• GRAAARRG. That is all.
• I'm listening to Doug Stanhope: 12 - Tits & Buttfucking are Il

November 12, 2005

Ah, hell, I don't need 'em anyways...

This hasn't been a good weekend for my fingers. At all.

Last night, I was cutting up chicken to make fajitas and looked away for a second, only to sink the knife halfway into my thumb. I growled a loud "FUCK" worthy of Al Swearengen and yanked it away just as blood started pouring out of the cut. Quickly wrapping it with paper towels, I dashed to the bathroom, girlfriend in tow, to fix my mangled appendage. I unwrapped it as blood spurted from the wound and ran it under hot water to hopefully kill any germs from the chicken.

Of course, that turned the water a godawful shade of red and doused the basin with more blood. It was gushing more than I initially thought, so I frantically grabbed some toilet tissue and wrapped it. Of course I had to walk a couple of feet to do so, and blood dripped all over the place.

The fucking bathroom was starting to look like a murder scene.

I went and grabbed some first aid tape to wrap around my makeshift bandage (that had already absorbed a huge amount of blood) and wrapped it off. Then the other half tells me to keep it elevated above my heart. Sound advice, of course, especially since I didn't particularly like the idea of having to go to the emergency room for blood loss from a culinary accident. I could see the doctor's assessment right now: "Dumbass patient was preparing a vegetable melange for a quaint house party and cut his finger off in the process. The idiot needs a course in common sense. I prescribe a beating with a baseball bat."

And so there I was, finishing dinner one-handed with my thumb in the air like an overeager movie critic. And of course, the first thing my girlfriend did was to grab the camera and take a picture. I'll never die with support like this around.

Fast forward to earlier today. We went to pet stores to look for a new scratching post for the cat and browse prospects for a new kitten (hopefully in two weeks). She and I ended up at Pets on Wilshire, a nice little store off of (duh) Wilshire Avenue in Santa Monica. While browsing around, I looked over at a cage and saw an adorable Pembroke Welsh Corgi puppy sitting there, looking at me with big brown eyes. I immediately went all gay and decided to march over and give it some attention. There were no warning signs around it, so I stuck my finger in the cage to pet him. He stood up and started waggling his tail, and suddenly decided to put my finger in his mouth. I tried to pull away, but he chomped down. I immediately said to myself: "Oh shit." The puppy looked up at me mischievously, and I looked back. "No. No. No." I knew what was about to happen. Tug-of-war time. With my goddamn finger playing the part of the rope.

He steadied his little stubby legs and started hefting his little doggie body backwards, sharp puppy teeth clenching down harder and harder. I wanted to scream and slap him in the head to make him turn loose, but a) I would have felt like a sonofabitch, and b) it would have drawn attention to the fact that I was pitted against a bloodthirsty hellhound who wanted nothing more than my yummy digit in his tummy. So I bared down and started my own fight. I pulled back.

I think that was a big mistake.

Anyone who's ever played tug-of-war with a dog knows that when you pull, they pull back. And they usually yank and jerk and undulate their body to do everything they can to win. Hell, they don't know any better. It's all a game.

And this little shit thought so, too. He started yanking harder and turning his body all different ways. My eyes bulged as his teeth sank in deeper, but I kept going. I almost wanted to start banging on the cage as an intimidation tactic, to bellow "I WILL BE VICTORIOUS, YOU WEE BASTARD!" and yank my hand away to pump my bleeding fist in the air like a prizewinning boxer after kicking someone's ass in a match. Unfortunately, I didn't have time for that. I kept pulling, and Rover tugged back. I finally jerked my digit free, and surveyed the damage. Nothing too bad, but it ached like a sonofabitch.

I glared at my mortal enemy, having come out on top, and fought off the urge to flip him the bird and cackle as I walked away, but I figured I'd let sleeping dogs lie. Or rather, let vicious curs stand there panting with a little doggie grin on his face, thinking "Thanks for the laugh, you fuckin' moron."