9 May 2006
It was a week of coincidences. First my old buddy Pierre sent me a photograph of a transected motorcyclist. The guy's upper body and his grin were in one place; his legs and some guts were down the road some. I did not see his cock and balls so I am guessing they were attached to his motorcycle or a fast thinking crow made a meal of them.
That was the first photo of a transection I have ever seen. They do not even show you that stuff in first aid classes. You do not have to perform CPR on the transected. Those motherfuckers are dead.
The second of the coincidences came at the pool. A crazy old fucker started up a conversation with me.
"Got hit by a police car. Motherfucking cop was talking to his girlfriend on his cell phone when he hit me and my dog in a god damn cross walk. The dog got squished like a teenager's ass in prison. I got my leg broke and a lung ripped up. Now I'm on morphine all the time."
He showed off his scars to me and took off his swimming goggles. His eyes had a dead look like Todd Bertuzzi's. The only time I was on morphine was in the hospital. It gave me such bad dreams I jumped out of bed onto a freshly broken leg. Morphine fucks up a man's shitting schedule. I did not shit for 11 days. And when I did I jammed up the toilet so bad I had to construct an IED to fix it up.
Next up was news that Pierre got himself gouged for a couple hundred stitches. I gather he was on the morphine himself when he drank several beers and some whisky over at Tugboat Davey's farm and then passed out behind a tractor. Everybody forgot about him when they went inside for some chow. It was then that Davey's dogs attacked Pierre and chewed on him mercilessly.
I sure hope that is the end of the string of gory coincidences. I have not seen a real good accident on the highway for a while and things have been quiet as the beaver swims down at the sawmill.