Sometimes I really wonder if Dads even like Father’s Day. I mean, it’s nice to get the family together and have a barbecue, and maybe play a game or two, but years of socks and ties and poorly drawn pictures can take a toll on a man…
P.S. I know this isn’t much of a triumphal return to the blog-o-sphere, but it will have to do for now. You will be seeing more regular posts in the future, most of which will have some sort of advertising or humorous theme. They will, of course, be peppered with the occasional absurd life experience from yours truley.
Thanks for reading, and may your camel always be humpy.
Charlie the Unicorn is back with his terrible, terrible friends. I swear, it’s like a car wreck that you just have to watch at least once (or over and over and over).
Over the past few months I’ve been suffering from lingering back pain. Recently, it has developed into a whammy of a headache that just won’t go away. It felt a lot like my head was being crushed by two opposing but equal forces. After putting up with it for over a week, I decided that it was time to go see el doctor (since apparently headaches aren’t supposed to last for weeks at a time).
The doctor surprised me with his news. My headaches were either a result of too much tension, or a brain toumor. It was the best news I’d had all week.
Rather than scheduling a bran scan to determine whether or not there was a cancerous growth inside of my skull that could potentially lead to imminent death, we took the more obvious (less time consuming) procedure and gave me some ibuprofen and sent me to a chiropractor.
I had never been to a chiropractor before. But everyone had great things to say about these dudes, so, to be honest I was a little excited. I showed up early to my appointment expecting to be broken, and rightfully so.
The good doctor began by evaluating my spine and neck, all the while moaning to himself. As he finished, he looked at me and said, “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
“Bad news.” I responded.
“You’re a mess,” he said.
“Uh, thanks…” I interrupted.
“But I can fix you,” he concluded. He then proceeded to ask me to roll back over onto my stomach, because he liked to start his procedures with a deep tissue massage. Now, don’t worry… I know there will be someone who reads this who’ll wonder if I was half (or all) naked, face first in this cushiony torture rack. The answer is no. I was fully clothed. And then came the pain.
This dude must have had some pent up anger from his childhood, or maybe I reminded him of someone who owes him money. Whatever the case was, he was not holding anything back. He was digging his knuckles into my shoulders, neck and head as if trying to rub through my flesh and into my spine where he could gain access to my central nervous system, thereby sucking out my life force with the help of his alien brothers hiding quietly in the next room.
Half way through the procedure, I noticed the door was open. There were people waiting in the lobby. I asked the good doctor if he always kept the door open. “Yes,” he responded. “It keeps people from yelling.”
“Oh, so rather than yell, they just cry quietly into their face cushion like myself?” I asked.
He just chuckled.
I took that as a yes.
After the torture massage came the contortion exercises and snapping of joints I never knew I had. Seriously, if you were there, you would have thought I was smuggling a roll of bubble wrap in my neck. I left his office feeling a combination of better and worse. I thought it was all over until I went home the next day to help my parents prepare for new carpet by tearing up the nasty old stuff.
My mom was standing behind me as I was prying some staples out of the floor when she gasped. “WHAT is WRONG with your NECK?” (My mom emphasizes specific words when she gets impassioned for dramatic effect.) “Does it hurt?”
“Yeah… but the chiropractor said it should when I left, so I didn’t worry about it. Why?”
“It’s covered in BLISTERS!” She announced.
Yup. The chiropractor rubbed my neck and shoulders so hard that the friction caused them to be covered in hundreds of little, white, puss-filled blisters, much like the wretched sunburn I experienced in California last summer. No bueno, my friends. No bueno.
Here’s the kicker though. When I came home and showed my roommates the grotesque display of nastiness, one announced that he had a magic elixir that would help! I was stoked. He ran in his room and fetched me a tube of “BikiniZone Anti-Bumps Shave Gel.” Seriously folks. You can’t make this stuff up.
“Why the heck do you have this?” I asked him.
“Oh… uh… well, I waxed my chest last summer, and I thought it would be good to have this handy to avoid any unsightly bumps and irritation.”
“Right… your chest…” I replied.
Needless to say, I am officially worried. I mean, what deep dark secrets will my roommate unearth about himself next time I go to the chiropractor?
Also, this is for you because I thought it was funny:
Hi! I'm Nate. This is my blog. This is the place where I write about all of that deep stuff that's going on in my head, but that I try not to bring up in dinner conversations. Mostly it all revolves around religion, politics, and love.
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