Have you ever been sober around a bunch of your friends  – normally you’re the one who is drunker than Barney Gumble after being at Moe’s – and wondered why you ever found any of their conversations interesting, tolerable or even intelligible?  When you’re stone cold sober, the obligatory encounter with the sentimental drunk can be harder to take than Dirk Diggler’s “special purpose.”  You get the feeling that you”re trapped.  You don’t know what to do next.  The thing is that you care or love the person normally, and if you were inebriated like you normally are, you’d be slobberin’ sweet nothings right back at ‘em.  You would have that one arm around their neck, and too slight a grip on your swill that makes it spill every time you started to express your feelings in the drunk equivalent of sign language.

The best case scenario in this sort of encounter is if you’re wearing sunglasses; this means that you can not only avoid having to make eye contact with Mr. or Mrs. Sentimentality, but you can also look around and see what else is going on.  I recommend something with a blue polarized lens, or the Southern police mirror look.  No matter what you go with, just make sure they’re hiding the direction of your eyes.  For whatever reason, sentimental drunks take it very personal if you’re not enthralled with their stories, and remembrances of looney times that you once shared in an alcoholic haze.  When you’re sober and you encounter this person, you realize why you do love them, while at the same time realizing for once you can drive home anytime you want.  Bolting in the general direction of your vehicle under the guise of procuring yourself another Diet Coke on the rocks, while underhanded, isn’t really that bad of a choice.

Some of your friends may be more partial to drunk dialing, but this isn’t too hard to avoid when you have the old “dropped call/crappy cellphone” excuse and ignore button at your disposal.  You would not believe the things people have called to tell me at 12:40 a.m.  Just the other night, I was privy to a conversation that went on for more than 10 minutes without me even having to say a word.  Participation is rarely mandatory in these telephone talks, because most drunks are more self-absorbed than Spongebob Squarepants.  This particular drunk did break out the word “vapid” though.  Touche insanity.  Touche.

Then you’ve also got your drunks who can’t stomach – or more fitting, liver – the fact that you’re not drinking with them.  In my opinion, drinking is kind of like sex in that it’s good even when you happen to be alone.  It’s almost as if your decision not to drink nature’s nurturing nectar has something to do with this person’s attempt to change their blood type from B negative, to B 80 proof.  Just think if swillheads could give blood, and it actually had an alcohol content.  It could be like wine in a box, except it would be a party in a bag.  You would simply need a qualified health professional, and some beta-dine to party like it was 1999.

I was just wondering, if you sniff glue, do you forgo the purchasing of super glue in favor of using your own natural nasal adhesive – as opposed to just balling it up and flicking it to some indiscriminate location while on the couch?

If a family member picks a bad day to stop breathing, some unwritten law somewhere says friends and acquaintances must ply you with caloric wares.  Apparently death makes survivors hungry.  If you don’t believe me, see the story about them funky footballers who did everything short of setting and forgetting their fallen comrades on a goddamn Showtime Rotisserie Grill.   In that same vein – which may or may not be filled with country gravy – a family member undergoing some version of surgery necessitates being slathered with many types of eats, closely timed in between.  My wife is having her stretch reconfigured today, and on top of all the wishing wells, I have been offered more food than Kobayashi could stomach.  Hopefully I won’t have to baptize it in water to consume it in the appropriate time frame.  I feel like a death row inmate hours before go time.  I should start requesting weird shit like those cats.  I really do appreciate it.  I’m not against being wished welled.  In theory, I am not against being given food in response to someone else’s unfortunatestance.  However, when you’re being offered the fully gestated product of their famous family, well-known, always-loved, never regurgitated recipe by fringe acquaintances and human versions of those things on the side of sharks, you almost want to x-ray, MRI or have your cat scan it.  I don’t know whether to finger dip this stuff, or google the provider’s name to make sure they are not associated with any news magazine stories about suspected poisonings.  Thankfully, I can casually regurgitate with the best of them, so I should be able to snip it after it hits my taste buds.

Previously, I had never watched whatever show Kathy Lee dumbs it up on now.  Whatever channel it comes on seems to be must see surgery t.v. though, because no one has made any type of furtive movement in an effort to end its reign.  I have no idea why anyone would want to watch what I consider to be the television equivalent of drool, but hey, I will watch Roadhouse incessantly until I think everyone should be bigger.  And bigger brings me back to my original point.  Kathy Lee has either hit a post-menopausal stride or her funbags have filled with natural joy.  She’s got the tits of a MILF, and the brain of a Dodo bird.  The only anchor/talk show mystery bigger than her and Jay Leno is Katie Chronic, or whatever the hell her name is.

Is there a market for Bathroom Caddies?  I ain’t talkin’ about something to hold all the necessary apooptrements either.  I’m talking about some dude in a brown jumpsuit who stands outside of public bathrooms, and whose sole purpose is to help people navigate around all the nastily discarded paper materials and weirdly colored pools of liquid on the floor.  They could go through all the stalls for you, and advise on which head would give you the highest possibility of avoiding all the turd tracks and un-yourine on the seat.  Finally, is it just me, or does it seem like the vast majority of stallers are bleeding from somewhere south of the belt border?

In the waiting room, there is a guy in the corner hoggin’ two teeth to his self.  There is also some kind of humanoid rollin’ around in what can only be described as a retard Segway.  Some of these people should probably be waiting for some surgery of their own.  Me included.  I could use some strategic Shop Vac’ing around my goozle, gut and grip areas.  If I was having any type of surgery, I’d get as Nip Tucked as possible.  I’d come out looking like John Travolta or Nicolas Cage.

Oh thank God.  The local news is on.  There has been a semi crash relegating the video of the Jam and Marmalade winner from the county fair.  I hear she attributes it all to the fruit.  Clearly, she’s a team player.  No, it’s not a half-crash.  A big truck with two wheels short of Andrew Jackson overturned, and caused traffic to be as backed up as Elvis’ colon.  I’m glad they were all over that story.  I mean hell, if I was driving on the interstate I really need to be told a fucking tractor trailer accident was holding up my vehicular exportation.  Who cares what is causing the traffic jam?  Having to wait in traffic is waiting in traffic, no matter what the cause.  Illogical anger does not require a valid reason.  If road rage were well thought out, it would be more successful.

I’ll get back at ye.  I’m going to be here for a while.

I’m sick and tired of people being sick and tired of having terminal illnesses.  I’m not talking about your run of the mill terminal illnesses.  Now, by terminal illness I’m not referring to the types of maladies that airport travelers encounter either – such as Luggage Limp, Airport Ear, Coach Cough and Airborne Inebriation.  In the words of Allen Iverson, I’m talking ’bout cancer.  I’m talking about the stalwarts like all the types of cancer, lymphoma, Benjamin Buttonism and A.I.D.S.  I’ll tell you this, if you look past all the pain and the death part, these illnesses aren’t bad at all.  They allow you to do something on a daily basis in every situation that you had, most likely, never done before you contracted the answer to the “how’d he/she die” question in your obituary.  They allow you to tell the unvarnished truth.  Why do you think old people are so funny/crazy?

Am I crazy for thinking this?  Hell yes.  But I’m crazy for thinking a lot of things, so you shouldn’t just hold this one against me.  Before I started going all Bulworth or Drunken Joe Namath on Monday Night Football on people, I’d first get at least two or three other opinions.  I’d also get them from doctors who had offices in a hospital building because – while I believe in the competence of the so called “doc in a box” – doctors at walk-in-clinic’s malpractice only covers moderately painful diagnoses, and then they have to refer you to a specialist who has more coverage.  Hopefully, the disease you were lucky enough to contract that is going to unlock your more truthful side will also require a high amount of pain medication to be prescribed by your physician.  If you’re going to have a lengthy KASPER report, it’s in your benefit that the length be obtained by legal means.  It’s always easier and less stressful to go to the pharmacy and pick up legitimate prescriptions than it is to try to pawn off the prescription for “Lortab 20′s with 100 refills”, which you signed after hoarking a script pad from your doctor’s office.  When you’re on your way out, you won’t have to worry about this as long as you were lucky enough to get a painful disease.  As I said, pain is good because it requires narcotics, which dull your inhibitions and allow what you believe to be the truth to start to flow.  And when you’re dying, it is the truth as you know it.  Who can argue with you?  You’re going to win every argument around any person who is aware of your dire medical situation.

Once you’re all legally pilled out, you then have to decide who you want to unleash the truth upon.  It can be anybody you’ve never had the guts or opportunity to go all gonardish on before.  What’s the worst that could happen?  You could end up in jail?  Nah.  Within an hour of being there, your bond will be amended after the jail sees the spreadsheet of your upcoming doctor’s appointments and the 5 gallon zip lock bag containing all of your pills – some of which could choke a toothless horse.

Remember, you’ve only got a limited amount of time, so don’t feel as though any of amount of truth-telling is too small or inconsequential to do.  For instance, say there’s a cat at the  Convenience Mart who always says “Howdy” when you roll in to get your smokes and coffee in the morning, when everybody who is anybody knows you are clearly a “What’s up, dude?” kind of guy.  You haven’t ever picked any damn corn before.  Who does he think you are with that “Howdy” shit?  Toe Williams from Beaver Lick Farm and Orchard?  Hell no.  Let that bastard have it.  Feels good, doesn’t it?

Or what about that fewl you got into it with years ago, but your brain locked up, so you couldn’t come up with anything to say back to him?  Arguments aren’t like sitcoms with constant witty retorts – are retorts special ed pastries? – and laugh tracks.  Or how about the chic who got the best of you because your tongue ring got caught in betwixt your teeth, and instead of “Your mother’s on welfare,” it sounded like you said “Uer uter’s un elfur” like you had just fell off a stool in the bar scene in Star Wars (Di di di di di doo doo do doo doo).  Go find that fool and remind them that their momma be on the government teet whether it is still true or not.  This type of redemption doesn’t have to be about what is true today.  It can also be about what was true yesterday.

If you’ve got long enough, maybe you could design products or write books to help other people who are about to become either locksmiths at the Pearly Gates, or chimney sweeps down under.  Like, you could invent Oxycontin candy for a chick afflicted with a terminal case of hair follicle cancer who couldn’t take pills, and who is shy yet still very capable of being verbally virulent to the beautician who left the wet-dog smelling perm sauce on her gourd too long.  You could write the first ever self death-help book entitled “I’m Dying and You Can Kiss My Ass”.  Chapter 1 could be all about helping the similarly situated making the tough choice between telling the truth to local people, versus out of town people.  You would have to tell them that they need to consider the number of months they have to live, and the benefits of using an easy Truth + Person/Distance = Death Formula (Patent & Nobel Death Prize Consideration Pending).  You could help a bunch of fewls.  The book would be a best seller, for up to 6 months or so at least, in all the hospital and hospice bookstores.

Like the mind, a terminal illness is also a terrible thing to waste.  The truth doesn’t get told enough in life.  So, if you’ve got one, you might as well start telling the other and go out in style.

I will never claim to be the smartest person in the world, or even close to whatever IQ percentile geniuses fall into, and circumstances arise in my everyday life that consistently prove this conclusion to be true.  I’m not talking about forgetting where you left your car keys or what you went into a particular room for, because this type of thing happens to both the brilliant and bird-brained alike.  There are times when I will do something so stupefying, I immediately have to look around to make sure no one else witnessed my Simple Jack episode.  Here are a few examples of these random acts of stupidity:

• Whenever I go to the grocery or somewhere else to purchase self-maintenance products – i.e. lotion, deodorant, shampoo, and the like – there are always two things I do before purchasing them: 1) Check the price, and 2) Put them through the smell test.  The first behavior is normal and self-explanatory, but the second is kind of odd because it’s not like any products that fit into this category ever smell really bad – you’ll never see a deodorant scent like “Bum Bouquet” or “Sulphur Splash.”   Yet I still insist on taking a whiff to see exactly what scent will be covering up my body’s natural pheromones for the next month or so.  On more than one occasion I have lifted these products to my proboscis for a sneak preview sniff and thought “that doesn’t smell like anything” – only to quickly realize that I am just standing there sniffing a plastic top that I neglected to remove.
• Similar to the above, I’ve also been caught trying to take a big chug off of a Gatorade or other 20 oz. bottled beverage without removing the top.  In some extreme, inebriated instances my mind will begin to play dirty little tricks, and this usually results in a spilling of beer on myself like a post-championship locker room sports celebration.  For instance, if I’ve been drinking bottled beer all day and switch to cans later in the evening, I’ll sometimes lift the beer up in a bottle-drinking motion and pour the can’s contents all over my face or down the front of my shirt.  The same goes for the can-to-bottle switcheroo; but the end result is usually a trip to the dentist’s office to fix the Lloyd Christmas vibe you’ve now got goin’ on, as opposed to just a booze-soaked sweater.
• There are many times when I run into a doorway, door, table or another type of sometimes-movable object, but this rarely ever happens at a place in which I am unfamiliar with the surroundings.  When I’m walking through a crowded Wal-Mart, I can dodge reckless cart pushing consumers, swinging freezer section doors, and endless streams of little kids who seem to be roaming without parental guidance with relative ease.  Then upon returning home, I’ll miss a step on the stairs I’ve ascended for more than five years, shoulder block my kitchen doorway like I’m Detective Martin Riggs, and then bang my head on the sink as I reach down to pick up something up off the bathroom floor like Doctor Emmett Brown.  The worst instance of this self-inflicted pain is when I somehow manage to slam one of my own appendages in a door that I am closing – mostly because what you feel after slamming a few fingers or an ankle in your own car door hurts your psyche as much as anything else.

(This is exactly what it sounds like, a bunch of BBQ vendors sellin’ their pork – sometimes in a van – down by the river)

I love the swine fest on the river more, or at least as much as any fool who grew up with the benefit of yearly animal flesh-based festivals in their hometown.  Hell, when I grew up, every time it rolled around, you had to walk barefoot for 8 miles across strewn needles and quilt patterns to get downtown by 2:30 p.m. – did I mention Paducah is known as “Quilt City USA?”  Even then, you still had to wait 5 hours to get a table because the Blue Hairs had already started their invasion’.  When you were in high school and wanted to get a hotel room to have some post-prom sex, you had to observe that shit a year early, otherwise all those quilters would reservation-block you.

Here’s the issue I noticed during my latest jaunt through this year’s version of Porkorama on the Potomac.  The list is not exhaustive, or meaningful in anyway other than it consists of stuff my ignorant ass saw and thought coulda, shoulda or “oughta” be remedied.

This year’s pig purveyors seem to be a little too pushy for my taste buds.  I don’t want to feel like I’m getting some random call from an Indian (dot, not feather) pretending to be American, regarding me continuing a subscription to some magazine I never prescribed to.  While walking up and down BBQ row, we were seriously queried and accosted by BBQ’ers and their seemingly affiliated minions as to: (B) where we were going to get our swine from, (B) the quality and award-winning attributes of their swine station, and (C) did we know that their charity was the most worthy of them all?  Look, I’m not trying to put down the charitable work, and dolin’ out pork-o-plenty on behalf of any good cause, non-profit organization or whatever is fine by me.  Just let me choose what kind I want to eat without feeling guilty about it.  To be quite honest, I could care less about whichever cause your floggin’ when my stomach’s a growlin’.  To be crystal light clear, I think every cause down there is worthy of lightening your wallet over.  However, I don’t want to be beat over the head with nothin’ but an extra gallon of some good hot sauce when I’m eating BBQ.

For instance, during our first past down BBQ row, we had people come out from under their tents, approach us and tell us we needed to come buy their BBQ.  I appreciate the confidence in your swinery, but I am not gonna buy somethin’ just because the person who is making it thinks that it’s great.  At the time of its inception, some jerk who owned the Coca-Cola Bottling Company not only liked, but rather enjoyed New Coke.  He/She tried to beat the general public over the head with the fact that both old and new generations loved the original, so now EVERYONE should love Coke 2.0.  And much like the Hindenburg, that shit didn’t fly.  This was definitely not a Coke for all seasons.  In case you don’t remember or weren’t born yet, that shit tasted like carbonated syrup in a molasses based liquid.  I think if you drank 5 or more New Cokes in a two-month period, you were legally considered to be a diabetic.

Simply put, I don’t like my porkin’ to be filled with pressure.  When we kept walkin’, some cat approached us in the vein of Chic-Fil-A and offered us some form of swine on a tooth pick.  Admittedly, putting meat on a stick is still on par with the discovery of frying a hot dog covered in cornmeal; but I don’t need Charitable Charley non-stop talking, and ruining my meat-stick-intake experience.  I get it.  You think something that needs money to help more people is a worthy cause, and would like me to separate myself from some greenbacks in its honor.  O.K.  Shut up and give me two more samples, and I’ll donate two more dollars.

I have to say, the dessert people must have already got the memo because they left me alone for the most part.  I guess they realized that dessert is something that speaks for itself.  I don’t even think they mentioned what charity they are making people fatter for, probably because you wouldn’t give a damn if the people frying Twinkies were raising $$$ for ACORN or the Aryan Nation.  You’d still buy that deep fried slice of triglyceride-filled heaven.  As for all the pushy pork peddlers out there, just remember this little nugget of wisdom – “Pork unto others as you would have them pork unto you.”

I don’t have much on this fine Friday morning, and Mr. Smith has been busy defendin’ people, so let’s make this early post short and sweet.

• It was being reported by some tabloids that Tiger Woods’ ex-wife Elin Nordegren would receive a mind-boggling $750 million dollars as part of their upcoming divorce settlement – even though a May ’09 issue of Forbes Magazine estimated his net worth to only be $600 million (poor guy).  It was also rumored that part of the settlement included a condition that she was allowed to talk about what transpired during their two years of marriage – which probably amounted to a couple hundred Ambien-fueled infidelities.  It’s reported that Woods is not allowed to have any whores running around, doing their little behind-shake for their kid folk either.  I have never liked Tiger before, because everything he does off the course seems phony and orchestrated; but considering Elin will not even be allowed to talk about their relationship if Tiger dies before her (allegedly), I gotta think there’s a good reason Tiger doesn’t show his true self while in the public eye – my guess is that he’s too busy showin’ his lower self to random women.
• I love it when your morning starts off with a serendipitous event that doesn’t even necessarily have anything to do with you.  For instance, this morning I was on my usual commute to work, and was cruising in the left lane on a four-lane divided highway.  As I’m passing a row of cars, I see some jackass in my rearview mirror coming up on my tail at a pretty good rate of speed.  Before I know it, he’s on my ass and ridin’ my bumper like he wants to give my car a colonoscopy.  Now, I had the cruise control set at 9 mph over the posted speed limit – and usually I don’t mess with that shit unless it’s a life or death situation – but I sped up even more to accommodate this impatient prick.  As I finally passed the last car and proceeded to get over, the guy suddenly shoots over in the right lane to cut me off, and floats past me as if he’s imitating his favorite NASCAR driver – which I inferred was Dale Jr. due to the collage of stickers filling his back windshield.  Anyway, he sped off into the sunrise and I passed my unfounded judgment upon the guy – the verdict, “fuckin’ douchebag” – while returning to cruising speed.  No more than a couple miles later I top a hill, and a short distance ahead I see the flashing blue lights that usually always make my stomach drop into my asshole.  Lo and behold, the fuzz had pulled over the Jr. junkie who previously made my morning start off on the angry foot.  Justice had prevailed, and for once, the police officer actually served me (albeit unknowingly).  And as I got in the left lane to pass them, I stuck my arm out the window and waved au revoir with an uncontrollable, shit-eating grin on my face.  I just wish I would have had a handkerchief on hand to give it a more dramatic effect.

I have been slacking off in the writing department lately, mainly due to increased work obligations.  In an effort to solve this problem, I’ve decided to flip the script and contribute more by doing less.  Since starting the site, it’s been hard to shake the old high school English mentality of writing essays or themes with a certain word count in mind – I was a required pages of guy anyway, because manipulating lines, spacing, and fonts was easy.  From now on the site should have more posts from me on a daily basis, but the length is no longer a concern (that’s what she said).  We’ve all heard the Yogi Berra-like phrase “less is more” many times before, and hopefully it will apply in this situation.  Am I the only one who imagines that line first being coined by a really short, poor guy who had a tiny pecker and problems with premature ejaculation?

(This has nothing to do with anything, I just love GIFs)

I had the pleasure of hanging out with my esteemed co-blogger last night for a swill session of the minds, which also means I didn’t get a chance to put my fingers to the keyboard.  Actually, I attempted to write some things when I returned home; but my monitor wouldn’t stop moving, and even my typing was slurred.  So, here goes nothing – and by nothing, I mean a couple of aimless thoughts off the top of my dehydrated noggin:

• I am one of those people who never has cash, and uses my bank card at every place where I enter into a  transaction.  It doesn’t bother me what other people may think of a guy who technically doesn’t have enough cash to buy a coke and some Lifesavers, but attempting to transfer my signature onto these electric keypads can be a pain in my assholes.  It’s not as though I sign my name in a legible manner to begin with, but even if I did, a majority of these things make it impossible to do so.  Being that we live in a technology age full of smartphones and touchscreens, I have to think there is better equipment that could be put to use.  The worst part about these things are the variation in sensitivity levels when you put the “Picture Pages”-like pen to keypad.  Sometimes the scribbled lines will start to appear if you even get the pen close to the screen, and you just try to adjust by acting like you’re writing your name with The Force.  Other times, you can press down hard enough to make the entire screen go blurry, and when you’re done the only thing that is left are a few disheveled lines, dots and loops.  Basically, I view these things as the 21st century version of the Etch-a-Sketch – only less user-friendly.  On the rarest of occasions I come across one that works well, and when I do, seeing a legible signature never fails to provide an undeserved sense of accomplishment.  It almost makes you want to gather other store patrons so they can bask in the glory of your clearly printed name – kind of like one of those people (namely guys) who encourage others to come look at the fruits of (or in) their latest bowel movement.
• As I mentioned, Mr. Smith is in town for some type of lawyer-related seminars, and is naturally among an assortment of his peers.  While we were waiting for a table outside the restaurant last night, a rather large group of other law counselors passed by us on the sidewalk.  Well, one of them recognized Jeremy and proceeded to stray away from his herd for a little idle chit chat.  I can’t even begin to explain how big of a tool bag this guy was – just imagine a younger version of Jim Trotter III with a perfectly gelled bedhead and manicured goatee, wearing giant mirror-lensed aviator sunglasses – but I’ve met many of his ilk before.  So as is the protocol in these types of encounters, I just nodded politely while he rambled on about how awesome it is to be him right now.  After Mr. Southern lawyer dumped all the bullshit he could think of on us, his attention turned to me for the question that I knew was inevitable: “So, what do you do?”  Why does everyone who meets someone for the first time always feel the need to ask this question?  When I’m not at work, I don’t like to talk about work.  I know this is viewed as a common courtesy-type behavior, but my job title and description is not going to carry a conversation for longer than a few minutes.  How many people have a unique/exciting job that you’d actually care to hear about, especially when it’s probably going to be the first and last time you’ll ever see this person?  Not to get all philosophical and shit, but what I do from 9-5 doesn’t define me as a person anyway.  Why not just ask me what my political affiliation is, or my stance on the war in Afghanistan – which by the way, is now the longest war in American history.  Yes, an introductory conversation along those lines might get a little heated; but I’d rather be in that situation than talk about my boring job to someone who is only pretending to listen and care.  However, since this will likely never be the way initial conversations begin, I’ve decided to start making up professions that are sure to spice up the small talk.  Here are a few that I have thought up thus far: door-to-door urinal cake salesman, cow whisperer, music teacher at a school for the deaf, stand-up mime, and professional roller derby referee.

Thank god The Dark Knight was back on last night.  It’s only been on pretty much every knight past dark on some channel ever since it premiered a year ago.  I shouldn’t really bitch about dat dough, because I can watch the hell out of a flick if I dig it the most.  For instance, ever since we got all fancified and upgraded to digital cable, it appears as though American Gangster or No Country for Old Men comes on every day.  I have no problem with this, because those two movies in large doses are good n’ plenty.  Lately, I’ve had to start taking some anti-repetitive drugs due to my addiction to Casino.  I had a cinematic boner for that movie when it originally came out.  I would love to have some of those suits that Bobby D was sporting.  Oh, what I could do at a trial with a Mylanta blue flavored suit and shoes would be magical.  Who knows if I’d win or lose, but just getting to stand up in front of a bunch of people, talk to them about serious stuff, legal principles and the importance of paying attention to everything (all while acting like I didn’t look a double chinned Easter egg) would be AB Fab.  Unfortunately, I don’t smoke, so I couldn’t use one of those prissy cigarette holders.  Well, maybe I could put my pen on the end of it.  I’m not giving up hope yet.

(The exciting conclusion to the Infirmary Diary of March ’09)

Well, just when you thought it was going to be a smooth, dry run at Vandy (I’ll spare you the comparison I came up with for that), like a stuttering Emeril – BAM, out of nowhere I commenced to get my seize on.  It popped off at about 8 a.m. a few days ago apparently.  As per usual in this situation, I awoke to have no clue as to what had transpired, and was more confused than a hermaphrodite doing the jumble in the daily newspaper.  Even though I was under card counting and shoplifting style surveillance, I guess that didn’t necessarily mean that anyone was actually watching me.  After gourding out, I parlayed on out into the halls with my Commodore 64 hat and just took off walking in some general direction.  I’m like a post-ictal Forrest Gump when I seize up if I’m not immediately restrained by my wife, EMS personnel or the Sheriff – in combination with any of the previously mentioned folk.  A nurse spotted me, realized that Tom Hanks was not in for an EEG, and stopped me.  They then sling you back in your rack, and start plying you with anti-breakdancing, headache and anti-nausea medications.

The next step in the process is that you get asked all the, “Where are you?”, “How long have you been here?”, “What’s your name?” and “Why are you hear?” type of queries.  It’s always funny, because at first I clearly remember thinking, “These people sure as hell don’t know anything if they have to ask me for this info.”  But after I start to try and answer some of those questions, it doesn’t take too long to realize that it is I who have the problem.  After this particular action, I thought I had been at Vandy for one day.  I guess I don’t even read my own material.  I was totally oblivious to the fact that I had been holed up there for the past 5 days, more bored than the hull of Noah’s Ark.  I was able to come up with mi nombre, so I passed that question with flying colors.  I didn’t even have to look at my wristband, which – in these instances – is the post-ictal equivalent of Cliff Notes when it comes to name and DOB.  Now, I had no idea as to why I was there mind you.  I thought I had been in a coma.  No, not in a punctuation mark denoting a pause, a pause in my life where you sleep and don’t respond to stimuli.  Waking up and thinking that you’ve been in a coma is in no way similar to anything you’ve seen on TV or movies.  My wife wasn’t there wearing a low cut shirt with bosoms a heaving.  My son wasn’t there to remind me that he had pitched for the Yankees, married a supermodel and had a bunch of kids that were the apples of my eye(s).  Nope, it ain’t similar to TV at all because I hadn’t even solved a crime, or accomplished something worthy of a Nobel Prize.  Nor did I have the requisite ZZ Top like-facial hair.

So, in any event, even though it looked like I was going to win the match 1 – 0, the synapses and electrical waves in my gourd conspired against me at the last second to make it Seizures-2, Chunky White Guy-1.  All of you who had Wednesday in your Mental March Madness brackets need to get me a copy for verification, and I’ll split the wagers accordingly.  You can also be paid in Topax 50mg or 100mg tablets if you prefer, since I only take the breastfeeding-inducing Lamictal now.  Topamax is good stuff, initially at least.  You’ll lose some weight and it will potentially cure any yourgraines that you’ve got.  However, it also tends to exacerbate any OCD-like tendencies you may happen to have; so if you get all maxed out on the Topa, be sure to have your laundry folded, windows cleaned and fingernails clipped.  Otherwise, you may find yourself knee deep in a load of whites and contemplating using a pair of panties to clean your bay windows, all the while looking for the butterfly Band-Aides to stop your quicks from bleeding.