• 5:30am – male human awakes from extended nap cycle
• 5:32am – my dog creature is released outside to do whatever-it-does-outside.
  • further observation required. Its possible that my dog creature is playing with colored string.
• 5:33am – male human contaminates captive water reservoir in lower level reading lounge
• 5:34am – dog ‘food’ placed in reflective bowl.
• 5:35am – my dog creature returns and eats all ‘food’ within approximately 20 seconds.
• 5:36am – human male retreats to second level rain-storm simulator.
  • For the love of Bastet, WHY? *shudder* so.. so wet.

    No attempts to assert control over human male prior to rain-storm simulation have produced consistent results to date. On far too many days I’ve gone thirsty for lack of water.

    If my calculations are correct, the human will be unable to fit ‘food’ into my dog’s bowl if I have filled the bowl with me. The male human should then realize that he should have already given me water by this time.

Follow up:success!

1. I am a company
2. I am stationed in the building IDSI operated out of 11 years ago
3. The useful information about my company can be found in my blog post about my 20 year High School reunion?

    The temporary cast placed upon Sam by the emergency room doctor started mid-thigh and proceeded awkwardly down her leg and ended only after passing the majority of her toes on its way to misery. Sam wailed through most of the night on Sunday morning* and suffered none-to-quietly through the indignities of having to make use of a small bathroom when you can’t bend at the knee.

    The permanent cast she received on Monday afternoon and apparently colored to match her toenails, is a much better fit in her busy lifestyle.

    Regardless of this improvement she stayed with Grandma the next day, resting while carving out Sam-shaped dent in Grampa’s La-Z-Boy. She wanted to go there again this morning, and was not too keen on the idea of going back to school be-crutched.

    Groaning from under her piled up comforter, she pulled her pillow over her head tightly. “I don’t wanna go…”

    ”You don’t have a choice, Sam,” I reached under the textiles and tussled her hair, “The doctor didn’t say you had to stay home, we don’t have a note, and you need to get back to class.”

    ”But my leg still hurts!”

    I yanked the comforter off the bed, and began tugging at the pillow. “Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up-”
    ”STOP, DADDY!!” she interrupted, and struggled up onto her elbows, and surveyed her leg where it was carefully enshrined atop her penguin Pillow Pet, “I don’t think I should go.”

    Her bed, suspended five feet in the air, was separated from me by a small flight of stairs and it was upon these that I leaned, crossing my arms, and considered. Remembering my eldest daughter’s basic nature, I came up with a sure-fire idea. “Tell you what, Sam”

    ”What?”

    ”I’ll take you in early and walk around the halls with you. If you can’t handle it you don’t have to stay.” I knew that as soon as she was crutching around the school, getting attention from everyone and hamming it up, she’d have no interest in spending another day watching the news with Grandma.

    And I was right.

    Horsing around outside the restaurant, Samantha was running pell-mell at me when one of the boys fell in front of her.

    Sam kicked the boy in the head, fell in such a way as to punch me full-on in the nuts, and everyone lay in a heap moaning.

    After everyone else recovered and staggered to their feet, Sam remained in great pain. Her leg looked straight to me, but she wouldn’t put any weight on it and she sobbed in pain pitifully.

    X-Rays showed, however, a clean fracture straight across the tibia. Second broken bone in less than a year for our little maniac, and here we are waiting for the temporary cast. Our friend’s boy? Absolutely fine and with nary a headache.

    It wasn’t the first time she’s kicked a boy when he’s down, and probably won’t be the last. But hopefully this will be the most painful and every boy she kicks from this point out will get the worst of the affair.

Time… marches ON!

The biggest negative side effect is various images that were lost (all of which are recent uploads) and all comments from after June of 2009. I don’t know as there were that many to begin with, but feel free to place them back when you get a chance.

    Later, as I regained some semblance of consciousness, I noticed I sported a rubber bracelet with the word “Flonase” scribbled across it. I wobbled my head around to face the nurse who was caring for me at that time.
    ”Did someone try to stick Flonase up my nose while I was under?”
    ”No!”
    ”Good. The bracelet worked.”

    Seriously, I can’t imagine a world where someone notices a congested man lying unconscious and decides they should get a quick spritz up the wazzoo for good measure, but then again I couldn’t imagine a world in which Jersey Shore is a viable entertainment option and reality astounds in many ways…

    Pictured above is yours truly, donning a fashionable “immobilizer,” which seems to be a cross between a sling and a straight jacket. It’s intended to prevent me from tossing and turning at night and disturbing the flesh of the dead which is still quite weak and not so good at its job of holding my shoulder together.
    I am also wearing a comfortable pair of Monty Python “Its Just a Flesh Wound” printed sweat-pants. I swear I have had them for years, but it still seems incredibly appropo, right?
    During the day I still wear the sling you see in my initial pre-op article below, which is much more comfortable and matches just about any style I would care to wear.

    Curious about the zombie flesh? Some kind soul left their mortal remains to a tissue bank when he or she passed from this mortal coil* and Dr. Straud, orthopedic surgeon at large, cut me open on Wednesday and used some of these cadaver ligaments to replace the ones I destroyed in my bicycle accident. Over time my body should use this processed tissue as a kind of trellis or arbor upon which to grow actual SafeT meat.
     Then, a swift few months of physical therapy later, I’ll be back to an approximation of my original capabilities.

    I’m still on the fence about sending in the anonymized thank-you card to the tissue bank for to be forwarded to the family of the departed. I’d hate to find out these ligaments were from a murderous psychopath and that I’ll soon find myself involuntarily shoulder-butting nuns and pretty young women** to death.

    Interesting fact! SafeTinspector gets very cranky on Percocet. I’m pretty bad company on the stuff. On the other hand, it effectively quashed my libido, so Heather ended up considering it a mixed bag and, on the whole, pronounced it a plus.***

    Lastly, its a good thing I don’t have much hair, because I’m washing my head in the sink and taking baths to get clean. This is on account of these bandages are not to be removed by anyone except Herr Doktor Straud, and I won’t be seeing him until Thursday, a week and a day after the operation. TO add embarrassment to the list of unpleasantness I’ve suffered, I’ve had to have Heather help me clean and dry certain areas. Exactly how do one-armed people apply deoderant to their armpit if they’re single?

    And, lemme tell you, there are some things under that bandage that dearly beg to be scratched but are doomed to itch in excruciating silence until that blessed day.