I Need a Butt-ectomy!

pen

half-assedOr at least half a butt-ectomy: ridding me of my left cheek would be the kindest thing a doctor could do. Never mind all the ‘half-assed’ jokes, I’ll take’em. And grin.

Back in the day, when I got hurt, I had fun doing it. I rode hunters for 40 years, have hit the ground countless times in countless ways. Luckily I never broke anything, but oh LORD it sure hurts the next day. Did get into a nearly-fatal car wreck, me not the driver. Young guy showing off his new car. Poor bastard broke nearly every bone in his body: I had a sprained thumb.

One night in my Parisian kitchen, I was slicing potatoes for – you guessed it – French fries. To show a French guy what they were, as he’d never had one.

I had this really sharp knife with a bright red handle: that one guy who lived with me left it as a gift. The damn thing was cursed, I tell you. The night of the French Fries, it waited until I’d sliced nearly all of two large potatoes. Then it did a little leap, got my thumb all the way to the bone. Thank Gawd the French’s idea of Emergency Services used to be a cute young doctor who showed up at your door. Dude didn’t believe in anesthesia, mind you. I was howling like my German Shepherd for the first four painful stitches: refused to let him do the last one! (That knife got me even worse when I moved to Ft. Lauderdale, but that’s a blog for another day.)

In all of those, I MOVED to get myself hurt. Rode horses, sat in a race car, chopped a potato in Paris – I earned those wounds.

What happened to me about three months ago, you might ask?

I. Rolled. Over. In. Bed. PERIOD!

Woke up curled on my side with a cat asleep on my butt, another pressing against my gut, a third against my legs. As usual, I dislodged them all when I rolled onto my back. A chorus of Siamese complaints, and one hell of a howl from me: my left butt cheek hurt, down in there somewhere, like somebody was repeatedly kicking me with steel-toed boots.

For nearly two months, the spasms never stopped. Couldn’t even lean over to get tea or a cigarette! Had to set up a little line of stuff within reach. Yes, tea got dumped regularly. But all to say the pain was unbearable. My STB daughter tried in vain to get me to go to the hospital: for a pulled muscle, I said? An $800 ride to the hospital for a sore ass? I think not!

Waited until I saw my doc at my pain clinic: have had a series of procedures done on my ass over the last 2 months. Think dreadful shots with needles that don’t look like needles, they’re so dang long. At least I’m at a 5-6 on pain these days (was at a 2-3 with meds.) All of this because I ROLLED OVER? This must be another dang joke, I tell you!

So I want a butt-ectomy, ASA-bloody-P, thank you very much.

Hey, if it’s gone, it can’t hurt you anymore. Right?

Right. Just ask my ex.

Leave a comment