Excuse Me, Sir…Do you know you’re bleeding?

Around March of 2010, I began mountain biking, which in Indiana consists of climbing more hills than mountains, but let’s refrain from arguing semantics.  I am by no means an expert rider, but I have a lot of fun doing it…I do know that if you do not come home with something bleeding or at least a bruise, you were not riding hard enough!

One Thursday evening in August of 2010, there was an unfortunate mishap involving the back of my leg and the sprocket set on my Gary Fisher.  How do I know it was a Thursday, you ask?  Well, as is Thursday evening tradition, my brother and I patronized our favorite chicken wing establishment after our ride, so I know for a fact it was a Thursday.  Regardless, or irregardless as so many of my grammatically challenged friends may say, we went for a ride at SouthwestWay Park.

Back to the sprocket incident…Due to my inexperience, I forgot to keep my pedals parallel to the ground while going downhill.  Wouldn’t you know it, a stump jumped out and caught left pedal, bringing my crankset (and bike) to an immediate halt.  Newton nailed it when he said something about an object in motion staying in motion until something causes that motion to cease…

Unfortunately for me, my handlebar stem was the “something” that stopped my forward motion.  The collision of my, huh-hum…manhood, with the handlebar stem set in motion a chain of events which let to my right calf being struck by my sprocket set, leaving a series of 8 gashes in my flesh.  I am not known for my intestinal fortitude or ability to refrain from blacking out at the sight of blood, so I chose not to look at the wound and keep riding.

Unaware of how grotesque my leg was, I proceeded to the wing establishment with my brother.  He informed me that my wound was not looking all that great, but I already knew that given the pain coursing up and down my calf.  I decided to wait until after I enjoyed my wings to take a look. 

While waiting for our food, I noticed one of our fellow wing enthusiasts was looking over at me.  I assumed it was because of my dashing good looks, but apparently it was my bloody leg that was catching her attention.  She began to look bothered, and soon made her way over to me and said, “Excuse me, Sir.  Do you know you’re bleeding?” to which I replied, “Yeah, I hope it is not bothering you.”  “No” she replied, “but you may want to take along a bandage next time.”

I am not sure if she enjoyed her wings that night, but I know I did...To clarify, I enjoyed my wings, not hers (stupid English and your misplaced modifiers!).  It was not until I looked down and saw the 8 gashes in my leg that I realized how bad the calamity truly was, and how nasty my leg must have looked to that poor lady…

Lozenges: Adult Supervision Required

According to the best reference ever, Wikipedia, “A throat lozenge, cough drop, troche, or cough sweet is a small, medicated sweet intended to be dissolved slowly in the mouth to lubricate and soothe irritated tissues of the throat (usually due to a sore throat), possibly from the common cold or influenza. Cough tablets have taken the name lozenge, based on their original shape.”  Slow dissolution is where this begins…

Medicated menthol lozenges are by far the most effective, in my opinion.  The nice slow burn of menthol takes my mind off of the fact that my throat is on fire.  The key is to keep the lozenge in the upper throat region…

I recently popped a medicated lozenge when my allergies caused my throat to become irritated.  I was properly following the directions and the intended use when all of a sudden the lozenge became lodged in my trachea.

There I was, at my desk choking on the menthol laced remedy.  It is amazing how incredibly painful a medicated lozenge can be when it becomes an obstacle to respiration.  I was terrified, thinking my last moments would consist of my face turning blue and passing out with menthol on my breath. 

Too ashamed to admit that I am not capable of using a cough drop without adult supervision, I began to weigh my options.  Do I force myself to vomit in my trash can and blame it on a stomach bug?  Do I proceed to hack up the lozenge running the risk of launching it across the office?  I could not swallow my pride and ask for help, mainly because I could not form a sentence, but also because I was not able to swallow in general…As the thoughts were racing through my mind, my eyes began to water as the menthol continued to light up my wind pipe like napalm. 

After what seemed like an eternity, my bite sized nemesis finally dissolved.  After my near death experience with a lozenge I decided that from day on that I would not be too proud to admit that I still need adult supervision from time to time; especially when it comes to choking hazards.  I think I will stick to antiseptic spray or other, liquid, forms of relief.  I should probably also stay away from Legos…

“Your Mom” – The Instant Insult

I recently procured a pair of red Dockers casual pants.  I believe they are referred to as “Chinos” and the actual color is “Barn Door”.  I got them on clearance, and it is obvious that they were discounted for a reason.  They are not obnoxiously red, but just red enough to be atypical.  I will need to reference Urban Dictionary to confirm, but I believe the term to describe the wearing of such pants is “Peacockin’”.

So I was peacockin’ the other day and rocked the red pants.  I was minding my own business when an acquaintance who shall remain nameless said, “Nice pants, where’s the off switch?”  There is some inherent ambiguity in such a statement.  He was either asking if there is some sort of built-in switch that allows others to get my pants off of my person, or alternatively, implying that my pants were bright as a light and needed to be “turned off”.  Semantics aside, I assumed he meant the latter. 

When insulted in such a way the proper thing to do is to execute a perfectly timed witty comeback.  In the immediate situation, I opted for the classic “Your Mom” remark.  It never fails. 

            Nameless Acquaintance: “Nice pants, where’s the off switch?”

Me: “I have to wear brightly colored pants so I can easily find them on your Mom’s floor when I sneak out in the middle of the night...”

Boom, insulted.  Immature: yes.  Effective: certainly.  There are few things you can do to counter a “Your Mom” insult.  Sure, you can come back with a mother insult of your own, but it is useless.  It is common knowledge that the first to “go there” wins, and the only thing to do is resort to fisticuffs or move on…

The classic, “Your Mom” is powerful and should be used with caution.  If over-used or used in the wrong situation, it can lead to injury, so caveat emptor my friends… I will certainly keep peacockin’ and be ready to defend my garb with my wit and sarcasm.