Tricky Treatment

Posted By:	The Boneman
Posted On:	Tue Nov 24th, 2009

Having been at this strange occupation for well over a decade now, I often find myself quite bereft of juicy subject matter suitable for the discharge of my monthly duty. My wife suggested "Halloween," (assuming, I suppose, that jokes about costumed kiddies taking to the streets in pursuit of free candy would be a sure-fire laugh riot) "Of course, Halloween, that'll practically write itself – hurray." That came off a tad snarky, which certainly wasn't my intention. Those who know my wife, will be quick to testify that she's much funnier than I am. Besides I can pretty much write whatever I want, she never reads the paper.

I call it the "paper," because the publication that most southern Utahns probably refer to as the "paper" is actually printed on an environmentally-friendly vellum-hybrid, 63 per cent of which is comprised of a bi-product of cheese, of all things. Thus, as it's not technically printed on "paper" per se, I've taken to calling it the "Daily Cheese." "All the news that's fit to eat." Conversely, as the Indy is printed on a high bright pulp/hemp composite (paper), even though we add .05 per cent eyelid of Tibetan Snowflake Owl for tax purposes, I think we still earn the right to be called the "paper." Happily the two monoliths of the local news game have always been able to cooperate in a manner that bespeaks civility and mutual respect. They do their thing we do ours, the only words of caution I might offer where the "Daily Cheese" is concerned, would be to those individuals who may be lactose or typo intolerant.

The problem with Halloween, even though I might be able to wring a few Snickers out of it, is that by the time this issue hits the stands, Halloween will be little more than a nasty black stain on the porch where the Jack-O-Lantern slumped over into a limp, toothless, shell of the fanged beast it had so recently been. To teach the girls an important lesson in democracy, the unpleasant task of cleaning up the putrid pie filling (a.k.a. Gourd Duty) as it were, would fall to the unfortunate loser of that great battle of will and wits we mortals call "Rock, Paper, Scissors." Make the wrong choice and "trick or treat" turns into "fear factor."

Especially as the loser is bound to be Zoe – my beloved youngest, who's already learned how to slide by on looks and charm and generally rolls into an armored little pill bug when the concept of "work" rears its loathsome head. You see we've never been big on "spanking" and now they've reached that age where holding a gun to their head is no longer effective (she knows you're not going to pull that trigger). Not even a close warning shot seems to do the trick any more. It's best to just do it yourself, than to waste time and dignity using improvised methods of psychological warfare and empty threats of canceling Thanksgiving, Christmas and her Birthday. Alas by the time a desperate ultimatum has been handed down, and she mopes out the front door in her classic "martyr's march" thanks to Daylight Savings Time, 6:00 pm looks more like midnight. Of course I go with her because (who am I kidding) she's only there in a supervisory role. Naturally the porch-light burns out with a pop, catapulting a neighborhood kitty up our tree with a chilling yowl. Gale force winds kick up out of nowhere sending subArctic gusts to whip at our pantlegs "fip-fap-whippity-whap). For its part, the jack-o-lantern comes to life waxing and waning like some morphing black mass - either from a trick of twilight's last gleaming or the blue-gray puff of moldy mildew billowing in the wind like Donald Trump's hair.

It's at about this point where I just take over altogether. There just doesn't seem to be any kind of positive life-lesson shaping up courtesy of this foul chore. I couldn't imagine my innocent child dealing with these rotting, liquefied remains in a way that wouldn't make a far worse mess and permanently damage her fragile little psyche. I did make her stay with me while I took care of it. I wanted her to see what a total blast it is to be a parent.

I guess since I've pretty much gone with Halloween up ‘til this point, I'll finish up with a classic spook story.
Once upon a time there was a guy, (it's possible he may have been a dude, but for our purposes we'll continue under the assumption that he was a guy.) Anyway one fateful night the gentleman in question was driving home from a late shift at work. A regular salt-o-the-earth, work-a-day Joe - too old to text message too young to die – kinda guy. Joe was perfectly sober and alert, crossing an intersection well within the speed limit when "Bam" outta nowhere a car runs a red and smacks Joe's back fender, hard enough to spin him around and just to add "inflate to injury" it set-off his airbags which knocked him unconscious. About 10 minutes later he responded to a paramedic, by asking if the other guy was alright. "You mean the other guy who fled the scene, I couldn't say?"

As he again faded from consciousness he could hear a game show announcer amid the cheers of a studio audience. "Congratulations Mr. Bills you've just won a fabulous, dream vacation. That's right, you'll be spending 2 nights in a luxurious room overlooking the breathtaking DRMC parking lot. This magical getaway includes gourmet dining, a sleepover with a new friend and round the clock wake-up calls. And to top it off Joe, the medical staff has informed us that your injuries, while not life threatening, have left you in just enough discomfort to justify a demerol drip. You're one lucky duck Joe, because demerol has been proven to make you forget all about the fact that the company you work for discontinued its insurance benefits. It may also curb your appetite which may save you from gastropolysalinide (hospital food fatality). Should you find you do have an appetite, for your dining pleasure you may enjoy a plate-load of warmed-over animal flesh, awash in a sea of gray gravy saltier than a red-headed saloon whore. Mmm mm, after consuming your Recommended Yearly Allowance (RYA) of sodium, it's off to Radiology, as your deluxe package also includes several X-Rays, an antibiotic I.V. to guard against infection and at least one fancy diagnostic procedure (let's say an MRI) just in case the X-rays prove inconclusive. Congratulations!

At the end of his stay, as they're wheeling Mr. Bills out of the hospital, he remembers the advice offered by a friend who works in the Hospital accounting department. At the time he thought he had heard wrong (maybe the effects of the pain meds). Still better safe than sorry, thus as his doctor bid him farewell and Godspeed, Joe set his pride aside and asked for a referral to a proctologist. Oddly the doctor reached in his pocket and promptly produced a referral card with a snap - signed and good to go. Then just like one of those flashback scenes from the Twilight Zone, the words of his friend echoed hauntingly through the corridors of his cortex, "you're going to need one Joey old boy, because believe me – you're going to be paying out the wahzoo . . . the wahzoo . . . wahzoo." Joe snapped out of it as he saw his wife pulling up in their car and in an attempt to break the awkward silence he asked the doctor if it was true that the "H" in Preparation H stands for Hospital. Rather than laughing or even smiling the doctor stood wood-faced, cheerlessly tapping the cap of his pen on his teeth. "Hmm? I always thought it stood for wahzoo . . . wahzoo . . . wahzoo." We'll see you next time folks and remember as the Holidays approach, be sure to take your vegetables and eat your vitamins, you don't want to catch swine flu . . . swine flu . . . I'm thru . . . toodle-oo.