The luck of the friggin Irish

Sorry, the world was perfect last week. Not one person had a problem that they needed expert advice for

I went to the walk in clinic in Port Hope yesterday to see what was wrong with my rib, and came home knowing as much as when I went in. Well, I actually know more, because I know I didn’t have the flu when I went into that germ infested office of death, but I sure know it’s here now.

Wait a minute.

It’s come to my attention that I haven’t even mentioned St. Patrick’s Day, or otherwise known as, The Night My Rib Popped And Everyone Tried To Make Me Laugh Because They Could See How Bad It Hurt Me, And Who Doesn’t Love To See A Man Laughing At His Own Misfortune.

Okay, first of all, I wasn’t drinking this St. Patty’s Day, because I had a sore throat all day, and just didn’t feel like it. I also hate St. Patrick’s Day as much, or maybe even a little more than I hate St. Valentine’s Day. I guess I’d have to say that I hate it more, because Mrs. Birdman never gets too drunk to have the relations on Valentine’s Day. St. Patty on the other hand, turns her Scottish-ish ass into a partying, drunken leprechaun, just because there’s a day set aside for shenanigans, and buying new green clothes. Jesus that pisses me off. Not that you give in to the commercialism of a fictitious holiday, Baby. It’s because the man has brainwashed you. 🙂

I received a call at six o’clock in the evening on Saturday night from Gadget. He was a little down in the dumps because Penny was making him stay sober to drive everyone around. I then let it be known that I was going to be the designated driver, much to Gadget’s elation. This freed him of his duties, and allowed his participation in the revelry of the evening. He then told us not to eat, because they had prepared a veritable feast of hors d’oeuvres and other delicacies, and that we should get our asses over there. STAT!

We had to wait until my darling got all of her preening done and Scooter arrived before we could venture to the party, but when we did, it was magical…

Not really, Juice and Armando were there, Gadget’s big brother and sister in law were also there, but we didn’t get any code names for them, so I guess they’ll remain nameless until they provide us with that info. Coach and the EMT showed up, and another bunch that I have no code names for. There was a whole bunch of food, booze, and frolicking, and as I mentioned before, pain. Yeah, the rib thing, but I’m talking about a far greater pain; the pain of knowing your friends don’t give a shit about your health, as long as you can entertain them.

First, I’m going to put up a small video of Gadget and Penny, drunk and dancing to Cyndi Lauper’s “She-Bop” .

Yeah, I know it’s not a cinematic masterpiece, but it will show you how the night was starting to deteriorate.

So as Penny and Gadget were fighting over what music they would dance to, I was holding a conversation with the love of my life. As I told you earlier, I had a bit of a sore throat all day, and it was keeping me coughing. I turned my head to the left so I wasn’t coughing at anyone, and as I hacked up half of a lung, I heard and felt a *pop* coming from the front of my ribs at the bottom. I immediately held the slight bump where something had kind of bulged out, and hoped it wasn’t anything too serious. The pain was excruciating at first, but as I positioned myself differently it got a bit better. I exclaimed that I had popped something in my ribs, and Gadget proceeded to tell me how much that hurts, and what I need to do to fix it. He seemed very knowledgeable on the subject, and told me of the many times that had happened to him, and that I needed to lay down, so Penny could put the rib back in the socket. Now remember, I hadn’t had a drink, puff or otherwise, so I was a little leery of this procedure. He assured me that this is what had to be done, and he went to get Penny’s ass over to the emergency.

This is when Penny told me that Gadget goes to the doctor or chiropractor for this, and she didn’t know what to do, but she would surely try. Only because she’s a good friend, and hey, nothing like practicing bone relocating on a good friend. I believe that was when Mrs. Birdman came over with the camera to catch the procedure, but I had since declined the well meaning Penny’s offer.

Here is the footage of that.

It may seem rude of me to refuse the help of a friend, but these people were smashed. I’d be remiss if I allowed them to perform, for the first time I might add, chiropractic adjustments on me, no matter how good their intentions. I did let Gadget squeeze from the side while I pushed around where it hurt, but that was just an attempt to put it back in it’s socket. I don’t believe ribs even have sockets, but I was trusting him on this, only because he apparently has had this happen on several occasions to himself. I would imagine his were all masturbation related, but that is merely speculation.

For the next twenty minutes or so, I was subjected to bouts of hilarity, to which I would laugh and it would feel like someone was jabbing their finger directly into my liver or spleen. This was painful, so I would gasp, and then everyone would see if they could make me laugh some more, by saying stupid things, and acting all goofy like. I think the worst thing was when Penny told me to go lay down in her bed to be more comfortable. The fucking bed has got to be four feet off the ground. Who needs to be that high up in the air? I got news for you, the monsters aren’t real, and even if they were, you’re giving them all kinds of room to manoeuvre down there. Another thing I want to know is, How are you going to jump on the bed without smashing the ceiling? Jesus, that’s crazy. I could just be angry and going on the offense because I’m only 5’6″ if I’m lucky, and I don’t want people to think that I can’t physically get up there with a dislocated rib.

Anyways, I’m proud to say that my rib seems to be healing fine, but now I have caught the flu or something from the medical clinic. I hate going there, with their small waiting room crammed full of people. Coughing and wheezing all willy-nilly. They should all be staying home and sleeping that shit off, instead of going out and infecting everyone else. Ah, I digress.

I’m going to leave you with the photo of what was happening when I went back to pick those drunken fools up from The Queens. I found them in the park, and the only way I knew it was them was the constant flash of the camera. Juice and Armando had taken off, but I’m going to need the pics off of their camera, and any others that were down there. I know from the pics on ours, that Dora and Stella were there, along with Shifter and a few others that have no code names. God damn it people. You don’t want the law to know your real names do you? Anyhow, get your photos in today if you want them to go in tomorrow’s blog post. Love you.

These are my less than quarter Irish pals. I wouldn't trade 'em for the world

Hey, they say that a stitch in time saves nine, they say I better stop or I’ll go blind, oop she bop,

Birdman

Google+ Comments

5 thoughts on “The luck of the friggin Irish

  1. It is becoming more and more clear to me that i should not drink ever again! Or dance! or get pictures taken of me while in a park, on a bench, while Scooter and Penny are having relations! awkward!
    Had a great time Birdman, thanks for all the laughs! maybe the next time you can’t breathe and are wincing in pain, you could quickly drive, or have the mrs., drive you over so we can laugh our asses off at your expense!
    Fun had by all, except that bic clean shaved head guy with no shirt – i was kinda hopin Gilly Jr. was going to kick the shit out of him on the patio – no such luck!
    Old man take a look at my life, I’m a lot like you!
    Gadget(ina)

  2. Pingback: It’s Not A Toomah (I hope)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *