This blog is not for the light-hearted or easily offended. If either one of those descriptions applies to you, i would suggest you start drinking before you read this blog. A sense of humor is suggested. If you don't have one that sucks for you … find one and get a life!
Today’s guest on Go ahead, amuse me doesn’t have a blog but we’re sharing her sense of humor anyways! Take it away Rachel.
Hi. I’m Rachel, and you have no idea who I am! (Unless you’re my mother or something, in which case, Hi Mom!) I don’t currently have a blog, but I’m considering starting one. Right now, I’m a student and children’s entertainer… because I am so unbelievably full of whimsy. I love the internet and also donuts. I’m quite thankful to Lynn for featuring me here, and if the response is good and I can find the time, (You know, face painting in a Scooby Doo outfit can be quite time consuming) there might be a blog by me on the internet sometime soon!
Or everyone will hate this and I’ll go in a corner to quietly weep. Either way.
I looked out on the hills of sunny Rancho Bernardo, California. The landscape of green, rolling hills, and gardens blanketed with lush flowers, was so perfect, it was almost annoying. I glanced over at my brother Michael and Taco Bill. I had never remembered my relation to this grey-haired and mustached fellow, so I had always just called him “Taco Bill.” They were still watching Planet of the Apes, and my eight-year-old self was far too proud to admit that human gorillas were scary. I shifted my gaze to Taco’s Lassie-esque dog named Nicky, whose fluffy ocean of soft fur and serious cuteness was horribly deceiving.
I was stroking the fluffy dog, admiring its luscious coat and, as only an overly curious third-grader would, its clean and sparkly teeth. As one might guess, a tiny little girl, staring intently at the dog’s teeth from two inches away, angered the dog. One of those clean, sparkly canines raked across my chin. Much like an all-leprechaun cast of West Side Story, the cut was short and small, but exceedingly deep (see what I did there, the word “deep” has two meanings!). The pain was fairly bad, but my worst fear at that point was it piercing my lip. I obviously was not very knowledgeable about lip piercings, but I did know that I thought they were gross.
Soon enough, though, that became the least of my worries. The cause of this transition was Taco Bill. He was a very classy man in his mid-to-late sixties, the kind one could picture wearing a pinstripe fedora in a fifties movie, reclining and blowing smoke rings. His NBA-type frame put him at at least six feet six inches, but that didn’t save him from a total freak-out. As soon as his Boarder Collie’s teeth broke my skin, he jumped up, presumably coming to the rescue. Instead of helping, though, he just frantically ran around in circles, squeaking out between high-pitched girlish screams, “Get a Band-Aid! Please, dear God, a Band-Aid!” The sight of this distinguished, tall man flailing his arms like a dying fish and whimpering was both amusing and extremely disconcerting.
The longer he ran, the more my sense of impending doom grew. By the time my brother, age eleven, had him calmed down, I had categorized the situation as life or death. The thick stream of blood, which had nearly covered my chin and was now running down my neck, did not help this. My brother shuffled over to me, Band-Aids in hand. He wiped off the blood with a gauze square and a face that said, “ewwww,” and before I knew it, I was all patched up. Then, I bled through the Band-Aid. After this process had been done several times, we gave up on Band-Aids and just held the gauze on. This got rid of the ‘ripping off the Band-Aid’ part, which my brother found quite enjoyable; I did not. If we had been more educated, we would have known that it was just bleeding a lot because it was a face wound, but seeing as the people on the premises consisted of a traumatized eight-year-old, a mildly annoyed eleven-year-old, and a man who seemed to be on the brink of switching to the fetal position and weeping, we were not in the best shape to handle what was really a very non-serious and tiny cut.
About fifteen minutes later, my mom rushed in for damage control. Presumably, Taco had called her. The first thing she said was, “Let’s take her to the E.R.” She sounded mostly annoyed, but with a hint of worry, like a slightly neurotic mother who was fairly aware of the non-urgent status of the situation. I didn’t understand this at the time, because this was obviously going to be fatal, but I did understand that it was the first and only time I had ever seen a grown woman give a dog the evil eye.
Scared out of my mind, I whimpered, “Th-the-the E.R.?” in my chipmunk-like little kid voice. I didn’t know much about emergency rooms, but I did secretly watch Law and Order behind my parents’ backs, and I knew for certain that if someone goes to the E.R., and that person was not a main cast member, that person will die. I had also learned that coughing is a sign of fatal disease, and that bullets can’t hit main detectives. If there is one tip I can give to parents, it is to not allow their eight-year-olds to watch Law and Order. It is rated TV-14 for a reason, and I’m pretty sure that reason is to avoid psychotic breakdowns in small children after minor trauma.
My mom just nodded, and her lips curved into what was really a comforting smile, but what I perceived as a creepy smirk one would find in a Tim Burton movie. “I’m sorry,” Taco Bill squealed over and over, and I hopped into my mom’s rented Ford.
We drove along the bright and colorful hills for a few minutes until we reached the hospital. We walked into the building, and the mood created by the outdoors was immediately smashed. Everyone looked like they just had a bone marrow transplant. For all I knew, they had. Maybe the entrance led straight to the bone marrow transplant wing, if that’s even a thing. Who knows?
My mother ushered me into the E.R., promising Lego Land, cake, etc. Not because I had some horrible injury, but more because I would have to wait in a place where everyone was so sad that they probably shouldn’t be aloud to die, because no one in the afterlife would be cool with them being such downers. All I could notice, however, was the blood on my chin. Even at age eight, I could tell that i wouldn’t be seen for several hours. I hyperventilated as I saw a man being wheeled around on a bed, and noticed half of his scalp was missing. Every black bag became a horrifying object encasing a soon-to-be rotting corpse, nearly causing me to pass out. All of this was adding to the most frightening delusion of my life: I would die, and my obituary would read, “Killed by Lassie.” I could forget any dreams of prestige in the afterlife.
After three hours of waiting in the E.R., and going through seemingly endless gauze squares, I was even more certain that death was imminent. I couldn’t work up the courage to make conversation with anyone, because I knew that whoever I talked to would have been shot in the face, or was in a fiery building explosion, and I would get an icy glare when I explained in my stuttering voice that I had gotten a Boarder Collie very, very angry. My heart thudded with anxiety, and my mysterious new chin heartbeat sped up right with it.
Much to my shock, I was actually called up and examined before I, you know, died a violent and painful death. The fixing of the cut took a surprisingly short time. They just needed some strange sticky thing to pinch it closed, then they put a Band-Aid on it and called it good. I still had suspicions that they just didn’t want to waste medical supplies on someone who was going to die anyway, but like the rest of my worries, I kept that to myself. I was ready to leave and live it up at Lego Land, and then stay up late and watch SNL behind my mother’s back, but the doctor said, “Not so fast! The police have questions!” He said it less dramatically, but that was how I heard it. I was still kind of thinking it was all an episode of Law and Order.
I was asked routine questions about the dog, what happened, and other boring things. I really wanted the police officer to ask me some questions about a homicide, but it never happened. I froze up when they asked about why the dog bit me. I knew that the laws in California were strict on dog bites, and if they thought the dog was easily aggravated, it was usually put down. “I f-fell. The dog’s t-tooth just nicked me when I f-fell,” I lied. I sounded like some battered child making excuses for her abusive father, (I knew what that sounded like because I had been watching Law and Order: SVU, which, by the way, is even worse for small children than the original) but I didn’t care, because in this case, I really was mostly at fault.
The poor police officer stuck on dog duty just said, “I guess it’ll just be house arrest for the offender, then.” I shook my head, indicating my lack of amusement over the lame police humor. My mom and I left, and before we went to Lego Land, we stopped at Taco Bill’s house. I smiled at Nicky cautiously. She would not take the full blame for what was our joint crime.
Go ahead, amuse me is a weekly posting I will be having featuring another funny blogger. Or maybe not a blogger … you could just be a funny person. So, if you would like to be featured all you have to do is email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and send me a funny post. If I AGREE that it’s funny, I’ll simply put up your post with a short intro that you write so that my readers will check out your blog. Of course, you also need to put up a link to my blog saying that you’re being featured over here.
See? WIN-WIN … hope to hear from you … or not!