I have been absent for some time for good reason. I have not been able to sit upright for more than thirty minutes at a time, let alone do any typing. I have HURT my back. I have spent three days prone, on my back, with nothing to guide me but the slew of painkillers and muscle relaxers that the doctor prescribed, and the History channel. I have known nothing but pain, and lots of it. The hero in the wonderful film, “The Princess Bride” tells the princess half way through the film, “Life is pain Princess. Anyone who tells you different is trying to sell you something.” I firmly believe this; yet, I seek out various quacks to sell me their version of relief. I have consulted a chiropractor. I have consulted a general practitioner of medicine. One charged me $121, and sent me on my way, saying that the pain would subside in a few days, the other wrote me a prescription for pills that would drop a Clydesdale, with the same promise. I cannot believe either one, as both have proved false. As I have been my own best doctor since the tender age of 15, so I wrote my own prescription; beer, and lots of it. It does not, in any way, relieve pain, but does provide you with the opportunity to be drunk enough to not mind the agony that is your spine, as well as the chance to enjoy prescription medicine to it’s fullest, despite it’s warning labels.
I would not recommend this approach. This should be considered in the same light as using a band-aid for a heart attack. This isn’t a viable approach. Your family will start to worry, and your beer budget goes through the roof. Seek proper care. Ice packs, and if you have access, a hot tub. A massage from a loved one would also be in order.
That brings me to the title of this article. The phrase should be familiar to all English speaking people everywhere. Dah-da da dumb dumb, da da. Shave and a haircut, two bits, is the one signature knock, or rhythms that most people know. Much like enie-meanie mine-e moe. It is on of those things that you learn in childhood, and don’t tend to forget.
To make a long story longer, I was fighting my back pain with my own prescription, (e.g. pills, hot tub, and beer, etc. They call me Doc for many reasons.) when it occurred to me that what I really needed was something that can only be described as the “feminine touch”. I have been “hemmed up” or “stoved up” for over three weeks now. Man, as a rule, is a social creature, and seeks out the “attentions” of his mate.
In my mind, I was going to try to make myself more attractive for my mate. What woman hasn’t tried this? The folks at Avon have been peddling this for years. I have grown a mustache and my mate finds it deplorable, so, as a concession to her, I decided to give myself a little trim.
I still have the mustache.
I decided that my trim should be much further south. This, I thought, would make me more the rampant “stud” that she had married.
Such was not the case.
One should never attempt to cut ones own hair, any hair, sober or not. One should seek out a trained professional, or, at the very least, a trusted friend. Either one would provide much needed council against the whole plan and suggest a good steak and a well-deserved nights rest.
I had no such friend available.
I went ahead with the plan. I found a pair of scissors that had sky blue handles, long blades, and had, up to now, only tackled jobs of clipping coupons, and set myself to the task.
With every snip, they squeaked like a door to a haunted house, as if to warn me against the folly I was committing. In the fog that alcohol and prescription drugs can provide, this seemed like perfect idea, yet my aim was not as true as I had hoped. There were hairs that were at odd angles that I had not anticipated, not unlike my mustache, and proved themselves wily, yet, I pressed on.
I succeeded in giving myself a trim that could only be achieved with a serious Black-and -Decker accident. It was as if I had ridden a weed-eater over speed bumps. By my final count, I had gained five bleeding wounds that should have required the paramedics.
Yes, this surely would make my mate desire me more. Nothing says sexy quite like scabby self-inflicted wounds that make me appear like a homeless gigolo.
The moral of this story is, if you can see through your laughter inspired tear-streaked eyes is, find someone else to cut your hairs, and if it must be you that does it, steer clear of booze and pills before hand.
Meanwhile, my back still hurts like a BITCH, and I will have to deal with the embarrassing itch for weeks.
P.S.- NO COMMENTS PLEASE! I HAVE LEARNED MY LESSON.