Yad Sdrawkcab and The “Science” of Numoronology

This magic science employs elements of algebra, geometry, voodoo, music, lighting & poultry
Numeronology Logo with Border
This magic science employs elements of algebra, geometry, voodoo, music, lighting & poultry

A few weeks ago, everything got turned around on me. Literally. On Saturday, October 12th, a day that will live in ymafni, almost every piece of clothing I ventured to dawn came out backwards.

Let’s break this down so it kinda seems scientifical. Backwards day was October 12, 2013. My surgery was the third day of September, in that foul year of our Lord, 2009.

According to this website, 1501 days elapsed between those dates. Significance? 15+0+1=16. The 16th letter of our alphabet is ‘p’.  ‘P’ rhymes with, and is the first letter of ‘pee’ – which is what I must do now…

I’m back, moving on – ‘p’ is also the first letter of the word ‘polar’. In this case, polar has a dual meaning. On the one hand, it’s getting cold outside. We often use said word to denote extreme cold. On the other hand, polar is often placed in front of opposite to suggest something is out of order.

This brings us back to my clothes inversion excursion (exversion?). Anyway, the details are thus –

1# ecnatsnI – As per my usual Friday routine, I put gym shorts on under my pants. At some point that I don’t recall, I decided to put the shorts on both backwards AND inside out.

2# ecnatsnI  – I changed clothes after working out. Did I put the shirt on backwards? Yeppers. Did I fix the shirt to walk my dog? No.

3# ecnatsnI – I took the shirt mentioned in 2# ecnatsnI off after walking said dog and, being so unadorned, I deemed it uncouth to greet the visitor so gently rapping on my chamber door. Away to my dresser I flew like a turtle and grabbed a shirt. I carefully inspected the inside of the collar for the tag, swearing that, henceforth, I shall put my clothes on correctly.

Despite my oath, the damn shirt ended up going on backwards – I blame Fruit of the Loom (this blog brought to you by Hanes “You can’t put our shirts on backwards, we won’t explain how this is possible, you just can’t.”).

Continuing with our / numerilogical/historical/chronological(I will call this new “science” numoronology – notice the five letters after ‘nu’), the square root of 16 (being the sum of 15+0+1) is four. I took the square root because only “squares” where their clothes backwards.

Four is significant because that is the number of botox injections I got in my foot for the last treatment.

I’ve tried with little success to describe the pain that comes from injections in the foot – I’ll give it another shot. To experience this very unpleasant…uhh…experience follow this four step process –

1. Get a long, sharp object (i.e. a needle)

2. Take off your shoe

3. Take off your sock

4. Take the needle from step one and impale the bottom of your exposed for with it four f*cking times!

Please forgive my lack of creativity with that description. You see, I can think of no feeling, painful or otherwise, that compares to a needle stick (nay, four needle sticks) in the bottom of the foot.

However, the pain is worth it after the botox starts to work its magic on my toe flexors.

Listen, after my hemorrhage/surgery, some wires done got crossed and now my toes think my brain wants them to curl all the time.

My brain my or may not be sending a signal to curl so vigorously, but my toes are hearing “CURL, DAMMIT! CURL UNTIL YOUR TOES POINT BACKWARDS!”

Ok, let’s recap. I started by mentioning yad sdrawkcab (backwards day) and finished with curling toes. numoronology is a truly dizzying, convoluted science.

FIN

@JarrettLWilson

Oh yeah, in observance of NaNoWriMo, I don’t plan to blog for the month of November – toodles!

Medical Vernacular Spectacular!

Part of having a condition like mine is learning a lot of big words. I like big words and I like to write silly poems – seems reasonable to assume that I would double like a poem about big words. I haven’t written the poem yet, but I’m sure I’ll like like it. To that end, I’ll quit introducing and start writing the poem you’re about to read. One last note – I’m going to stick to a simple AABBCC rhyme scheme – Shakespeare I amn’t. I’m going to italicize the terms to set them apart.

The medical field uses words that are big and complex,

For instance, raising you for at the able is called dorsiflex(ion) :).

The above word is one of the many that end with I-O-N,

Proprioception is a word that I use often;

It’s a big word for knowing where your limbs are in space.

Circumduction is another I-O-N, it affects walking pace.

When the knee doesn’t want to bend, the leg swings;

If I’m not careful, I’ll start to kick things.

Yet another I-O-N is ambulation;

Or you could say “walking”, if you value concision

Walking is made more difficult by the symptoms of spasticity.

Incontinence is when you have trouble going pee-pee,

“Pee-pee” is a silly word for releasing fluid that is pent.

The fancy term for pooping is “bowel movement”.

There is also a tube for moving pee-pee and other fluids hither and thither,

The fancy word for this tube is catheter.

There’s an intrathecal catheter delivering medicine to my spine ,

The catheter carries medicine from a baclofen pump to help me feel fine.

At first, the needle caused my spine to leak,

But thanks to a blood patch twas fixed in about a week.

To get the blood for the blood patch, the nurses set a Mid line,

The needle went so deep into my arm, I felt like dying.

Medtronic is the company that makes my pump.

Ataxia, or loss of balance, makes it difficult to jump.

Seeing two of something is called double vision or diplopia.

Seeing two of something is called double vision or diplopia.

Dysphagia is one of the fanciest medical terms I know,

It’s easier just to say “it’s hard to swallow”.

Let’s not forget the word for constant muscle contraction,

Hypertonicity is the word given to this action

I owe this list of words to the Pons region of the brainstem,

Without having a major hemorrhage there. I wouldn’t have learned them

This concludes the list

Did you get the gist?

I know I left some off, but I’m happy with this list, short as it may be. I think I explained the meaning of the words pretty well, but here’s a list with definitions just in case –

Dorsiflexion: This is when a door opens – I jest. Quite simply, it’s bending your ankle so that your foot/toes goes up

Proprioception: Obviously this describes a professional at “priocepting”, and as we all know (right?), prioception is the ability to perceive of a Toyota Prius. Actually, it’s your perception of the relative position of some body part.

Circumduction: The Romans came up with this one. Circ is Latin for “Pringles” (they’ve been around for a while). Um is Latin (and every other language ever for “WTF?”). Duction translates to “talking with one’s mouth full”. In essence, when in Rome, it’s not cool to talk with a mouth full of Pringles. Truthfully, it’s when the leg swings outward because the knee won’t bend enough to clear the ground.

Ambulation: Walking

Spasticity: Tremors caused by constant muscle activity

Incontinence: When you’re not on a continent. Examples – swimming in the ocean, flying on a plane or exploring outer space. A less awesome and more truer answer is when you can’t pee

Bowel movement: Pooping (heh, poop)

Catheter: This one was adequately covered above – it’s just a tube

Baclofen pump: A hockey puck shaped machine that delivers sweet, sweet baclofen (muscle relaxer) to the spine

Blood patch: The use of blood to patch a leak in the spine. I asked them if they could just use tape. They laughed derisively and said we could, but then we won’t get to set a…

…Mid line; thereby IMPALING my right bicep to harvest blood from a deep vein

Medtronic: A science fictiony name for a company that makes baclofen pumps

Ataxia: The IRS’s answer to whether or not there’s a tax for some object. E.g. “Is there a tax for asking stupid questions?” IRS reply: “A tax, yeah.” That, or loss of balance.

Diplopia: This one means double vision, I don’t get it. When I think of the word “plop” I think of poop splashing into the toilet.

Dysphagia: Saying disparaging remarks to some named “Phagia” – she(?) will punch you in the throat and make it difficult to swallow.

Hypertonicity: Similar to “spasticity” – constant muscle contractions.

Pons: Latin for bridge due to its position between the cerebellum and the cerebrum on the brainstem (that sounded pretty scientifical, eh?)

Hemorrhage: Internal bleeding, which, when paired with the term above, can create everything above that. Basically, it’s at the bottom of everything (symbolic, no?)

FIN

@JarrettLWilson

Tag Blog Finale, or Is It?

Tags I still have left: Botox  causality cavernoma  Conditions and Diseases Dog  Health Life Alert Magnetic resonance imaging Medicine  OWFI Recreation  Satan Shopping Skylander spasticity sporks tattoos TBI  the big lebowski  Trauma and Injuries TRILS

“Wait, yoo don’t nyeed to get to da choppah. I’m a vyizerd. I can use myagic to zap yoo dehr.” Said Schwarzenegger apologetically.

“Then why’d you throw me?” Asked Zumba angrily.

“I wanted to shout GET TO DA CHOPPAH!”

Zumba huffed, “That’s just silly. Can we get going please?”

*ZAM* Just as he got the last word out he saw a bright flash of light and heard a loud crack. His feet came out from under him, he fell and smacked his head on a concrete sidewalk where his front lawn used to be.

Zumba and Mr. T were standing in front of a run-down Denny’s.

Zumba stood up, rubbed the back of his head… I’ll finish the rest of the story on Saturday, promise.

Sh*t Happens, Part Two +1

The exciting conclusion to “Shasterikit Happens” –

Ben didn’t make it to work that day to inform his staff to avoid using the pre-treated “Germicide” wipes on the east wing of the third floor. Ben was called into Dr. Hoenikker’s office the day before and told by the lab supervisor that they were working on a chemical called “item #9” for the Army and they’ve stabilized it, but exposure to noxious chemicals would cause it to become very volatile.

Unaware of this change, the evening custodian,  Aaron Ellis, used copious amounts of the wipes to clean up what appeared to be spilled milk.

Damn scientists, he thought to himself. He put on a labcoat that was wrapped around the back of a chair and started mocking the scientists. He looked through a nearby microscope, gasped and jumped back in mock amazement, shouted “I’VE DISCOVERED THE SECRET INGREDIENT IN THE COLONEL’S SECRET RECIPE!” He clasped his hands together and shook them from side to side around his head. He picked up a nearby Petri dish and held it up like it was the Nobel prize. Acting choked up with emotion, said “I would like to thank my parents for being rich and powdering my ass until I went to college; where I learned how to make drugs that help cure cancer, but never learned how to clean my own messes.” As he spoke the last few words, he reached into a large container of “Germicide” wipes and slapped them onto the counter and lazily wiped the milk stained area, leaving a sopping puddle of   “Germicide” on the countertop.

In his haste to get to the break room to eat the cheese enchiladas he snuck out of the new Mexican buffet the night before he overlooked an errant wipe on the counter.

The next morning, Dr. Frettoloso, an intern from Italy, arrived very early to show his zeal and commitment to Cheney labs. He went to the vault with all the chemical samples, grabbed a few vials of Item #9 and walked back to his work area.  He took the lid off of one and reached over for a Petri dish, but it wasn’t where he had left it the day before, his tired hand tipped and let a small drop of item #9 hit the counter.

Dr. Frettoloso really didn’t have time to observe safety precautions. He looked over and a saw a moist towel. He grabbed it and very hastily wiped up the chemical, leaving a slight residue on the counter.

The day passed on without incident until lunch. Sitting at the same counter with the item #9/Germicide mixture, he ate his lunch, the usual – a pepperoni pizza Hot Pocket with a small bottle of milk.

He tore into the Hot Pocket, anxious to finish and continue working. He had skipped breakfast that morning to save time, making him all the more ravenous.

After one particularly hearty bite, the pouch split open and spilled out a single pepperoni. It landed in the residue. Instinctively, he snatched it up and threw it in his mouth.

He felt fine for the rest of the day, even took his wife to that new Mexican buffet for dinner. He wasn’t sure about the cheese enchiladas. He made sure no one was looking and used the serving spoon too cut off a bite from a nearby enchilada, lifted the spoon to his infected mouth, leaving behind an ample amount of his tainted saliva. He decided that the cheese enchiladas were sub-par and moved on to the chicken enchiladas to sample them.

Later that evening, Dr. Frettoloso started having stomach pains – he attributed them to the buffet. Like the other diners at “El Comedero Mexican Buffet” that night, his symptoms started as what seemed like food poisoning, but quickly evolved into bloody feces and vomit, ataxia, hallucinations and paralysis before an agonizing death by stroke or heart attack.

The virus, having been spread to so many at the buffet, slowly spread across the whole town by means of bodily fluid exchange and unwashed hands. FEMA seemed to have it all contained, but it was engineered to go airborne to propagate itself. After that, it quickly spread across the nation and, with the help of some disgruntled customs officials at an airport in China, across the world.

Back at Rob’s apartment complex, patio ornament lady took her dog, Shiva, for a walk. She noticed the headline she walked past the newspaper vending machine by the apartment mailboxes, “PANDEMIC! Deadly Virus Spreads to Asia.” She contemplated this as Shiva pooped in nearly the same spot where Rob’s foot found that mound of poo weeks before.

 THE END

I’d like to hear your opinions on this story, please comment.

Sh*t Happens, Part Two

As promised, here is part two of “Shasteriskit Happens” –

Mrs. Sanderson was making pretty good time until she reached the intersection of Main and Lyle streets. The light turned yellow, she was going to run it, but an old Ford pickup turned right onto the road ahead. She peered at the driver, an older man with long grey hair coming out of a brown cowboy hat. Stupid hick, probably late for a date with his cousin. Wouldn’t wanna be late. She chuckled to herself, amused by her own wit.

The light finally turned green, but by that time she was on the other side of the intersection; she had been eyeing the adjacent light, as soon as it was yellow her foot pounded the gas pedal.

The Jetta screamed as she flew through another intersection. She looked at the clock – 7:52 – things were looking up. She could still make it in time and have the whole hour to make her butt as tight as that waitress’s. She was coming to the intersection of Main and Whitley. The light turned yellow; even though she was sitting, she felt her butt jiggle. Not this time. She tightened her grip on the wheel and put the accelerator on the floor. After clearing this intersection she’d only be a few miles away – no more lights.

There was a long line of cars to her left, waiting to turn onto Whitley. Other than that the roadway looked clear. On the other side of Whitley was a blue Ford Econoline van marked “Squeaky Clean Maid Service – We Were Maid to Clean,” trying to turn left. The driver, a middle aged man named Flint, was having a lively debate with his passenger, Janice Jenkins.

“If Pinocchio says, “my nose will grow,” he’d be telling the truth and his nose would stay like it is.” Declared Flint smugly.

Janice shook her head, “No no no, he just lied, so his nose would grow. Are you gonna go?”

Flint smirked, “He said his nose will grow, suggesting he might lie in the future. I can’t see past this line of cars.”

“But what if he doesn’t lie? Then he woulda just lied and his nose would grow. I think it’s clear, gun it! We need to get to Dr. Hoenikker’s house by 8:30, that way we can finish by 11:30 and have a long lunch at that new Mexican buffet.” Said Janice with anticipation.

“Then that statement would turn out to be a lie and his nose would grow, which brings us back to the start. I’m gonna go for it.” Flint could see the steaming plates full of enchiladas and refried beans as he started to turn.

“Is he a real boy or…HOLY SHI…”

*CRASH!*

Before he could finish his expletive, he bit off the end of his tongue as his head snapped forward violently.

The passenger window exploded, showering Janice’s face with shards of glass.

Mrs. Sanderson, in too much of a hurry to put on her seat-belt, flew through her windshield, hit the asphalt about 40 feet away and slid another 20 feet, leaving a bloody trail laced with pink cotton from her Juicy sweat-suit. Her butt jiggled as she came to a stop.

A few miles up the road from Mrs. Sanderson’s bloody, jiggling posterior, Ben Jenkins was getting ready for work. Ben was the head custodian at Cheney Labs. Getting ready for work didn’t take long – put on clean underwear, a plain white tanktop, then slide on coveralls and he’s ready to go.

He was about to walk out the door when the phone rang. Why won’t Janice get rid of that damn thing? We both have cell phones. He reluctantly walked over to the phone, picked up the receiver, “Hello?” He huffed.

“Is this Ben Jenkins?” Asked the voice on the other end.

“Yes, and I need to go to work; I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.” Replied Ben, impatiently.

“Mr. Jenkins, this is Officer Ozey with the highway patrol, are you the husband of Janice Jenkins?”

“Yes sir.”

“Mr. Jenkins, your wife has been involved in a collision at the intersection of Main and Whitley.” Said Officer Ozey, solemnly.

Mr. Jenkins gasped, “Is she ok?” He asked, half knowing the answer.

“There’s no easy way to say this sir, so I’ll just say it – she died. I’m so sorry.”

Ben dropped the phone and started weeping.

End of part two. Tune in tomorrow to find out if Ben broke the phone when he dropped it and if the phone was under warranty…

Sh*t Happens, Part One

Don’t forget that I don’t curse, so the title is pronounced “Shasteriskit Happens”. I’ve mentioned before that I fancy myself a writer, and do so enjoy writing. I would like to share some of my fiction writing with you. The following is a short story I wrote for a short story contest (that I somehow did not win, I blame Satan). It’s pretty long ( fast what she said!), so I dare not post the entire thing. I’ll put up the first part today, this third part tomorrow, and the second part the day after that (approximately).

The inspiration for this story comes from Kurt Vonnegut and the way he trivializes major events. ENJOY!

“PEE-PEE!” Shouted Rob in the highest octave he could muster.
Sandy buzzed with excitement at those words. Rob bent down to clip the leash onto his dog’s collar, but the dog was so spastic with excitement, he couldn’t secure the clip.
“Sandy, help me help you!”
After a few more minutes, Rob had the leash clipped on, potty treats in his breast pocket and a baggie for poop in a back pocket, with that they were out the door.
Sandy led Rob on their usual morning walk – on the sidewalk in front of his apartment, then around the corner into the courtyard of his complex. She went pee, Rob gave her a treat. They continued to the other side of the complex, Sandy scrunched over and pooped on a patch of grass close to a window. Rob decided that, since he was in a hurry and it was dark with no one around, he’d leave the poop there. No one’ll walk there, he assured himself. Rob and Sandy started walking back to the apartment. Sandy was leading Rob through a grassy field. The walk was going speedily until *squish*. Rob slipped a little as warm poo spread onto the bottom of his workboot.
Rob composed himself and used the rest of the walk to scrape his shoe against the grass in hopes that it would remove all traces of poo.
Rob lifted his boot to see the damage, the sole still had a heaping glaze of feces, with a few ambitious clumps that, in an outright “up yours” to gravity, were crawling up his ankle.
Rob thought back to the last tenants meeting. Patio ornament lady brought up the issue of dog owners not picking up their dog’s “excrement” – she refused to say or respond to any slang word for shit. The tenants at the meeting all agreed that they’d do a better job of picking up their dog’s “excrement”.
All the same, Rob’s foot found a very stinky, sticky and gooey pile of “excrement”. Rob didn’t want to show up smelling like poop, so he started scrubbing off his shoe, choosing to be late instead.
Rob woke at six, extra early that day because the central office called him late in the evening on the previous day to assign him the job. Rob, an AC repairman, already had a job lined up for that day; but Mrs. Sanderson, his boss’s sister in law needed a technician right away, she said her AC wasn’t cold enough. She gave strict instructions that he was to be there no later than 7:15.
He arrived about 7:40. Mrs. Sanderson was pacing back and forth on the steps of her porch, yelling into her phone; no doubt at Rob’s boss.
She noticed the van pull up, abruptly ended her phone conversation and stormed down the steps. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” She shrieked.
“Well you see, there was this grizzly bear chasing after some orphans…”
“OH, CAN IT! Do you know how much Zumba classes cost?”
“Eleven dollars?” Rob said sarcastically. “What’s a Zumba, anyway?” He asked with mock sincerity.
“I don’t have time to answer your bullshit questions, you’ve already made me late. Air conditioner is in the attic. I’ll be back in an hour, try to be outta here by then!” Before Rob could respond, she was halfway to her Jetta.
She sat down and turned the car on. Neil Diamond blasted through the speakers. She mouthed the line, “Hurting runs off my shoulders. How can I hurt when holding you?” She took her iPhone from her purse, she stopped to examine the new pink and white checkered case she just got for it, “Sorry, Neil. It’s Steve’s turn.” She said apologetically to her stereo. She plugged her phone into the cord coming from her car’s auxiliary port, pecked at her phone and Journey flooded the inside of the car. Mrs. Sanderson always listened to Journey before working out.
She usually leaves at 7:30 sharp. It takes about 20 minutes to get to the gym, ten minutes to check in and get situated. For a minute, she thought that being a few minutes late would be ok; then she thought about catching her husband staring salaciously at the waitress’s butt at Olive Garden last week. The young girl’s tight ass whirled in her mind’s eye – she floored the accelerator.

End of part one. Tune in tomorrow to find out if Mrs. Sanderson was able to work the jiggle out of her bottom…