Archive for Clumsiness

Tumour Boy Vs. Spaz Hand

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 11, 2008 by Buck Frain


Until recently, I had a vaguely repugnant growth on my wrist. It was a hard lump, a nodule about the size of a pea. It had been there for a few years and was originally scar tissue from an ancient and very trivial injury that, instead of having the decency to fade away like Andrew Ridgeley, decided it wanted more of the limelight like Kate Ceberano and began to build itself into my conjoined twin. There was no real problem with it being there other than it wasn’t paying rent and it grossed people, most importantly women, out. So, on the tried-and-true principle that chicks dig scars more than benign fibrous tumours, I decided to have it lopped off.


A simple plan to be sure, went in for day surgery, surgeon cut it out – ugly fuckin’ thing, looked like a Cronenberg version of the ball that rattles ‘round in a referee’s whistle. Sadly, he wouldn’t let me keep it, I wanted to sell it on eBay – stitched it up with three little sutures and that was it.


I had an appointment with the surgeon a week later to have the stitches taken out. Hmm…fuck that, I thought. Why pay some over-educated git $50 to take out stitches? Anyone can take stitches out, I’ll take the bastards out myself. I sterilized the nail scissors and took out the stitches – easy. Feeling terribly proud of myself I leant back and stretched my hands out in front of me and pop!


Fuck! I’d ruptured the wound and now had a gaping hole in my wrist rapidly filling with thick gelatinous blood. Whoa! Strangely, it didn’t hurt but it did make me feel decidedly queasy. I locked up the house and made off to the nearest hospital’s emergency department.


There really is no-one like a doctor to making you feel like a twat. I had to ‘fess up to taking out my own stitches and toolishly popping the wound open. The doctor did his disapproving head-shake. Do they learn that in university? Bed-side manner 101 – patronising head-shakes and knowing sighs. Yes, I feel stupid already, my blood is coming out, now shut up and do your job! It turned out that the wound was unclean and needed to be debrided. Ah! No, not my fault! Get fucked! I kept it clean, I fuckin’ did everything I was supposed to, don’t even go there! The fucking stupid surgeon I originally saw fucked up the wound by putting in pissy superficial stitches on the surface of the wound so that beneath the skin it wasn’t held together at all. The wrist is a joint, it flexes, it needed stronger stitches, it wasn’t my cunting fault at all! But would anyone listen to that? Of course not. I took the stitches out myself so everything is my fault. Bah! It’s all cunts!


So after cleaning the wound out with a vigour usually reserved for removing baked-on scrambled eggs from old pans, he stitched it up with one hardcore suture and I was on my way with a new dressing and an appetite for codeine.


Out of hospital, off to the city. Getting off the tram, trying to avoid getting my throbbing wrist bumped by shit-licking, fuck-faced, spatially-unaware Joes Public who couldn’t wait for people to exit the tram before cramming themselves onto it, I lost my balance. Lurching forward, I reached for a handrail to stop my fall out of the tram, which I misjudged like a fuckstick, catching the back of my thumb on the handrail and following it with the bulk of my body weight. The thumb bent around underneath my hand until it gave a barely perceptible snapping sound. FUCK! FUCK! FUCKING CUNTING BASTARD!!! I cannot express quite how much it hurt. I’m unsure if I was swearing out loud or just muttering incoherently but I shambled around at the tram stop for a few minutes as the pain shot up my arm and my hand blew up into an udder with finger-teats.


Gradually, I relaxed enough to do some basic first-aidy tests to see how much mobility/strangth I had. They all hurt really really badly, the thumb was definitely cunted – I crossed the tram tracks and went back to hospital.


Same doctor, more humiliation, X-rays. He actually laughed at me and said: You’re not having a very good day, are you? Yes I am actually, sluthead, I normally spend my days with my head up a pig’s rectum and skewers in my testicles so today’s bitching! CUNT!!! No, I nodded and gave a courteous laugh – this guy could still hurt me.


The X-rays came back: the thumb was not broken, that’d be too easy – 4 to 6 weeks in plaster? Nah! I have a partial tear to a ligament which is painful but sounds really minor and wussy, and means I have to wear a cast for 8 weeks!


Brilliant! Just cunting well brilliant!!! I have to look after my right wrist – not too much lifting or movement there for a week or two and I have a cunting great nylon cast on my left hand and forearm for the next two months. I am domestic comedy. Watch Buck shower! Ha ha!!! See Buck wash the dishes. How many will he break today? Ah, he’s such a cunt!


Any sympathy votes I may have scored for the wrist have evaporated with the thumb, it’s too pitiful to be anything but fuckheadedness. I am just a loser now, a figure for ridicule and scorn. That may have never been any other way but the perception was never quite so focused on the truth as it is now. Fuck you, tumours! Fuck you, gravity! Fuck you, the medical profession! FUCK!!!



How My Monday Turned To Complete Shit!

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 13, 2008 by Buck Frain

On the train on the way in to work yesterday afternoon, standing there minding my own business when a complete scrotum-head spilt his coffee. I’ve no idea what he was doing and I doubt he did either but we had stopped at a station, his station, not mine and somewhere in his haste to make it to the door he upended what seemed like a whole cup of coffee down the front of my shirt and pants. 

He hadn’t even noticed until I yelped something containing a few mild expletives, at which point he turned around, noted his cup…hmm, lighter…and me…ooh, angry and wet. He smiled, embarrassed and mouthed a cowardly Sorry, but continued to back-step his way to the door and freedom. I mouthed a considerably voluminous Cunt! as the doors closed. A concerned woman, unperturbed by my profanity, asked me if I was OK and handed me some tissues, which I dabbed ineffectually at my stained crotch whilst holding the fabric at a safe distance while it cooled. The coffee hadn’t been overly hot and thankfully hadn’t done any medical damage but I was left with the cosmetic problem. A white shirt and fawn pants completely cunted by some uncoordinated fuck’s crappuccino. What the flyblown-arse was I going to do? 

There was no turning up to work in my present state so I rang the mill-stone-around–my-neck that employs me to let her know I would be late. WHY DO YOU ALWAYS LAUGH AT ME, YOU FAT BITCH? LOOK IN THE FUCKING MIRROR, WHAT DO YOU EVER HAVE TO LAUGH ABOUT? I hate her so much! 

I got off the train, crossed to the opposite platform and caught a train back home. I’m usually at work early on account of having a bit of an obsessive problem with lateness so I had time up my sleeve. I got off the train and the wetness of my clothing coupled with the wind made me quite cold. I hurried home and snapped my key off in the flyscreen door lock. Snapped it. Right off. 

Oh, ha ha HA!!! FUCK YOU, GOD, YOU OMNIPRESENT PIECE OF CLOUD-DWELLING SHIT!!! FUCK YOU!!! Isn’t it funny how your neighbours never ask what’s wrong when you’re screaming blasphemies at the sky? Fuck you, Gareth! He doesn’t speak to me because his girlfriend smiled at me once. 

I rang my land agent, he’s a complete cunt, as they all are – I believe it’s a prerequisite for the job. He told me he was heading out the door and as I’d snapped the key off, it was my responsibility to find a locksmith, not his. It is Monday, isn’t it? 

Stuck outside my house – the backdoor can only be opened from inside. After a few phone calls, finally, I found a locksmith who could come out and fix it. In keeping with the rest of my day, it was after 5pm so after-hours rates were all I was going to get unless I wanted to sleep on my front step. He’d get here in half an hour. Yeah! I love life, it rocks! I rang my stinking anus of a boss and let her know I wouldn’t be in at all. She was less amused by this call and I could tell she’d hold that shit over my head for a good 18 months – fuck, maybe I could poison her donuts, everyone hates her, there’d be so many suspects I’d be almost certain to get away with it. 

The locksmith arrived, he was a cheerful-looking guy in his early forties called David. I was genuinely grateful to see him. He approached and I could see him taking stock of the shivering, coffee-stained figure I’d become. I could see him feel that inevitable sense of smugness one has when they know their life is substantially better than someone else’s, and without any malice he smiled Looks like you’ve been having a good day so far!, he joked. The lackadaisical whimsy of his comment severed a neurological connection deep in my brain, something twanged inside my head and I broke into uncontrollable laughter. I looked at him and shrieked with laughter. I knew it was ridiculous but I couldn’t stop. The shivering from the cold gave way to wracking sobs of hilarity as tears rolled down my cheeks and my body cramped with the pain of hysterical laughter. David looked very concerned all of a sudden and putting a hand out as if to half sooth and half keep me at a safe distance. Are you OK? 

That sent me off even more, I couldn’t articulate a syllable. I mouthed words that wouldn’t form and he just stared in fear at the giggling mess now collapsed and gibbering on my front step. With some effort I rolled away from the door. Trying desperately to control my breathing and stop the laughter, and I waved him towards the door. Nervously he edged towards the door, glancing back at me to make sure I didn’t do anything weird – like a guy covered in coffee laughing like a maniac on the ground outside his house isn’t weird.

The laughter began to subside. Gradually, I brought myself under control, only bursting out again occasionally whenever he looked back at me. He must have realised looking at me made it worse and he just focused on the lock. He was fast. Within 10 minutes he’d removed the offending lock and replaced it with a new one. I had calmed down and gotten to my feet and was acting like nothing out of the ordinary had happened whatsoever. I casually handed him my credit card and soberly thanked him for having helped me at such short notice. He also pretended everything was perfectly normal, handed me my new keys and left me to my open house. 

Once inside and changed, I reflected on the expense of the afternoon. One lost shift, serious laundering and $150 worth of lock. The lock may have happened anyway, but in the interest of being petty and small-minded, that fucker on the train cost me over $350. I remember your face, motherfucker, you owe me three hundred and fifty bucks, and when I see you next, I’ll fuckin’ ask for it. You fucking spastic, UNCO FUCK!!! You travel on my train line and I’ll fucking see you again, be fuckin’ sure if it! I’ll have coffee too. I’ll never go to work again without coffee. I’ll have coffee every day, really hot, strong, black coffee and if you don’t have my money, I’ll fucking spill it on you and I’ll burn your fucking balls off with my coffee!!! And I’ll fucking laugh at you and your stupid burning balls and your stupid stained clothes. HA HA HA!!!