15

This here tale I wrote February 28th, 2010.




Welcome to the Sunday Side Show.

This is not a good day to visit here.

There will be descriptions of terrible things. Visit another site, unless you have a strong stomach.

Just below is a tune that may offset the queasiness, as we delve into an exploration of post punk fight triage. It's a bit gross, what I am about to relate to you, you curious TDC Enjoyer.

For Little Joey. It was my fault that you got sliced, bud. I really fucked it up this time, Mad-Dogging Muy Largo.

Joey's the Leo sign, but he hates it when I call him Little Lion Man, when we chat from coast to coast. He hates the word Little. Dude has the Little Big Man Syndrome.

Little.

Hehehehe.

I am East Coast. joey continues to reside in Fuckno, CA. He's always telling me about the latest conquest of them young ladies. I tell him that there is nothing better than a woman who will put up with your shit for years, and yet will scratch that itch ya got all night looooong... anytime.

What do you think is better? When will your fuel burn out?

Press play.



OK, here we go. Again, it gets gross.

We began surgery. I did this for him, because I caused his injury, from Muy Largo. Joey was my best friend, you understand. What would you have done?

Tellesco carried Little Joey up the outside stairs into the Shields Avenue apartment on the second floor and laid him on the kitchen table. I got Joey's leather off quite gingerly, which has nothing to do with red-heads. His leather had been sliced on the top shoulder, and his leather saved him from being sliced deeply, into bone, and probably losing the muscle connectors we love and need so much; the tendons.

Sean grabbed some couch cushions. Little Joey was pale. He needed to have his legs raised, but not before we stopped the bleeding. His shirt was all bloody, and we needed to get that off of him.

Of course, if Little Joey's life had truly been in danger, we would have went directly to the "Hosstibal." But if you do not need or want to end up in jail for such illegal activities, and you know about first aid at all, then you might want to try some good old fashioned battle-field dressings.

Why in thee hell would you engage in a knife fight and not have triage all prepared? Why would you not check out what to do "In Case Of..." That is simply stupid. Always have everything prepared and ready for after, if you do, indeed, survive.

Or do not engage in a knife fight. Your choice.

Using scissors to cut away his once white but now red T-Shirt, I examined his shoulder. The blood weeped out, but the dried blood (clots) appeared all over the wound. It would need to be irrigated. This means cleansing, and sanitation, and then, after that was done, compression of the wound.

I am and never will be a medical person, so I did not know how to suture blood vessels together. If that was needed, we'd bring him to safety.

There is no way in hell that someone will sew up skin like Rambo did to himself on his own arm, in the first movie. But that makes for good cinema. In real life, unless you have become inured to viewing open flesh wounds to the point that you will not pass out, and then can proceed to sew up veins and repair tendons and then sew up the skin, then you are not a doctor.

You need to have a coupla shots to steady your queasy stomach, and settle your nerves.

Now mind you, Little Joey was pale and had passed out because of the wound, and the pain. He actually had not lost all that much blood. He had slipped into shock because that is what you do when you have been sliced.

Little fucker had even got us away from the madness by driving Fat Jerry's Hearse for a bit, but then the Flight or Fight Adrenaline had done its job, and that is when he passed out at the wheel while going quite fast.

So, this is what I discovered. He was lucky. The wound did not have anything that could not be treated here, on the kitchen table, with the cheesy 70's-style plastic orange fake-ass Tiffany ball hanging over head (with the cheap black chain that hid the electrical cord, and went across the ceiling, down the wall, into a wall outlet, not fooling anyone, how cheesy) and the sheet of poly we'd laid on the table before, hours ago.

Yes, quite morbid. But this it what you do.

I took two shots of some cheap-ass tequila, and rinsed my hands in white lightning alcohol in the sink. We always had some moonshine on hand.

Moonshine is not very well refined. It is strong because it it is not watered down, but it also contains trace amounts of the other alcohols that are not fit for human consumption. Too much of that shit in one sitting, and it will pickle your eyeballs after it combines with the hydrochloric acid in your stomach and turns into embalming fluid, formaldehyde, and jets into your blood stream.

First place to get this poison is your eyes. You go blind, you see?

Anyways, I got grossed out pulling his skin back a bit, but nothing spurted out at me. No arteries were cut. Not even any veins. It was all flesh.

I wasn't going to do any sewing, fuck that. I saw sparkles in my field of vision, and my stomach churned. Probably the cheap Tequila, but most likely not.

"Dude, you sweating, and you all pale. You OK?" Bryan asked me.

"Shut up." I pinched Joey's skin together with one hand and dried the skin with gauze while I still could.

"Tape."

Fat Jerry, (who had also rinsed and scrubbed his hands in Moonshine and then dried them off with some sterile pads) handed me strips of medical tape. He did not seem to mind any of this shit.

Fat Jerry and Sean were quite lucid. They had gotten into the powder. It was probably like a movie for them at this point.

Me? I would not be lucid for much longer. I taped Joey's skin edges together and began to feel quite faint.

"Ugh. Jerry, you will have to put the dressing on. I'm gonna go prop up my feet."

There are layers of flesh between the bone that you see and the outer layers of skin. Living bone is actually pinkish white, due to the blood in it, from being alive. But the skin layers in the shoulder are actually quite thin. It looks very much like the cross-section of the Earth in those grade-school science books.

And yet, you can observe subcutaneous fat, spidery veins, and the bleeders, the tiny arteries, and these are all quite gross to see.

Proper is to sew. Desperate is to tape the fuck out of it with shit that doesn't lose adhesive quality from body dew once adhered.

I had done it.

I went and put my feet up on the wall on the cushion-less couch, head hanging low.

Fat Jerry put all kinds of gauze on the butterfly-ed wound, and taped this shit up. Then Sean put the couch cushions under Little Joey's legs and they all prayed.

Yeah, right.

Instead, they snorted more coke, and began to reminisce about the Machismo Meet, as I regained my composure, and Little Joey healed, and slept.


And this this what they said during their drugged-out talk---

----next weekend.


Here are a coupla links for ya. I got to go put my feet up on the wall for a bit, on the couch.

Blecch.

Terrible Things by April Smith.





++++++++++++++++++

So, not reporting found money is a crime? Now that's a crime.


Robot Apocalypse. Wait, what?


In the other direction, this.


Now, for you smart nerds and geeks. Home Dec.


Here is some NSFW shit that is not from a pron site. Ya know. Art and all...


Here is a site we visited years ago, you TDC Enjoyer. Why not revisit?


Here is an answer from the brainiacs at 4Chan, but on this site.

In another direction, here is a site that may take some time to explore. Let's start with this pic.


Quotes from brainiacs. Let's start with Frank Zappa, God Rest His Brainiac Soul.



I dig smart chicks. I meet them all the time. Do you? Here's a Rocket Scientress Morgan Smith.



This is some good advice, if you are smart, but laxy, (not lazy). How to write a research paper in less than... oops, got laxy there for a bit...


You laxy?

Or are you lazy?

Whatever you are, thank you for reading my tales.

Next weekend, I'll tell you about the Flora Du Mal, that hot, and scary, mutha fuckin bitch.

I got the Boyz to make the Noize, ya see...



In case you young, "Inglorious Basterds" don't "get" that shit above, here's an autoplay for you, while you go clean up your dorm room.



God Help You.

God Help Us All.


---willies out.