Creature from the Slacker Lagoon

There's been some question of whether I'm calm or just pretendin' and we'll see about that but mostly this pic is to prevent the following pic from showing up on Facebook where they're hardly ever calm (larfs).







Straight out of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" to you.

Lobotomy because, if you can't solve a mental problem any other way then removing the brain may do it.

See, just look how much more content Mister Nicholson has become.  We like to think he enjoyed his lobotomy.


This isn't the biggest slash I ever got but it's the most melodramatic because everyone who sees me gets all sad-looking and then asks, "Did you fall?"

There's no intention to mock their sincerity as it's real and that's how people react when I'm not in a Walgreens causing Security 98 problems.

(Blog:  Security 98, Security 98, Silas is in the Store)











In part this is because I think I may have missed a call from the Mystery Lady today and the pic is the fastest update.  The quick Doctor Kildare on it is the thing looks like big melodrama but it's more nuisance than anything else (i.e. itchy, a bit hurty, etc).

The size is what freaked me as this is well past my own li'l bargain and this slash is the smaller one.  No need for pics of both as my purpose is to inform rather than shock.  This is much 'tidier' than it was on Friday when the dressings first came off since there was quite a bit of blood and it sure shocked me.  Most of that is cleaned-up now so it's a lot less Frankenstein and more toward wtf.


Some of you old fuckers simply shrug and think, yep, you have to be tough to play in this round and, fair dinkum, that's dayum sure true.  Doctors say they want to do this or that and the first thought is, well, man ... I really don't think I want to do that ... but that passes quickly and you get to, well, let's get on with it.


Maybe it will need some response lines:

No worries, that's where they planted the RFID chip

Big deal, you should see what Sigourney Weaver looks like now.

I am Groot.


(Ed:  is this going to continue to get stranger?)

Of course but who would have it any other way!

(Ed:  normal people?)

Well, sure, but what fun are they, mate!  They plan for what they will watch on television ... but let life just happen to them.  Now you know there ain't no fun in that.


Might as well cut right to the medical editorial:

Don't use narcotics.  You will fucking die.

Put a wrapper on that thang, Eugene.

Do dangerous things, it's the safe stuff which kills you.

And, oh yeah, don't get too much sun because you will end up looking like the pic or Donald Trump, neither particularly good outcomes in the estimation of the Rockhouse Medical Committee (i.e. me).

Note:  if I'm pickin' then I'll go with looking like the picture because ...

because ...

at least I ain't orange ... plus at parties I can make up stuff about what happened.  There's no story you can make up about being orange which doesn't involve Sherwin-Williams paint.


A bit of sexual algebra to close:

Donald Trump is orange and he thinks he is a sex god, apparently, according to Marla somebody or other, with some good reason.

John Boehner is also orange.

Therefore, after applying the tenets of algebraic manipulation of a sexual manner, we conclude John Boehner must also think he is a sex god, possibly also with good reason.

Imagine, John Boehner, the Demon Hell God of the Honeymoon Suite.  Be afraid, baybeeee!

We're almost there ...

now imagine Boehner in a toga, his eyes crazed with lust, and he roars, "Come to Caesar and feel the passion of an Emperor!"

Sleep well, darlin'.