Sunday, November 7, 2010
Have any of you seen the classic Saturday Night Live skit where Julia Child cuts herself while disarticulating a chicken? That’s the type of knife accident I’m speaking of. Screaming, bloody, flailing about accidents.
Last night I got out the piece of shit food processor I recently purchased. I’ve only used it a few times and so far I’m not impressed. I’ve loudly expressed my opinion within ear shot of said processor. I had some onions to chop, olives to slice and cheese to shred. Doing it by hand was not an option with newly manicured nails.
I cursed at the POS processor as it half-heartedly limped through shredding the cheese. I then removed the cheese and cleaned the container. I went to turn the blade over. That’s when it happened. That’s when it got even with me for calling it a piece of shit. The slicing blade ran rampant across the knuckle of my left thumb and cut it clean off. Damn it!
I grabbed a paper towel to try to stop the bleeding. It didn’t work. Blood was everywhere. I opened the kitchen cabinet to grab a Bandaid. Oh, now that would be too easy in my house. I mean who in the hell would expect to find a Bandaid in one of the three Bandaid boxes on the shelf? The Bandaids were gone and my lazy, friggin’ kids had neatly put the empty boxes back in the cabinet. BLEEP! BLEEPING BLEEPER!
Great, freaking great. I was bleeding everywhere and there was no bandage of any kind in the kitchen. Off to my closet I went to get the first aid kit that I have to keep under lock and key for just that reason. The kids around here will put a Bandaid on a freaking freckle.
I wrapped the, now soaked, paper towel a little more tightly around my thumb and reached for the kit. Damn thing fell on my head and nearly knocked me out. I wasn’t only missing a very useful part of an appendage, I also had a goose egg on my perfectly Botoxed forehead.
I picked up the box, got it to the bed and ripped the lid off. I commenced to rummage through the already rummaged through kit. Who in the hell got into my locked room and went through the first aid kit? It looked like a garbage can a raccoon had been ripping through.
There was an instant ice pack, not gonna work. There was benadryl, an epi-pen, a roll of scotch tape (WTH?), some Biofreeze, and a package of Uristat. None of the crap was going to help me and my now gushing thumb. Where in the hell were the freaking Bandaids? My head was beginning to throb and I was seeing stars.
Finally I found a box of the coveted sticky saviors. I opened it with my teeth and it was EMPTY! I was beginning to breathe fire as I threw the useless box on the ground. I searched some more. At the bottom of the kit I saw Bandaids and grabbed them up. Wrappers! Empty wrappers! I was beginning to formulate a plan to go after my apparently evil kids with the slicing blade of the vengeful food processor.
I dug some more. More benadryl, an instant heat pack, a pair of scissors and more empty Bandaid wrappers! What in the hell? Was it a freaking conspiracy? If I didn’t find a Bandaid soon I knew I was going to pass out from blood loss and a concussion, fall to the closet floor and impale myself with a stiletto. I was at death’s door and not a Bandaid in sight, not a bandage of any type could be found.
I was pissed! I threw the damned box on the floor and frantically pawed through the useless mess. Finally I found it! A lone, naked Bandaid half stuck to the side of the Syrup of Ipecac bottle. At that point I wasn’t going to be picky. I was desperate, and woozy, from blood loss. I would have taken the thing had it been stuck to the inside of my son’s shoe.
I tightly wrapped the semi-useful bandage around my then lifeless thumb, secured it with some of the scotch tape, broke open the instant ice pack for my head and begin to plot sweet revenge.