Stuff

Since it's the super bowl weekend I need to rush out this afternoon and purchase the ingredients for my World Famous Stephens' Irish Kickass Salsa. (Trademarked) It's traditional. I could care less about the football game. The commercials are often funny, sometimes even entertaining. The game for me is just an excuse to make myself sick with chips and salsa.

Prep time is approximately an hour. I only use fresh vegetables with a base of canned tomatoes. The salsa must be allowed to stand overnight in the coolness of the refrigerator. When one dips a chip (I prefer Nacho Cheese.) and it stands without waver the salsa is ready to eat. Children, lipstick women, gays, liberals, the elderly sick, and metrosexuals need not apply. My salsa will kill 'em dead right there....

I'm serious when I say I could give a rat's butt about the football game. However, if firearms were introduced to the game, well, different story. Think about it.

*****

I'm very aware there has been an oversight to respond to a few comments for those post I've written in the past. I will make every effort to correct this lack of my attention to detail. A few months back my mind took a deep dive into a black hole of depression. During this period I set aside all things internet related except for the mundane and that related to my actual business.

Give me time and I'll search and correct this oversight. For a while there I felt like Snoopy without his parachute.

*****

While searching my bookshelves last evening I came across my copy of Angela's Ashes, a first edition, and decided to give it a second read. Two hours into the book I grew a hunger...needed food. The book will do it to you, their hunger triggers a need to feed. If you don't believe me, read the book.

Besides, its a great piece of literature.

*****

Remember Tommy? He came in this morning to remind me he'd be back next Monday for his firearms. While we chatted he noticed an old eastern European military rucksack I've had on a hook on my back door for months. I've a gross of 'em. Use them for packing light articles, junk, stuff, handguns, tools, to the shop. He wants it. Asked if it had a price and I said, just take it. He refused.

Cup of coffee later he turns to me and said, "Hey, Stephen, listen here. 'Member those old pocket knives I mentioned last time I was here?"

"Yep."

"Listen, what if I swap 'ya for them there old pocket knives. I must have a box full in storage."

I told him fine, we'd trade my old rucksack for his pocket knives.

I like Tommy. This could turn into an interesting deal. I hope the box of knives are all branded Old Timer.

Yeah, right.

Stephen

Jesus and a Saline Drip

She just wouldn't shut her mouth. Every five seconds it was, "I gots Jesus. You hear me man, I gots Jesus. Bless the Lord, Jesus is coming and I'm his friend and f*ck you anyway you motherless child of God."

Over and over. Loud. She made my head hurt. She was a certified meth-head.

I was in emergency room two. The crazy drugged out woman occupied room three. I was trapped with her for over four hours. Sweet Wife kept me company.

My nice little attending nurse smiled at me and said, "She has issues."  I replied, "You think."

Sweet Wife didn't crack a smile. She was worried; she'd insisted the medics give me a thousand dollar cab ride to the world of horrors. Sweet Wife was also the reason half my chest had been dry shaved for the leads and horrible sticky attachment points, and it was her worry which lead to the saline drip. I explained this to the nurse. Nurse said, "Of course, she loves you." Like that.

I'm fine.

Yesterday, as I mentioned to Rev. Paul, I had yard work, chores, to complete. I dug a few holes, fixed a few sprinkler heads, and then trimmed hedges. Not long after Sweet Wife arrived home from church she joined me in the yard. We enjoyed typical Florida weather, hotter than Hades and very humid. Then, after I dipped to grab a handful of leaves and brush, I darn near fainted. Pain followed. I quietly excused myself and went inside.

The pain increased, then spread its insidious way across the back of my shoulders and down my arms. I took my very first self administered nitro tablet and an aspirin...took a sip of water and tried to dry my sweaty body. Then I said a silent prayer and asked the Lord to take care of my wife. Hey, I'm way of ahead of the game. If it's my time, I'll take the stairway.

She found me in the bathroom, and a few minutes later dialed 911. They gave me the long ride. I hate hospitals.

The woman in room three screamed again, and again.  I turned to the nurse, "I'm fine now, release me." She simply smiled. Sweet Wife gave me, 'The Look.'

The nurse stuck another needle in me and said, "I'm sorry. We can't release you. You must stay until the doctor sees you."

The crazy drug fueled Jesus loving democrat screamed. And screamed. And screamed. I searched my pocket for the little Old Timer knife. Found it. Hey, emergency rooms are dangerous.

Finally the doctor arrived. He was younger than my socks. Said, "Acute renal failure."

I said, "Let me out of here."

The woman screamed, "I gots Jesus oh yes I do. You hear me, bitch, I gots Jesus."

The doctor grimaced, and I'm fairly certain he wanted to suck on his thumb. I jerked a few wires from my chest and began to cut the pulse monitor from my finger. My Old Timer is very sharp.

Sweet Wife and the nurse were not amused.

From room three I heard a yell for security. Jesus had arrived and the crazy lady wanted to ride her meth high to heaven and kick ass. She yelled, "Me and Jesus gonna kick your ass motherf^ucker." I believed her...

They asked me to sign a 'against medical advice release form.' I said, "No." Then, "Well, then, we advise you have a stress test within three days." I glanced at Sweet Wife, sighed, and lied, "Sure."

Like that. Hour later I'm walking to the car.

Like I said, I hate hospitals.

Stephen