The Shit I Learn – Broken Hand Edition

Posted: March 25, 2009 in karate, pain and suffering, the shit i learn


It’s another episode in my:

“The Shit I Learn Series.”

Enough…enough.

Sit the fuck down.

You’re embarrassing yourselves.

NOW STAND BACK UP!!

Ha! Didn’t say “Simon Says.”

You people are stupid.

So, I’ve had a busted wrapped-in-a-cast hand (coming soon from Pillsbury – tee hee!) for about two weeks now.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

1) I can’t type for shit with one hand

It took me three hours to write that one sentence.

With two hands, I can type like lightning without any spelling errors.

I’m manly.


When I was in High School typing class my teacher asked me:

Teacher: “You know, Rodney…you should consider the Advanced Typing class.”

Me: “Thanks. But I’m getting my ass kicked enough as it is. Plus, it’s at the same time as my “Intermediate Needlepoint” course.”

Then we made sweet sweet love amongst a sea of empty bottles of White-Out.

Yep.

63 words a minute.

And one teacher in about 3.


Now, though…I have to use one hand and have to look at the keys.

After I type, every sentence looks like this:

“Aft’erI type evrtey senteence looks like thris.~”

Really?

I’m STARING at the fucking keys!!

And c’mon…a fucking tilda? How did I manage to get a fucking tilda in there?!?

Fguckk.

~


2) Stinky Pinky

My hand smells.

And not for the GOOD reason.


Listen, when your hand is wrapped in gauze and bandages for weeks with only the tips of your fingers sticking out…

…it starts to…

…um…

Ripen.

Every so often, I stick my nose in there.

* Sniiiiffff

Yep.

Smells. Like. Bellybutton.


I mentioned this to one of the guys I work with.

Me: “Man…my hand really stinks like bellybutton.”

* blink

Barry (no..not THAT Barry): “Rod. I don’t know what bellybutton smells like. But if I find myself smelling my bellybutton tonight because of this conversation, I’m coming after you.”

Right.

Like you haven’t stuck your finger in your bellybutton before, pulled it out and then smelled it.

EVERYONE’S done that.

Right?

RIGHT?!

Great.

I may have bigger problems than this stupid broken hand.

* sniiifff

Yep.

Bellybutton.


3) Button Fly Jeans are the AntiChrist

Yeah.

Not Hitler.

Not Stalin.

Not even Rachael Ray.

I’ve found that Button Fly Jeans are the true AntiChrist.


Of course…

All I fucking OWN are button fly jeans.

What can I say…I got swept up in the craze in the 80’s and have been there ever since.

I am NOT cutting this mullet.

Ever try putting on button fly jeans with one hand?

Taking them off?

Fine. No problem.

Put them back on?

Jesus H. Christ.

You might have well asked me to “fly” or “build a skyscraper with my bare hands” or “please a woman sexually.”

Shit’s tough.


So, now I’m pissing in the bathroom stalls instead of at urinals because buttoning my pants back up requires me to pull my shirt up and tuck it under my chin so I can fucking see the button holes…

(is this how fat guys find their wiggly?)

…and then do some weird twisting scooching thing so I can work the button with my right hand into the buttonhole that I’m trying to force over with the tip of my left index finger and…

…oh great…my “pinch-an-inch” just got in the way….

…hike pants up…scooch…

BUTTON IN!!

…repeat for next 7 fucking buttons.


Rapture IS coming, my friends.

And it’s Levi Strauss who’s bringing it.

I’m totally flipping him the bird.

With my right hand, of course.

Mogo ouft.

FUCKITY FUCK FUCK.

Moog out.

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