Saturday, June 04, 2005

AquaStacy vs. The Penguins

The last time I had a really good day I was naked in a hotel room with this raven haired temptress...

Never mind.

Today was a pretty frickin' fantastic day, even though nothing glorious really happened. Not that that's a requirement you see.

It even started off pretty craptastic. I had to be at work at 10am to push all the right buttons so our live broadcast would go smoothly.

Buttons, knobs and switches. Buttons are cool. Knobs are old school. And switches will get you into trouble in the world of broadcast radio.

Fortunately, I'm a maestro when it comes to running the studio during a live broadcast. When the radio waves all hit the beach of happiness at the same time, the client and my boss are all smiles and life can go on as it has before.

I went home and discovered that no one was at the pool. Nobody. Not a single soul. Not even that raven haired bikini-clad babe who flipped me off last week.

Thus, my plan was set into motion. I threw off all my clothes (hey, it's the second time I've been naked in this blog) and grabbed my six year old bathing suit. When I went to tie the knot in the strings I noticed something.

I'm somewhat skinnier than last year's swimming adventures.

Which is saying something since I'm always pretty damn skinny.

At the front of my suit was about an inch of material bunched up to make it fit snugly with my waist.

Screw it. I don't care. I already have bandages on my arm to go along with this wonderful ensemble...the pool is mine!

I'm going to be taking a week vacation in a month to see my sister, hang out with my favorite Greek Goddess and then with my best friend, so Tan Stacy needs to be fully realized.

I made my way to the gate and still, silence. Perfect. I laid out for about 45 minutes until the vermon invaded.

The father waddles in first wearing really loud swim trunks that didn't quite cover the massive fast food and beer belly that was hanging over them. I was afraid his Mr. Pepe might burst out at any moment. His wife was equally thrifty with her flip flops and an "I Brake for JD" t-shirt.

With the angle of the sun and the plethora of sunscreen surrounding my eyes, they all looked like penguins. I almost expected the father to come by and ask if Batman had been spotted nearby. Burgess Meredith would have been proud.

Oh look. Here come the offspring. Mutated with Marlboro Lights and Ho-Ho's during pregnancy. This should be fun.

This entire time I'm simply trying to reach nirvana, thinking of nothing but reaching a sweat level high enough to move me to hop into the pool.

Fortunately, my tyrannical landlord was outside her apartment nearby. She runs the complex like a Nazi camp in springtime.

"No running. No jumping. No diving, ok?"

Thank God for brat squashing rules.

Only one of the mutated brats was in the pool. The others kept whining for Cheez-Itz.

I love Cheez-Itz just as much as the next snack ingesting American, but I don't want your cheezy fingers tainting my water. I overpay $300 every month for my apartment, so don't go rednecking it up, ok?

Fate has an interesting way of spiraling life into focus. If my peritoneal catheter had actually succeeded earlier this year, swimming would be completely out of the question.

This is the thought I mused upon as I dove under the water and swam my frail little body to the other side.

The brats, Cheez-Itz, the JD t-shirt wearing penguin couple, my Nazi landlord...they all ceased to exist under the calming waters of my pool.

I rarely swim across the top of the water. Because of my size, I'm able to easily move from one point to another underwater quickly and with great ease.

It was glorious. And I usually only use "glorious" to describe Winona Ryder in a bikini.

Tomorrow, since I don't have to work, I'm going to rise by 11am and command the pool once again. I will use my Jedi mind powers to keep all rednecks far from the reaches of my pool.

"Mommy, I want to go swimmin'!"

"You don't want to go swimming."

"Mommy, I changed my mind."

"You wish to take a nap."

"Yawn! I'm really sleepy Mommy."

"You should tell your Mommy she looks like a penguin."

Wack, wack, wack, wack, wack. Waddle back to your shabby apartment and put on some Zeppelin. All will be right with the world.

Even though I work 60-70 hours a week, I have mentally prepared a swimming and tanning schedule at my pool.

And just in case you think I despise penguins, you would be wrong.

"Opus" rules all comic strips.

Thank you and good night.

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Taunting Fool

Pain. Burning, unsympathetic pain.

For three miserable hours I laid in the dialysis chair, fighting the urge to scream out in agony.

For three agonizing hours, I controlled my urge to blubber in tears.

For three tearful hours, I felt my soul wither into a dry, flaky existence of apathy.

And Dialysis loved every minute of it.

I tried to hide from Dialysis by covering myself deep underneath my blanket, but Dialysis knows this is against clinic rules. One's arm must always be visible to the technicians at all times.

Dialysis hopped and jumped from the tech counter to my chair and back again. He was overwhelmed by the ecstasy of it all.

"Ooohhahahahaha!! You can't hide and you can't win! We'll always be together!"

I was a little out of it due to all the Vicodin I ingested beforehand, so I slowly twisted my head in his direction and dredged up every ounce of energy I had remaining.

"Fuck you! Fuck you and everybody who looks like you."

Frank was stunned by my outburst. "Whatsa matter buddy?"

"Sorry Frank. I was talking to Dialysis. He's peering over your shoulder and ringing his hands like he's awaiting his last meal."

Frank tilted his head slightly and then slowly walked away. He met up with one of the other techs, gestured in my direction and whispered in the tech's ear. The other tech simply nodded and then turned to finish with another patient.

I know they were discussing what an asshole I am.

"You haven't been in pain in soooo long," exclaimed Dialysis, his grin beaming from ear to ear.

As he was bouncing about, cackling the entire time, he made his way to my right ear.

"I've...got...a...secret...ooohhhhahahahahahahaha!!"

I clenched my eyes shut in an attempt to rid myself of his presence.

It was to no avail.

"Poor, poor Stacy." His sarcasm was dripping from his lips and making dark, gooey circles on my lab cloth.

"Right now, at this very moment, I'm increasing your body's antibody level so you'll never ever, ever ever, ever ever ever get a new kidney."

As he spit the last syllable, his eyes grew wide and he wringed his hands together playfully.

"That means my dear Stacy...that we'll be together...forever ever ever ever ever...ever ever ever ever..."

He broke into song with every "ever", spinning throughout the room with his hands in the air as though he were accepting gifts from God himself.

"Just think of it Stacy! You will continue to become more and more bitter, less tolerable and totally unbearable to be around!"

He bounded toward my direction and landed directly at the side of my chair. He swung the crane TV away and spit into my ear once again.

"And it will all be because...of...me!!!"

I couldn't stand it any longer. I took what little slack I had from my dialysis tubes and wrapped them tightly around his neck.

The look on his face was priceless.

"Listen to me very carefully. Each and every time you cause me pain, a little more Stacy drips away."

Dialysis was grabbing for his neck, trying to unleash his airway, but all my strength was focused on obliterating him.

"But what you don't realize is, with every drop I'm creating a brand new Stacy. Stronger. Faster. Better than before. Like Steve Austin without the cool sound effects.

Dialysis didn't quite grab the reference, but that was probably because he was suffocating to death.

"I'm going to continue working out, staying in shape and taking care of myself until the day you're sitting here undergoing this procedure yourself."

His bloodshot eyes were bulging. But then something remarkable happened.

I let Dialysis go.

He collapsed to the floor gasping for air. He grabbed the side of my dialysis machine to balance himself.

And then he was gone.

I slowly peered around the clinic to see if any of his offspring had arisen from his ashes, but no one was there.

"Stacy, you've tangled up your lines. You know you're not supposed to do that."

I offered a very meek sorry to one of the dialysis tech's as I turned my attention back toward my TV. I didn't have the energy to manifest a smile, so I allowed one to grow inside.

One small victory for Stacy, one giant leap for inner strength.

Sunday, May 29, 2005

You Might Be a Fucknut...

Not to be outdone by the porn star looking Jeff Foxworthy, I now present my answer to his annoying "You Might Be a Redneck..." routine.

If you stop dead in your tracks in the middle of a shopping aisle to stare blindly, mouth agape at some electronic device that makes a whirring noise while blocking pedestrian traffic...you might be a fucknut.

If you hold up the grocery checkout line because you want to pay for vaseline and rubber gloves with a credit card while your chubby girlfriend tries to steal gum...you might be a fucknut. (True story.)

If you weave in and out of lanes at high speed without signaling while talking on your cell phone and eating Chicken McNuggets...you might be a fucknut.

If you call up a radio station to make a song request, and when the DJ asks you want you want to hear you respond with, "Ugh...um...er...you know...the song with the guy singing about the girl,"...you might be a fucknut.

If you proclaimed that you were going to leave this country if Bush were elected, and you're still frickin' here...you might be a fucknut.

If you get caught looking at porn at work, and then by some cruel act of God, you become Employee of the Month...you might be a fucknut.

If you believe Larry King is the best this country has to offer in the way of broadcast interviewers...you might be a fucknut.

If you've ever put a Clay Aiken CD on layaway...you might be a fucknut.

If you sweat profusely on a piece of health club equipment and walk away without wiping off your gooey, drippy mess before others can use it...you might be a fucknut. (And an asshole.)

If you perform surgery on me more than twice and the thing still isn't working properly...you might be a fucknut.

If you declare war on another country simply because they tried to kill your daddy...you might be a fucknut.

If you wear a belly shirt, and your belly is hanging over your beltline...you might be a fucknut.

If you spend all your money on clubbing on Friday, and your kids don't have food on Saturday...you might be a fucknut.

If you don't believe your life will be worth anything unless you appear on television...you might be a fucknut.

If your name begins with "Ryan" and ends with "Seacrest"...you might be a fucknut.

If you've been an incredibly talented dramatic actor your entire career and you suddenly "want to do a comedy"...you might be a fucknut.

If you order a burger at a fast food joint and they don't make it exactly the way you wanted, and then you threaten their lives with a cloud of obscenities that are still floating over the joint three days later...you might be a fucknut. (Also a true story.)

If you screw up on a daily basis and one of your employees spends time out of his workday to fix said screw up...you might be a fucknut. (More true than I wish to admit.)

If you take a massive dump in a public toilet and don't flush...you might be a fucknut.

If you complain about not being able to lose weight and then order a Triple Bacon Cheeseburger from Wendy's...you might be a fucknut.

If you have, or will in the near future, pattern any of your life after Paris Hilton...you might be a fucknut.

If you leave your kids in the car in 100 degree weather so you could "score some candy"...you might be a fucknut.

If you have more than two kids and you take them with you shopping and they're running aimlessly everywhere while you comparison shop Cheese Whiz...you might be a fucknut. (And you should have your tubes tied.)

If you type "...and your looking great" and you should be using "you're"...you might be a fucknut.

If you claim you'll only date women who weigh under 110 pounds, and you're a slobby 350...you might be a fucknut.

If it takes a stepladder to get into your lifted truck...you might be a fucknut. (And have masculinity issues.)

And finally...

If you whine endlessly about suffering through a cold while your neighbor endures painless dialysis treatments, and you think you've got it worse...you most definately are a fucknut.

I have no ending for this, so I take a small bow.