Never Say You Bite Rocks

The way I did in the comments of my last post. Because someone will come along and make you prove it.

Typing will recover in a day or two, once the gong wears off a little more from slamming my right forefinger solidly in the driver’s door of my car, leaving a half-inch split in the fingerpad.

Amazingly, I could still work three hours later. Always have peroxide, straight oil of arnica, flexible ice gel packs, painkilling antibiotic ointment and big adhesive bandages around the house. And nitrile gloves, if you have to wring out people’s busted butts.

A red bathroom is a good idea too. It camouflages the bloodstains you miss.

At least it happened after I finished digging the hole in Virginia chalk clay and singing Puccini. Full story after messages from our sponsor.

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10 thoughts on “Never Say You Bite Rocks

  1. Ow! OW! OW OW Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow

    Sorry to hear you did this to yourself. This is probably one of the sorts of events I am most paranoid about! I still remember a couple of years ago when I fell onto the sauna deck and totally ruined my left shin in the process. As I was lying there in agony saying things that are best left to the imagination, the inventory I was doing was “Is my wrist broken? How is my elbow, etc.” The hole in my shin was incidental, collateral damage I could live with. After all, I don’t do massage with my shins (yet).

  2. Well, things seem a bit better than I dared hope for, and all the good wishes couldn’t have hurt. The finger still looks damn strange but the cut wasn’t as deep as I feared, and it doesn’t really hurt, unless I try to turn a key in a door, so I try not to do that much. Plus, only one male client has been really freaked out by the sight of me donning a nitrile glove.

    I have all that stuff around because of practicing out of the house; arnica is the ne plus ultra of bruise and strain fixers, ice packs are always needed, and those gloves are for emergencies just like this one. Today all I needed when not working was a Hello Kitty band-aid. That keeps the guys perplexed.

  3. Pingback: The Gentleman « Sixteen Tons

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