“It just goes to show ya, it’s always something. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”
Deathless words from the late Roseanne Roseannadanna. And, as the saying goes, truer words were never spoken. Today’s column almost didn’t happen, and I’m writing this so late that it’s possible my editor won’t be able to take a whack at it.
Yes, I am a firm believer in people not editing themselves. Even the editor-in-chief gets edited. Of course in that situation the EIC becomes just another freelancer, and freelancers know all the tricks of getting stuff past their editor. The most effective way is to turn in your stuff so late that the editor can’t get to it. Unfortunately, assistant editor Adriane Nash knows that stunt. Nonetheless, all the mistakes and typos herein today are the writer’s, and I’m mostly using only nine fingers so give me a break.
You might recall that last year at roughly this time I shattered all the bones from my shoulder down to almost my elbow, resulting in bionic replacements. This time around, I fucked up less dramatically but more whimsically. The bones in the middle finger of my right hand somehow got screwed up and for the last couple of months I stoically dealt with the pain and discomfort until I decided that stoicism sucks. So Monday I went to the doctor who would decide if I needed to be cut up or just given a shot. Together, we decided to give the shot a shot; we could always cut me up later.
That’s when he warned me the shot would cause agonizing pain for about 30 seconds. Evidently, the last guy who got this shot from him loudly and repeatedly called the doctor a cocksucker, which, he assured me, was incorrect. So I went through my mental thesaurus in a vain attempt to come up with an epithet that would be both clever and accurate.
That was needless. Whatever came out of my mouth was sub-articulate. I writhed and flinched and buckled so hard my chauffeur, the aforementioned Ms. Nash, thought I was going to break something. That thought crossed my mind as well. Thirty seconds never lasted so long.
Afterwards, my middle finger went completely numb – as it was supposed to. It felt like it was made of rubber and it ballooned up to the size of one of Fatso’s fingers, Fatso being of The Ghostly Trio fame. And that allusion to Casper the Friendly Ghost is about as close to comics as I’m going to get this week.
There are many things you cannot do with a totally numb middle finger, and typing heads the list. Adriane stepped in to edit Emily’s and Molly’s columns – she routinely handles Bob’s and the Tweeks – and I took the rest of the day off. Much like the previous month, I believe.
I woke up Tuesday morning intending to write about Hawkgirlwoman being part of next year’s new CW superhero series and the difficulties inherent therein. Hopefully, I’ll be able to do that next week. It’s an interesting idea, but I couldn’t execute it because that damn finger was still numb. Slowly, very slowly, the numbness wore off. Well, not totally, but it’s twelve hours before publication and it’s sufficiently functional for me to write about my favorite topic: me and my pain and agony.
It’s always something. If I didn’t need the middle finger of my right hand to communicate with my fellow Fairfield County Connecticut drivers, I would have chopped it off and worn it around my neck. But now that my middle finger is slowly regaining function, I can drive to the Indiana governors’ mansion and put that very finger to good use.
Yes. I know today is April Fool’s Day. I’ll celebrate later.