Five Things, The Damaged Shoulder Edition: 1/15/14

So, I done gone and dislocated my right shoulder. I spent a few hours in a Chicago ER crying and writhing in pain–totally being ignored by ‘the best health care in the world.’ Not good. After a fentanyl drip, two batches of x-rays and being “out” when the docs jammed my shoulder back where it belongs, I finally went home. You’d think that would be it, but NO. It wasn’t until after I got home some 6 hours after I was wheeled into the busy ER, that I realized my left arm was seriously injured (have a bruise that looks like an eggplant), and I had contracted a nasty case of frost bite….yes, FROST BITE.. on my left hand.

Frost bite? Where am I? Mt. Everest?

Over the next few days, the shoulder pain turned into to a dull ache, and the pain of the frost bite and bruised arm came roaring in. Sure, I had good drugs, but I can’t handle the strong stuff. Hey, I have a hard enough time maintaining control of all four limbs without big pharma..why would I want to dull my senses and possibly bust my noggin?

While it is better, I am treating myself to an MRI on Friday, so when I meet with my bone doc next week, I’ll know if surgery is the answer or a bionic arm.

I’m going for the bionic arm because fuck yeah.

On with the show.

1) It’s 111 degrees on the Australian Open courts. 

Yaroslava Shvedova of Kazakhstan receives treatment by trainers during her first round match against Sloane Stephens of the U.S. at the Australian Open tennis championship in Melbourne, Australia, Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2014.(AP Photo/Aaron Favila)

Yaroslava Shvedova of Kazakhstan receives treatment by trainers at the Australian Open tennis championship, Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2014.(AP Photo/Aaron Favila)

2) While we’re on the subject of tennis, I’d be happy to de-crampify either of these gentlemen’s asses should they start to feel the heat down there.

The Ass Master: Roger Federer (via Men's Tennis Forum)

The Ass Master: Roger Federer (via Men’s Tennis Forum)

Screen shot 2014-01-15 at 10.30.53 PM

Rafa Nadal’s good side.

Even when Rafa’s picking his seat, it’s still sexy.

Screen shot 2014-01-15 at 10.34.12 PM


3) Folks, we gotta figure out a way to keep society from sliding down Crap Mountain.

Sadly, this ain’t helping.

“Men Want to Wear [Leggings], And That’s A Fact!” Say Meggings Man Owners

No, no they don’t. Men don’t want to wear something that’ll make them look like a Ken doll.

Screen shot 2014-01-15 at 10.53.24 PM


Unless you’re running down the … No. No. These aren’t appropriate ever.


4) She’s my idol.

Great Great Grandma Celebrates Turning 100 By Hiring a Stripper

(via Gawker)

(via Gawker)

She rolls hard. With a tiara.

Go Granny!

5) Here’s some food for thought: If an owl was really attacking you, you’d know it.

Multiple owl attacks reported in Springfield

Bored owls are fun owls!

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Phive Tings: September 25, 2013

1) When Mother Nature wants to get your attention, she does it with a bang.


via The Telegraph UK.

Pakistan earthquake island is a ‘mud volcano’

Dr Brian Baptie from the British Geological Survey says the island that appeared off the coast of Pakistan after the earthquake is a “mud volcano” formed as gas and water forced its way to the surface.

Holy shiite. So, even though this 7.7 magnitude quake killed over 300 people, it managed to create an island because why the hell not?

2) It’s no secret that many child stars don’t age well. Some turn to drugsand more drugsSome become strippers then go and kill themselves. Some turn into punk rockers and cameramen/script supervisor. Then, there are those who turn out well, but they’re no fun to talk about, which leads us to Kirk Cameron. Turns out this born again, gay hatin’, blames-the-Holocaust-on-Darwin, Christian is now God’s Dear Abby. Don’t believe me? Then, you’re going to hell, but first read this.


Kirk Cameron Answers Your Letters to God

God is tough dude to get a hold of see, unless you’re Kirk Cameron. He and the Big Guy are chums–so much so that he had to make a movie about his relationship with God. Oh and Cameron’s–oh SHIT. We missed it. The screening via Liberty University was last night and we fucking missed it. Shitty shitty piss piss fuck fuck.

But WAIT! My sources tell me that this cinematic tour-de-force will be screened AGAIN on October 3rd. Anyone care to join me?

3) While we’re on the subject of religion, another big star of the 1970s/early 80s is having a tough time with her abode.

Olivia Newton-John Holds Exorcism At Florida Home After Contractor Suicide



via The Inquisitr.

“Olivia Newton-John hired a priest to perform an exorcism at her Florida home after a contractor committed suicide on the property last month.

Christopher Pariseletti was believed to have been having financial difficulties with his business and asked the 64-year-old Grease star for a loan to keep it from closing. He killed himself with a shotgun by the pool while the home was empty and was found by another contractor. Pariseletti was apparently seen crying earlier that morning.”
Aaaaaaand that’s all you really need to know about this story. Why? Because I’m too lazy to write about it.
4) Oh, Florida, Florida, Florida.
via Raw Story.

Yet another Florida man arrested at strip club for leaving kid in car

(via Raw Story)

(via Raw Story)

Why am I not surprised by the word “yet” in the headline? Anyone care to take a stab at as to why?

5) Game, set, smash!

Martina Hingis Teams Up With Mother, Mother’s Boyfriend To Beat Up Husband



Apparently, Martina Hingis has a hard time keeping her balls in the court, and likes to play doubles with more than one partner, and her hubby didn’t care for it. So much for tennis being a game about love.

That’s one helluva slam.

Cycling’s Saviour?

Now that the one-balled, lying, scheming, former hide-the-sausage-partner of Sheryl Crow’s, and infamous doper–AKA Lance Armstrong–has managed to sully not only hard-working, non-doped-up athletes everywhere, he’s also championed turning the drug dump that is known as the Tour de France into an event that’s on par with the Summer Redneck Games.

Sports analysts have been griping and whining about how Armstrong has ruined everything EVER, and have also pondered if the once-prestigious sporting event can ever be saved. (Side note: A possible solution? Allow doping, but add a wrinkle & make the event tougher and more dangerous as a test to see whose dope is dope, yo.)

Here’s my thought–make allll of the participants wear one of these–even if they win a stage. Fuck that maillot jaune prentious horse hockey.

productimage-picture-peewee-herman-comedy-podium-suit-cycling-bicycle-bike-2588Can’t quite place the outfit?

This may help:

pee-wees-big-adventure-1985-paul-reubens-pic-1The competitors should also wear white Bucs, be shorn like this and ride bikes just like PW’s, but only if they want to. But, they should style their fancy bikes to look like his bike.

What I would give to see this, but spinning along the lavender fields of Provence:

pee-wee-herman-in-the-olympicsThere is hope for this world.

Suckwad McSuckersons

The gal with the mostest moxy on WordPress, Madame Weebles, had a great post earlier this week. So, whilst I was getting my sweat on during Bikram, I decided to answer the call of this siren and play along.

I blow donk at the following:

Not holding my tongue (shut up, pervs). Now, a little history about yours truly here. I’m a WASP (doormat) and with that pedigree comes learning how to make good conversatin’ at a wee age, a wicked sense of humor, a good edumacation and the ability to hold a lot of liquor and still be a McCrabass.

In other words, I’m a youngish Ouiser Boudreaux.

I wish.

However, when I was younger, the rule was to not talk about yourself (doing so was considered selfish), be polite and not ruffle any feathers (once again=doormat) regardless of what was being uttered to ruffle said feathers. Same goes for the utterer….right. Be polite to that person, then rip them to shreds when you’re with the fam. As I’ve aged, I’ve switched those two rules. Simply put, I don’t suffer fools lightly–and it shows. Now, I don’t immediately jump down someone’s gullet when they start spewing stupid, but I do when what has been said is either a right-out falsehood or an insult to me or mine. When I do say something, it’s usually quick and sharp, and has been known to harbor a certain amount of acidity that was part of my kind and genteel demeanor a few years ago. This is where I get into trouble–and lots of it. But changing my ways would be bad to my mental health so I’ve learned how to take what I dish out at a relatively early age.

My laziness when it comes to taking care of myself. I’m a lazy ass–I just am. I eat well, but if no food is in sight, I won’t eat. I’ll just think about food and hope that it’ll magically appear. On the plus side, I do Bikram yoga, go for long walks and drink copious amounts of water — and that’s about it aside from the occasional box of wine and trough of chocolate.

I can’t play basketball — at all. I’m turrible, turrible at it. What’s real odd is I believe that I should be good at it–why? I grew up playing tennis, riding to the hounds and plunging off of 3 meter springboards at break-neck speeds–where does basketball fit in?

Tally ho!

I don’t even like basketball all that much–same goes for baseball–come to think of it. The sight of me attempting to play can cause blindness so I don’t even try anymore because I do care about my fellow citizens that much.

Even Stanley is better than I am.

Being employed. I’ve been job-free for almost 2 years now and have no idea as to why I’m still not working, and find it odd that I’m persona non grata in the Chicago media world. I don’t want to talk about it though.

Overthinking. Being too cerebral. Too much in my head. This horrid habit tends to paralyze me at times. Instead of just “going for it”, I sit back and think of every possible thing that could go wrong AND right! Then, by the time I decide to go for it, the moment is gone and then there I am–holding my limp dick, or a limp dick. Depends on the situation I guess.

This next one may come as a shock, but I’m not all sweetness & light. I’m a born cynic. I see pictures of fluffy kittehs, puppehs and other woodland creatures, and do they warm the deep, dark parts of my soul? Nah. In fact, they fill me with dread because I know those critters are being pimped out for their cuteness but will soon be put back in some horrid basement or animal shelter somewheres because folks are too fucking stoopid/macho to get their animals fixed. Those animals never had a shot, see, and that sucks.

Pretending to like popular music–both new and old. I can’t stand 90 percent of the music that’s out today. It’s just pure horror produced by no talent shitstains who got lucky–or had someone killed so they could succeed. Same goes for old(er) stuff like Paul McCartney & Wings, Elvis Presley, Edie Brickell, U2, Tracy Chapman, John Mayer, DMB — I could go on and on, but I don’t want this bad juju on my blog. Plus, I wanna see the comments flow in about my audacity of not liking someone’s precious U2 or DMB.

So, to the 3 readers of this blog, what do you absolutely suck at?

Major League Pantomime

I was alerted about this vidya earlier today by one of my sisters, and it still makes me cackle like a scary old broad who’s watching her mangy, rabid dog chase the neighborhood chirrun out of her damn yard.

This happened at a recent Chicago Cubs/Pittsburgh Pirates night game at Wrigley Field.

One caveat here — I am not a baseball fan. It’s not something I follow, but I will go to a game from time to time if the ticket is free and I’m plied with enough alcohol. Kidding about the alcohol part. Ok, ok …I’ll go if there’s an unlimited supply of ballpark hotdogs and Coolie Coos (or whatever they’re called) waiting for me at the park.

I do know this much about baseball: The Cubs blow donk and Wrigley Field is the world’s largest beer garden–but probably with more piss and puke strewn about, and guys with up-turned collars on their polo shirts and backwards baseball caps. Ew.

Plus, I used to live near Wrigley, and I grew weary of Cub fans from Schaumburg sullying my neighborhood with their shitty beer vomit and Schaumburgian ways. And the post-game puke on my car always killed my sunny disposition, and that memory is still knocking around the obsidian-like part of my soul.

However, this performance may restore my faith in America’s Game or whatever it’s called.