When kooky ol’ North Korean leader Kim Jong-il announced that his youngest son, Kim Jong-un, would succeed him as leader, many asked, “Huh, what’s up with that?”
Get to know me, dudes!
Well, for the curious, here are some little know facts about the next leader of Commie Korea.
• He prefers radishes to celery and Captain Morgan’s to both
• Nickname: ‘Son of Looney Tunes’
• Favorite band: Jefferson Starship
• When he was a baby, often wet himself
• Favorite number: 666
• Adores romance novels with Vikings and mermaids
• Dude loves his beer pong and rules at Atari Pong, too!
• He’s Korean
• Follows Ashton K’s tweets religiously
• Hopes to some day appear on Dancing With The Stars in a sheer satin gown
• Has two friends on Facebook, his father is one of them
• Digs thongs
• Likes dragons better than unicorns, neither as much as solid gold bricks
• Wants to grow a John Waters ‘stache some day
• Is seriously considering changing name to Kim Jong-Awesome!
“Whaddya in for?”
The cell has few bars, but you're not going anywhere anyway.
asks the inmate.
“Hip replacement. And you?”
“Ain’t none of your bee’s wax,
” he says whittling a bar of soap into a hotel-size bar of soap. “Just never you mind,”
he says as he rides a goat on a merry-go-round and his head goes Linda Blair in The Exorcist
as unicorns dance a jig on hind legs and penguins play saxes and do backflips.
I wake up. It’s another nurse. She wants blood. Tie-me-off-and-jab-and-ouch-and-tape- the-bleeding-hole and I’m back to sleep again. Then woken-up in a couple hours to have my blood pressure and temperature taken.
And I go back to sleepville for a few hours until the nurse and an assistant come to prop me on my side placing pillows at my back for support.
Plus sign = Less pain!
Throughout it all, I maintain a four hour watch for “Daddy’s Little Helpers.”
I’m off the morphine drip but I need something
to take the edge off.
I had asked to get my pain pills every four hours, but sometimes they will miss a feeding. I learned with my last hip replacement, you never ever ever want to get behind in your pain meds. Once you get behind, it’s hell getting back to the joy of dull pain instead of suffering agonizing pain. The meds are for pain management, not enjoyment. There is no enjoyment in hip replacement surgery–I think some president may have said that.
On my legs are air-powered wraps that work pressure up and down the limbs to keep blood moving. A big danger following any operation is blood clots. These leg-air-wrappies work to alleviate that threat. And they feel good, to boot.
Another thing to reduce the risk of blood clots is giving myself daily shots in my belly with small hypos of a magic blood thinning medicine. I must do these for 30-straight days and the shots do not feel nearly as good as the leg wraps do.
So slow this time does go so slow.
During the day, I face perhaps the ultimate painful challenge– finding something decent to watch on TV. I grip the remote and channel surf up and down like an anteater in search of just one tiny morsel to enjoy. But there is little entertainment nourishment to be found.
Come mealtimes, I search the hospital menu. It reads well, but none of the food delivers on the deliciousness of the thought of said meal. I can’t say it’s bad food, who knows, maybe the drugs have altered my taste buds. I keep playing menu roulette and am served plate after plate of disappointment.
I read. Books comfort me. But I have not chosen happy literature. “Cold Spring Harbor” by Richard Yates, a brilliant writer but not a pick-me-up kind of storyteller. My other book is the last known journal of Richard Brautigan. Not long after writing this journal, Brautigan pulled his own plug. Hmm, maybe I should have packed something a little lighter.
It doesn’t matter. At this point it’s all about serving your time until they spring you. I’m serving hard time, hospital time– where every hour takes four hours to complete.
How many commies can you count?
The news is ablaze that Russians are invading Georgia. I’ve been sequestered beneath my desk disguised in a unicorn costume (the last thing they’d ever expect to find in Georgia, what with unicorns mostly being extinct and all). But I’ve yet to see any commie aggressors.
As this recent picture attests, if the Russians are on Georgian soil their uniforms are blending right into the landscape. This is what makes the red menace so deadly dangerous. Keep a watchful eye, people, they could be slipping Fluoride into our water supply at this very moment. Why do Stalinists hate dentists so much? It’s just not right! Dentists could help us with off shore drilling, ice caps and bridges.
Be safe. Stay hidden. Don’t make borscht. We’ll make it through this, somehow.