maybe because she couldn’t close her mouth and it’s hard to enunciate when you hang your mouth open like a fish out of water at every little inconsequential thing your patient says.

“Yeah. But do the “bite wings” have to come off of a 747? Then they cover these gargantuan airfoils with enough sharp-edged tarpaulins to cover the entire plane. Seriously, my bowel movements are going to come out shrink wrapped for the next three weeks.”

“You miiiight be overreacting at this point. You should just try to calm down.”

“And how does that work out when your husband says that to you? YOU START GETTING indexEXCITED!!” *Note to self: I need to watch Boondock Saints again.

I actually just thought that bit, but decided to keep it to myself. After all, she was hovering over my face with a Dremel and what looked like a small scythe. “Do you have to mow grass on my tongue?” I offered instead.

“What?”

“Never mind. Where were we? BP? I can explain that beyond having passenger planes shoved down my throat. Also, I do not get along with dental dams.”

“Oooo-K?”

“It’s your coat.” I stated it as plainly as I could. “Not the not-getting-along-with-dental-dams part. The BP part, I mean.”

“My coat? What’s wrong with my coat?” She sniffed it. I almost left.

“My BP goes up any time I’m near you medical types. Something to do with the coat. It might help if you had a nice camouflaged one. That probably wouldn’t help with X-Ray Kong in there though. I bet his kids freak out when he makes airplane noises with a giant spoonful of gag reflex coming their way. I honestly don’t know how you guys’ heads don’t explode every time you put one on. Which I guess would only happen once. Each.”12345678

She affected a look that reminded me of the one my wife wears quite often, sighed, and had me lay back. Then she put these safety glasses on me that are designed for the sole purpose of rendering all men unattractive to anything other than vultures.

“We’re just going to slip this dental dam in…”

I sat up. “No we are not. Didn’t I just tell you I don’t get on well with those things?”

“Just let me give it a try. I’m really good with these things. Just breathe through your nose. You won’t even notice it.”

“And that is what the last thirteen people to attempt it said. Statistically speaking, you just lied to me. I have no real reason to trust you anymore. Besides, this is just supposed to be a cleaning and exam. And I don’t appreciate the mouth breather accusations.”

“What? No. Looking at your x-rays here,” she pointed at a dark spot, deflecting. “You are going to need a filling immediately.”

I looked at the film for myself

“That’s a boot lace eyelet. If you squint, you can make out the rest of the boot. Told you I saw my toes. I’d also like to point out that gold crowns don’t get cavities so unless I have some mutant oral bacteria, you aren’t filling my crown.”

So yeah. That last part wasn’t true, but I’ve been waiting to use that whole bit about trust since my last visit where they attempted to choke me with a wad of latex bearing the innocuous sounding moniker “dental dam”.

Turns out I did need a filling, but not in the gold tooth, and they had time. I guess they saw more discussion coming from me and knocked me out which is incredibly unfair considering the amount of talking and question posing they normally do while they have you as a captive audience incapable of response other than thumbs up.

“Where were you May 28th?” I asked as a woke.

“What?”

“See what you did right there? To me? You could have saved Harambe….”

“Please stop talking.”

Be snooty with me, will you?

Junsa: Destroyer of Worlds

Korea experienced an earthquake recently. I was initially pretty sure it was my fault because every time I go somewhere, something catastrophic happens in the general region in which I find myself. Mad Cow, Chernobyl, Fukushima, New Orleans flooding, volcanic activity in Washington, my son, etc. I decided long ago that I am at odds with the universe.

Then things started falling into place. It isn’t just me. It’s my last name. During my last tour in Korea, Doc and I met a distant relation bearing the same last name as us. As it turns out, Laura was at odds with the universe too as evidenced by her deranged bird besiegement. If they weren’t flying into her house and dying at her feet, they were landing close enough to her house to vomit dead fish at her. I personally think they were just looking out for her, but it can be disconcerting to have fish projectiles hurled at you. No pun intended.

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Then there is my brother, The Brain. Dogs have harassed him for as long as I can remember. This began in Panama when he ran through someone’s carport and a formerly snoozing German Shepard woke to nearly tear The Brain’s left butt cheek off. Since then, he’s been a devout cynophobe (I had to look that up because dogophobe didn’t sound quite legit) which should not to be confused with gynophobe. Seriously. I just looked that up and it’s a real thing. He’s certainly not a gynophobe. They may have scared him briefly during adolescence, but I’m pretty sure he’s good now. Except for maybe his spouse. He’s definitely a little scared of her. Anyway, I posted this pic at him because I’m a good big brother and don’t want him to forget the things that made him who he is:

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He informed me that “When going to someone’s house, you never hear “I’m glad you have this dog!”

“Of course you do,” I replied. “You just have to read between the lines. For example, when people say things like “Sweet Jesus! Why is he trying to bite my face off?”, they really mean “Awe. He so affectionate. I’m really glad you have this dog.”

Just days later, he got his family a dog. I’m a really good influence when you think about it.

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I redacted my sister-in-law’s face for the same reason I Pac-Man The Brain’s face in pics, but didn’t want to cause confusion so I Mrs. Pac-Manned hers. I’m a little disappointed in the results.  I couldn’t get the eye quite right. I guess that’s irrelevant though. I just wanted you to see the source of Korean seismic woes. Junsa, Destroyer of Worlds is his full name. Junsa is to Korea what Godzilla is to Japan. See for yourself.

The Brain gets a dog. The following day Korea has an earthquake. Deny it all you want, Brain. This one is so totally on you this time.

 

How I Became an Extroverted Introvert

My wife pointed out that I am no longer the introverted guy she married 20 years ago. This got me to thinking about how this came to pass. She is right (don’t ever tell her I said that) about me having been an introvert. I have leaned that way since I can remember. I was always awkward socially, terrible with and terrified by the opposite sex, reclusive, antisocial, and a bit of a fire bug. Basically a serial killer in the making if documentaries are to be believed. I never hurt animals though. I quite preferred their company to that of people. Sometimes I still do, truth be told.

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Really. Who wouldn’t prefer the company of these guys?

This isn’t me these days. Except for the socially awkward part. If you’ve read any of my blog entries, you’ll have seen some of the things that run through my head. More often than not, these things come out in social settings. Typically, they induce uncomfortable silences from those that hear me. Then I have to fill the silent void with things in hope of making it entertaining. My wife thinks this is how I came to be afflicted with Moosa. She still claims it to be a demented fabrication, but she’s a psychologist, not an M.D. If she was up to speed on her dementia she would know that mad cow is often mistaken for Alzheimer’s which is a form of senile dementia. And that is just half of the mutated thing I dubbed Moosa. Don’t judge me.

That said, memory is a funny thing. I don’t remember certain things that happened while living on Fort Riley, Kansas, that still entertain my parents to this day. I wasn’t even in the first grade yet, but they laugh when they tell me how I put little balls of poo in my dad’s combat boots. I don’t remember rubbing my junk on the sliding glass door while standing between the curtain and the glass. I guess it kind of freaked my mother out who was in the back yard watching funnel clouds with her friends only to have them point out a scrawny kid hitting a home run with a glass door while grinning like an idiot. Good times. These are the kinds of things I wish I could remember so I could introduce them as topics of discussion in polite company. Now they are just second hand stories rather than my own.

The crap I do remember from back then actually kind of sucks. Like my first exposure to a group of bullies. It was the same day I found a puppy and tried to keep it behind a little stone wall so I could go ask permission to keep it. I had to go back outside and break the bad news to the puppy, but dogs have really good ears and apparently he’d already heard through the walls and left without a goodbye. I clearly remember how upset I was. My mother skillfully distracted me by tying a cape around my neck so I could be superman. I must have been superman for days because it was just a few days later when I “flew” around to a friend’s back yard that I met my kryptonite for the first time. A group of older kids had my friend in tears and began threatening him with bodily harm if he didn’t beat me up. I decided I should be elsewhere because this was so not cool. They formed a ring around me and the butt kicking commenced. Brock Lesnar couldn’t have done a more thorough job. I dragged myself home and swore off of capes and became a bit of a recluse… for the next 20 years.

Somewhere in my mind, I linked that event to the Army. It’s understandable, I suppose. Most of my life has been linked to the Army. I guess my point is that I think this is where my reclusive, socially awkward nature originated. It didn’t help that we moved every three years and I was forced to find that one other kid with no friends. That got really weird when that other kid was female and we were both beginning to recognize that the other gender was more interesting than our own.

I think I’ve figured out when the shift took place in the social arena though. I didn’t like the idea of my brothers being in a combat zone while I sat safely ensconced in my isolation. I’d already been married to my wife for seven years and at 31 years old, I enlisted in the Army. I turned 32 the day I arrived at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, to become a cannon crew member.

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I was driven and climbed the rank ladder as fast as I could. Consequently, I was forced to be in front of a squad. I had to teach, coach, mentor, and lead young soldiers. This is pretty tough for one who has lived as introvert for decades, yet I was fairly proficient at it and this eventually led to my becoming a platoon Sergeant. The point is that the Army forced me out of my shell, made me face the uncomfortable and overcome it. I’d found my niche and that niche was in front of some of the finest human beings I’ve ever known.

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So here I am. A mid-forties social bug who now embraces the awkwardness. I love my unique brand of oddness. There was a time during which my concern over other people’s perception of me was absolutely debilitating. I’m glad that is gone. I like being the guy at a formal military ball who removes his dress blue uniform top to reveal his dress shirt’s sleeves and back panel are colorful patches containing bulldogs on motorcycles.

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I was the only person in the room full of officers and senior NCOs wearing a “party shirt” and it created a strange sort of conversational ripple as people turned to look. It was actually fun rather than mortifying. Now I kind of enjoy it when I introduce a topic of discussion that leaves others feeling awkward and unsure of how to respond. Welcome to my world, peeps! Embrace yours. It’s the only one you got.

Squid Pancakes, Mushu, and Baby Dragons

I wish I’d gotten a pic of the most absolutely bizarre traffic jam of my life but I failed to do so because, you know, I was driving and laughing and examining rice close up. If driving a rattling, noisy, $400 dollar, 20-year-old Kia down a pitted dirt road in the middle of a random rice paddy near the Yellow Sea (Or West Sea if talking to Koreans. It’s a point of some contention) wasn’t odd enough for a pair of brothers from Alabama, we found ourselves starving and stuck behind an ancient Korean woman on a Rascal type mobility device. Running ahead of us at about two miles per hour, she sat hunched forward in her seat as if willing the scooter to greater speed. It’s an experience I can honestly say I have never had before. I like those.

We eventually got where we were going and took care of the first order of business. Lunch. A second encounter with ancient Korean ladies this day saw us tricked us into eating a squid pancake and fermented radishes. It’s actually much better than it sounds. I promise. I do think the two old women were in cahoots though and they thought to punish us for scooter tailgating. Then again, it could have been due to lack of mastery where the Korean vocabulary is concerned.

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We then went to see the shrine of my Korean military hero, Admiral Yi Sun Shin. The man led an epic life that would rival any modern fictional work of political intrigue, martial prowess, and heroic struggle.

Shrine

 

On reaching the top step of the shrine we noted a bowl of burning incense at the center and an attendant just off to the right. I would have loved to see what noise it made when struck, but hesitated upon seeing the attendant. The Brain wanted to take a pic, and taking a different approach to the preferred forgiveness-is-easier-than-permission tactic, decided to ask first. He then complicated matters by asking her if she spoke English. She answered with several bewildered and frightened looking blinks as if she was being addressed by frost giants. With him at nearly 6’7” and her at about 5’ flat, I could kind of see where this might have been a fear display. He then held up his phone and showed her his intent. She smiled from her new place on the ground (a reaction to his quick draw I think) and sighed with relief at not being offered the place of honor as his dinner. She gave us the go ahead and lots of little bows at the waist. On leaving I explained to my brother that I understood Koreans often have great trouble stating an outright “no” and that her blinks were a sign of her trying to mentally work out how she was going to say no without saying no. Then again, they could have been code blinks for help. I don’t claim to know how Korean distress signals work. It’s all just speculation at this point.

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The we found Eddie Murphy!

Eddie Murphy

On the way to Admiral Yi’s ancestral home (about a block away) we pondered deep philosophical considerations such as how far away from a shrine could one place their grave and still hear the prayers offered at said shrine. His actual grave is like nine kilometers away from his shrine for some reason. If anybody wants to build me a shrine, please do so on top of my grave. My hearing isn’t what it used to be. Plus, I don’t know how this works either.

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Complete with authentic 16th century track lighting in the master bedroom.

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Beside the old home there stood a brick chimney for the fire that was used to pump heat under all the floors of the home. The Brain took the time to explain his vast knowledge of ancient Korean masonry practices and techniques. Knowing that masonry isn’t exactly cool, he tried to tell our father that he was admiring the fact that the well was close to the house instead of in the village center like Europeans wells, or in the next county over like African wells. Nice try, Brain. Here is the evidence of your fondness for brick and mortar work. I redacted his face because he’s a little funny about his image circulating on the interwebs.

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As a fan of living history and mechanical apparatuses (apperati?), I was intrigued by the fact that the entire front of the house has these little folding door/windows. The cool part is that each pair are hinged vertically with one of each pair being hinged horizontally so that they could be opened and then swung upward to latch to the house’s eaves. I wanted to see these function as designed, but the Brain employed his highly evolved sense of impending disaster to divine (It’s like magic, really) my intent and reminded me of the temple incident and that this was somehow tantamount to me washing my hands on Buddha’s face. That’s a different blog post in my July archives if you’re interested. After reminding him that forgiveness is definitely easier to ask for than permission when you’re in a foreign land, he threatened to tell my wife and stated that if I thought after 20 years of marriage that my wife couldn’t reach across 4,000 miles and jerk my butt back in line, I was basically Forrest Gump.

Hinges!!! Towards the end of our tour we crossed a bridge and these gigantic Asian dragon hatchlings made a mass under the bridge that one could walk on. The Brain again reminded me of the temple incident and my wife’s great reach so we opted to just feed them instead of hike on them. There are these little vending machines that will sell you like a pound of fish food for less than fifty cents so I got a paper bucket full. To my delight, the fish began stacking on top of one another in a pyramid-like formation to get to the food first. It looked exactly like the zombies in World War Z climbing the walls in Israel. Except that they were baby dragons. And the baby dragons were just koi and carp. So nothing like World War Z. Way to kill the mood, Brain.

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I may have mentioned this in other posts, but there are practically zero trash cans in this country. There are also healthy fines for littering so I walk around with pockets bulging with empty bottles, coffee cups, and various scraps of paper and/or food wrappers. Basically like a really tall self-propelled dumpster that got lost on its way to the landfill and just keeps picking up more trash. The Brain had a better plan. A pair of Korean grandparents approached with their grandchildren and were as amazed as I at the baby dragons. So the Brain took my bucket of dragon kibble and offered it to the kids. He then bade me walk with him. Absolutely brilliant. My trash became pocket adornment for someone else in what was cleverly disguised as a random act of kindness.

I didn’t get a pic of the plaques posted near the exit. Apparently they were special in that only “filial sons and virtuous wives” were ever awarded these things. There were five. The only five I’ve ever seen. In a country with something like five thousand years of history, this comes out to only one filial son or virtuous wife every millennium. Way to set an impossible standard Korea. I still love you.

 

So Much Awesome

I have thought about this for a week now and I have decided I will not taint the glory that is this image with the fumbling words of an amateur blogger. I will explain though what you are seeing.

I sent my guys to go recover an inoperable trailer belonging to another unit. I asked for pictures of the recovery operation. This is what they sent me:

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Laundry Herpes

I have many nemeses. Nemesises? Nemesi? I’m going with nemesi. I just like the way it sounds and my butchery of the language will drive my daughter insane. Whatever your preferred plural of nemesis is, I have many of them.

You remember my problem with odoriferous bathroom textiles, yeah? If not, please refer to the “To Drink or to Stink” post. Stinky towels haven’t quite made the list, so don’t worry. I’m not talking about them again except to say that a friend offered advice on how to eliminate the offending aroma. She suggested I use dryer sheets. What she doesn’t understand is that I absolutely loathe the danged things. They are, without a doubt, the unruliest participants in laundering operations.

You use one, just a single one, and countless others show up. It’s like plucking a grey hair. My grandmother used to say that if you pulled one grey hair, then seven would come to its funeral. Well, dryer sheets work the same way. Except maybe in that you don’t pluck them unless you consider it plucking when you have to pick up off the floor the dozens spawned by the one. Also, more than seven show up. Try like seventy. And they keep coming. Laundry herpes. That’s what they are.

I used a dryer sheet once and spent weeks picking them up off the floor. They refused to stay in trash cans and if you do manage to catch the one lurking under the edge of the bed and throw it away, then its buddies show up to congregate at the trash can like some great horde of peaceful protestors silently demanding an inmate’s release. I’d find them in my clothing as I dressed after having hung or folded items. They’d be wadded up in the toe of my socks or under my pillow at night. I’m pretty sure I woke up coughing them up once. I am also fairly certain they can lift the lid to trash cans and parachute unharmed to the ground to get lost in a sea of protestors. They are all in cahoots.

I expressed this to my wife who then informed me that I have an irrationally vehement attitude towards these translucent travesties of industry. Not two days later I went to the barracks laundry room and had to send her a message.

“Remember how I told you that if you use one dryer sheet it won’t stay in the trash and all its buddies show up and then you said something unhelpful about an irrational disdain for them?”

“Yes.”

“All you did was mention the danged things. See what horrors you’ve wrought? They breed like rabbits from nothing more than mere mention of them!”

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Then I gave her the grey hair analogy.

“You are the only person I know who can manage to bring up dryer sheets and funerals in the same sentence.”

I suspect that she may be their deity if she can speak them into existence.

Moral of the story? I need to work on my people skills. It’s not cool to ask for laundry tips from a tiny, timid, and bespectacled female Lieutenant in the laundry room by opening with “Do your towels stink too?” Apparently.

Broken Beans

I found out today that my coffee is broken. Yes, you read that right. My coffee. Not the pot. The pot works fine, if not a little slow. I complained to my wife that I had no energy and felt generally lethargic all day for several days. I told her that my coffee intake had increased dramatically and I was sleeping more, but it wasn’t helping any longer. I also don’t want to leave my room and have to deal with people. Being a Doctor of psychology, she immediately began questioning my mental and emotional state.

“I’ve never been depressed before. So I don’t know what depression feels like to begin with so how can I tell you if I’m feeling depressed?”

She then suggested that about all I may be missing is a sense of hopelessness.

“I don’t feel hopeless though. I know what that feels like. I felt it once when Lyme’s disease was trying to kill me. I know how to fix that feeling. It’s called morphine on demand. It worked when I was in the hospital.”

“Go pick up a vitamin B supplement and see if that helps,” she offered.

“I get plenty of that in my coffee? Besides, you suggest morphine and then offer vitamin B as a substitute?”

“When did I….”

“When you suggested, in a roundabout way, morphine for depression,” I began.

“No. Just no,” she cut me off. “And there is no vitamin B in your coffee.”

“WTH? My coffee is broken? Now I am depressed. I’ll see doc about that morphine.”

Left thumb to cheek. Left fingers cover eyes. And there it is, folks. Her signature sign that she thinks I’m a genius!

To Drink or to Stink

Upon arrival in Korea I had to buy a couple of more towels. The one lonely towel I packed wasn’t faring well under the strain of drying me off twice a day. So I got it some new friends who turned out to be jerks that like to explode dark blue lint all over everything no matter how many times they are washed and dried. Then there is the problem that regardless of how often I wash them or what techniques I employ, they stink in less than four or five uses. Usually, I can get two uses before any hint of mildew creeps in. At best, I get two days out of one. At two showers a day that equals three towels a week and I still fall short of what’s needed for that. Boom! Look at me math.

Look. I’m a laundry once a week kind of guy. I am also a problem solver kind of guy. So I did what many of us might do these days when faced with stinky bathroom textiles: I sought the sage advice that can only be found on the internet. I stumbled upon a page espousing natural “life hacks” for people who don’t like man made cleaning agents. I assume from reading this that vodka isn’t man made and is mistaken by some to be a cleaning agent. This seriously sounds anti-hacky to me, but I guess it makes sense now that I think about it. I’ve never been near someone sloshed on vodka and thought “Wow. He smells really mildewy”. The idea is to spritz your towels after they dry and the fermented potato juice will kill the smell. Or maybe make the smell drunk so it falls off the towel. I don’t know how it works.

The point is not that I know how it works. You remember how I mentioned that liqueur is rationed on post in Korea? Yeah? Well. It is adversely affecting towels. That is the point. If you are reading this, send vodka.

Green is the New Orange

Everything I can buy on post in Korea is rationed. Well… Everything I want to buy, at least. Groceries, beer, liquor. It feels a little like incarceration, truth be told. I’ve taken to thinking of my rations as my “commissary”. On top of that, I was a little excited that my fermenters arrived safely with my household goods. Now I can start making hooch. Green is the new orange, folks!

Gas would be more fun than bleach…

Apparently, the Army is not overly enthused about the prospect of pouring gasoline down drains in the barracks and lighting it. Consequently, my request was denied and the person at Vector Control suggested that there are a number of professionals available to whom I can speak, but not at a glorified exterminator’s office. I told them that I just did speak to someone and they are already trying to pawn me off on another department rather than let me deal with the problem.

My wife said I should explain….

Koreans seem to be quite fond of eating anything that lives in bodies of water. Seriously. They are just like Cajuns except they don’t live in Louisiana and most of them speak better English than Cajuns. And they have more teeth.

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See what I’m talking about? I don’t even know what this thing is, but you can get them at certain restaurants. You’ll see them there, floating in little net bags in the aquariums from which you select your meal. I’m not sure why they are in baggies. I mean look at them. Unless you are suffering from a severe palsy, they probably can’t get away from you. If you did have a severe palsy, you probably shouldn’t handle the danged things anyway. That would just seem obscene somehow. The westerners I know who have been exposed to these call them penis fish, citing that they resemble a schlong. You’ve heard the term “it goes without saying”? I don’t think this is ever true. I like to say whatever pops to mind. So it needs to be said that if your tackle box contains anything resembling a sea schmeckel, you should seek immediate medical attention.

You might not be able to tell, but I am a little disturbed right now. Not because of phallic foods though. My wife finds my tendency to make light of everything to be an irritating character trait. It’s a coping mechanism, but the problem I face is in fact quite dire. So I guess I should get to the point.

As things stand, my quarry is either wandering about my room waiting to do me harm, or it is skulking about the shower drain. The former isn’t as worrisome, though I haven’t gone barefoot since the discovery and I have bleached the floors at least six time and rewashed linens as well as all clothes several times. The latter bothers me greatly as I may have loosed this vile thing on the world, so I dumped bleach down the drain in the hopes that it travels faster than microscopic monsters. It makes me feel a certain kinship to Sisyphus. I toil against bureaucracy and the decree of my mother, who I am sure rules the underworld, only to have my efforts be in vain.

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My wife says I should stop explaining quite so much.

I may have inadvertently exposed the entire northern part of South Korea to small pox. I’m pretty sure it is due to my nature as Nergala’s son. If you are a first time reader of this blog, my Mad Cow Blog (July archives) may offer clarification on that last statement. Anyway, the point to all this is that I lost my small pox scab. It was supposed to go into the little biohazard baggie of small pox Band-Aids kept under my bathroom sink so that when the process was complete I could turn it in for incineration. The bag of doom, not the sink.

So as I was saying at the beginning, I reported the problem and proposed a solution based on a time honored solution to pathogen eradication. One can only hope that copious quantities of sodium hypochlorite will suffice instead.

 

Image Credits:

Tally whacker Trout: http://maioka-fc.info/fishing_dictionary/yumushi

Sisyphus’ Labors: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/530861874801718890/