Archive for Injuries

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!!!

 

 

Things To NOT Do When You’re In a Hurry.

Posted in Human Stupidity with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 12, 2008 by Buck Frain

#1. Shave Your Balls.

 

I slept through my alarm this morning. Well, that’s not exactly true. I kept pushing snooze, getting another five minutes, pushing snooze getting another five minutes, pruning down the things I had to do before leaving the house with a semi-sleeping brain, pushing snooze, you get the idea. At some point I guess I must have pushed Off by mistake and just kept sleeping.

 

I awoke with a jolt. It was late. Not too late but I have a thing about being late – namely, I fucking hate it – so I was in a state of mild distress. I could still get to work on time but I was under pressure, my insufficiently oxygenated calculations on what had to be done and how much time I’d need were abysmally poor, I was looking down the barrel of no breakfast, possibly even no coffee. No coffee, as you’ll remember, means no shit and starting the day all bunged up – ah, it would be a cunt of a day!

 

I jumped into the shower and in retrospect could have cut down time by leaving certain personal grooming details for another day, but I didn’t. I decided to shave my ballbag. I first shaved the bag about six years ago. I tried it once to impress a girlfriend and just never went back. Yes, it did work, she was quite impressed, it was the rest of me that ruined things there in the end, but I digress. The freshly shaven bag is a wonderful thing. Gentlemen, if you’ve never tried it, I highly recommend* it. Unfortunately, the scrotum is not the easiest thing in the world to shave and today, with the pressure of lateness upon me, I was rushing. I nicked the bag.

 

Just a little nick. For a moment I wasn’t even sure if I’d cut or imagined it. Of course, that moment was very short-lived and followed by extreme panic as it began to bleed. It didn’t spurt or anything graphic like that, it just dripped with determined rapidity. Oh fuck! I’ve cut the bag! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I examined the wound, the warm water of the shower washing it clean. One tiny cut, less than a millimeter, not deep, just a layer of skin but right on a vein. The water was quite hot, the bleeding was quite consistent, the ballbag is nothing but thin skin covered with small veins, my heart was pumping, the shower looked like Psycho. The bag!!! Fuck it, I’ve cut the bag! And I’m late for work!

 

I turned the taps off and grabbed a towel and, carefully to avoid the balls, compressed the damaged piece of scrotum in the towel to stem the flow of blood. First aid training, you beauty! Compress the wound to stop the bleeding. I had to get it to stop quickly because I was going to be late for work so I stood in the bathroom like a hunchback, one hand compressing my slashed bag, the other doing a crap job of drying the rest of me with another towel. What a pathetic sight, I was so glad to live alone.

 

How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I leave it for another day? IDIOT!!! After about five minutes of compression I checked the bag. The bleeding started right back up exactly like before, a rapid dripping. Oh fuck! How to make it stop. I grabbed a bottle of liquid styptic out of the medicine cabinet. I use it on my face when I cut myself shaving, how is it I’ve never cut the bag before? I dabbed styptic on the bag. SWEET SHITTING FUCK MONSTER!!! Wow, I thought that shit stung my face. No result, still bleeding. I tried again. CUNTING ARSE PISS MOTHERFUCKER!!! Yep, that really does smart. Still bleeding. My bathroom was starting to look like a crime scene. Could I bleed to death from this? What a hideous way to die. Fuck, they’ll think it was some bizarre suicide. Humiliation even in death. I’ve GOT to get ready for work. Band aids. Yes! That will work. Applying band aids to a scrotum is no easy thing either. Who designed balls? Who fuckin’ did this? How fucking ridiculous…? Alright…calm down! The band aids wouldn’t stay on because the blood soaked straight through them. I was starting to worry that I might be losing a dangerous amount of blood. Also, how could I explain this? What would I tell The Wobblers? No no no, it was all too terrible to contemplate. I decided to bleed freely all over the bathroom floor while I rummaged through the contents of the medicine cabinet. Fabric Elastoplat. One large one and a packet of normal size fabric elastoplast. They’re better than the plastic band aids because they’ve got that hardcore adhesive and they’re fabric so they stretch. I opened the big one and about fifteen little ones, peeled all the backings off them and laid them sticky side up on the washing machine. Taking the big one in one hand, I wiped the scrote clean with the bloody towel and quickly stuck the big plaster over the wound. I pressed all the edges down – very careful to not press ball, just bag. Then before the blood could soak through, I reinforced it with the smaller plasters, building up a barrier against the bleeding, I would make it stop. Ha! Fuck you, circulatory system! I kept peeling and applying plasters until I was satisfied. I waited for a few minutes…it held. This would have to do.

 

Of course, my balls by this stage resembled a softball. As I got dressed I realised my cunning strategy may well attract a lot of attention. Not more attention than a bleeding crotch perhaps, but still it wasn’t a good look. What a choice: elephantitis balls or man-struation? Too late to worry now.  I left the house of horrors and caught the train. I kept glancing at myself fearing that the dressing wasn’t holding the blood flow. I was certain on a few occasions that I felt wetness in my pants. Terror! No, I was just Buster Gonad and His Unfeasibly Large Testicles.

 

The easter egg in my pants held. No-one commented about by abnormally huge balls, for which I was very thankful. I kept a very low profile at work, I kept all movement to a minimum. I worked and left. On removing the dressing when I got home I discovered the bleeding had stopped and I was fine. I cleaned the abbatoir that was my bathroom.

 

I will continue to shave my bag, despite today’s near-death experience. Not because I’m some sort of self-mutilator or adrenaline junkie, but because I like the feeling of a smooth scrote. But, I will only shave it when I have time to be leisurely about it. They’re the only balls I have and they deserve better than a hasty once-over with a fucking razor blade.

 

 

* What I don’t recommend is waxing. Tried it, don’t go there, it’s bad. Very, very bad.

 

 

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