I suppose that karma gets everyone in the end - or, in my case, the femur.
You see, I spent a few days last week p!ssing gleefully into Aaron Klein's upturned choirboy face ( splish splash ). I never once feared the wrath of his mighty god YWHW. It appears that by picking on little Aaron, unfortunately, I incurred the... "displeasure," let's say... of at least one-third of the award-winning trio act Pops, Junior, and Spooky G (I've always been more of a Salt-n-Pepa fan myself).
Yea, verily, it was Sunday night - the Lord's night! - and a vicious snowstorm was pounding Salt Lake City like a prize burro in a miniskirt at a Kentucky county fair. Thick drifts of snowflakes swept down from a pencil-gray sky, and like a good citizen, I was helping my beloved mother shovel the driveway at her place in Sugar House.
Both my Sainted Ma and I were bundled up so thoroughly that only a small slit of eyeball-punctuated skin was visible on either of us. We had pretty much knocked out the entire driveway when we started to clear the final curlicue at the bottom, a viciously steep and slippery patch of freezing concrete. I planted my legs, started to shovel, and whoops-a-daisy! - down I went.
|THEM'S THE BREAKS WOKKA WOKKA|
I've had the wind knocked out of me before, but never like this. The second my upper thigh hit the the ground, it snapped my femur in two like a Twix at the hip joint (see above). I screamed at the top of my lungs, and continued to do so for several minutes - I've never made a big deal out of my personal manliness and it turns out that's a good thing, because I am *NOT* manly, apparently, when it comes to snapped femurs.
As I lay on my back howling in the snowstorm, flakes gathering into a thick coating on my face and in my beard, my parents' neighbors staged a remarkable act of community-mindedness and moral badassery. No fewer than four burly neighbor men (one of whom is even an ER doc up at the University) helped carry my helpless, mewling ass from what I was pretty sure was my new permanent home on the slick pavement to my mom's SUV. We were off, through the snow-induced shutdown of the entire city, to the hospital.
Our first stop was at an Urgent Care Center in Sugar House. When the aides got a look at me they told us to head to the ER at LDS hospital, so onward and upward we went.
The first thing the EMTs at LDS Hospital did was move me to a stretcher. The second through tenth (?) things they did involved progressively larger amounts of morphine going into my veins. I swear to the many gods that I have never been given a dose of opiates anywhere near that large in my life, but I wasn't high at all - just no longer able to feel my broken femur grinding against itself and my hip joint any more (a tactile experience I would encourage everyone to avoid if at all possible).
One very impressed X-ray technician later ("god DAMN that's a break!") I was put into an ambulance and transported about 70 blocks over the ghostly, snow-choked abandoned freeways to the Orthopedic Trauma Center, where I was given a hearty shot of pre-surgery anesthetic. They patched me up nicely, using only the highest-quality robot parts:
|yeah, yeah, "we can rebuild him," I've heard it already|
That metal rod extends the entire length of my right femur - a feat of engineering I like to think of as my body's version of the Hoover Dam, or the Golden Gate Bridge. In addition to my intra-meat adornments, I now also sport three extremely grizzly and impressive scars/gashes on the outside of my right upper leg, from my knee to my hip.
So - two lessons to take away from this little adventure. First, as an assortment of snappy halfwits quipped throughout the ordeal (including myself in my more addled moments) "NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED HAW HAW HAW!"
Second, if Pops, Junior or Spooky G *were* involved in this, I'm going to have one of the more venerable and terrifying South American gods of the dead punch one or all of them in the stomach until they cry.