Bathroom Triage

Once upon a time, I was very happy and super in love with a wonderful woman that we will refer to as "Pumpkin."  (What the fuck am I saying?  I still love her, and NO, this was not the reason our relationship ended.  I actually screwed up WAY WORSE than this. This was just...an unfortunate accident...a horrible accident.)
Now, for those of you that came here searching for some kind of crazy large vegetation molestation porn, then I’m sorry to disappoint you as this is not what this is about.  So go back to Google and try again.  I just called her Pumpkin as a term of endearment, much like one would call their lover “baby” or “babe” or “snookieookums.”  And she will remain under the pseudonym of Pumpkin for the sake of our modesty. (That is also the reason that there aren’t many descriptive pictures to accompany this story. Well, that and I’m lazy…And I don’t want to provide badly drawn porn for you weirdoes.)

Pumpkin had previously been helping her parents pack in order for them to move to a new house.  No big deal, right?  Well, if you know my Pumpkin then you know that simple things such as this usually end in horrible catastrophe and injury.  This time, it was her toe.  Her big toe was squished by the corner of a desk that she was helping her mother move.

Now, if you have ever injured your toe, you know that 8.375 times out of 10, that toenail is going to get dislodged in some way.  It’s painful, it’s horrifying, and if you’re a vain princess like my Pumpkin, the dislodging and/or loss of a toenail is SOUL CRUSHING END OF THE WORLD DEVASTATION.  Now, when the offending desk fell on Pumpkin’s toe, it did in fact, dislodge the toenail only PARTIALLY.  So the nail was still intact.  And Pumpkin was desperately clinging to the hope that it would just grow out normally, and that it wouldn’t fall off entirely.  I was once a cosmetologist and I knew that her hope was in vain and that the best course of action would be to remove the nail entirely, so long as the nail bed (matrix) itself wasn’t damaged, the nail would grow back fine.  But regardless of what I had to say, she was steadfast in her belief that if she could just keep the nail there, it would grow out and she would never have to deal with NOT having a toenail.  I love her, but we’re talking about a woman that won’t go to Wal-Mart at 3am without full makeup.  I think she’s beautiful no matter what, but we are our own worst critics, and if you were to hear her describe herself without makeup, you would have thought I was dating the crypt keeper.  Then again, if you were to hear me describe myself, you would’ve thought that she was dating the five million pound elephant woman.  We’re human females. It’s what we do.  But I digress…back to the horrific toenail of death.
It started off like any awesome anniversary.  And if you don’t know what I mean by “awesome anniversary,” then I suggest you shut down your computer, go out and find a significant other, consummate the relationship, date long enough to have an anniversary, and then you’ll understand what an “awesome anniversary” is.  So we were doing “our thing,” so to speak, (sorry guys, that’s as graphic as it’s going to get. I’m not going to take away from the actual hilarity of the story just so you can get your rocks off.  There’s a lot of other websites for that) when it all started to go horribly AWRY…

Yep…that’s right.  Somehow, my knee hit her toenail.  And that finished dislodging it completely.  It was now hanging on by just the cuticle and the gooey backend of the nail bed (the nail’s matrix).
Bloodied, in pain, and pissed as hell (because during our “happy times” she was ALMOST THERE before the injury occurred…and if you don’t know what I mean by “ALMOST THERE,” then go get some friends and have them explain it to you, loser.) Pumpkin sprints to the bathroom, leaving a trail of toe blood behind her, and a very confused me sitting on the bed wondering what the fuck just happened.  So I get up, toss on a t-shirt and boxers, and go to the bathroom door, which she has, for some reason, locked.  I can only assume it was locked so that I could cause no further injury to her.

So, being the good girlfriend that I was, I rushed off to grab her a bathrobe.  Only then, with this peace offering in hand, was I allowed into the bathroom, where I was greeted by a sobbing girlfriend with a bloody toe.
Guys, I have medical training.  I have had cosmetology training.  With these two powers combined, I became “Captain Save-a-Toe.”  But Pumpkin is a fragile creature, easily prone to bruising, breaking, and pretty much needs her own plastic bubble if she ever wants to see the age of 30 without being confined to a wheelchair.  And intense amounts of sudden pain is not something that she deals with well at all.  Just seeing her toe in that state had her hugging the toilet and fighting the vomit.  So, I went for makeshift anesthetics:  Bikini Zone (lidocaine, a topical anesthetic) and some generic spray anesthetic that also had lidocaine in it as well.

Essentially, I numbed her toe.  And then I pulled out some needle nose pliers and a razor blade. 

That’s right; I preformed bathroom surgery on my girlfriend’s toe.  I scraped away the rest of the tissue under the nail with the razor blade, counted to three, and yanked the fucking toenail off with the pliers. And she didn’t feel it because I’m pretty sure there was enough lidocaine on that toe to have numbed it to the point that I could have cut it off completely and she wouldn’t have noticed.  But I loved Pumpkin, and I like her cute toes, and I wouldn’t have done that to her.
Afterwards, we cleaned up her now nail free toe, put a Band-Aid on it, and went back to bed to go to sleep…cause let’s face it:  After you have to rip off your girlfriend’s toenail with a pair of needle nose pliers, you’re not gettin’ ANY for a while…
The aftermath was mildly amusing as well.  As you recall, Pumpkin is a vain princess.  And as soon as it was healed enough, she began polishing her toe to simulate a toenail being there…And she was actually pretty good at it.  But I knew the truth hidden under that pink polish.

What is Wrong With People on the Internet? What are You People Searching For?!?! And Why Do These Searches Lead You to My Blog?

Okay, I've come across something that has distressed me greatly.  I know I would normally be posting some random crazy story about something stupid that has happened to me, and yes, those stories are coming.  But I needed to take a moment to share THIS with all of you:

Yes, that is what Blogger is telling me that people were searching for when they were led to my blog.  I logged in, saw it, started twitching, screen capped it, and decided to share it with you all. 
You see, if you're not familiar with Blogger and it's nifty features, it gives its users a statement when we log in that tells us our general audience's location (like what country our readers are from), page views, comments, and search keywords, along with many other stats such as the types of browsers that people use to view our blogs with (even with nifty graphs and pie charts!).  It almost makes us seem like creepy stalkers instead of simple bloggers.  But creepy stalker stats aside, I would like for you to please direct your attention to the items blocked off in red in the picture...Really look at them.  Absorb them for a moment. Soak in the absolute fucking insanity of what these people are searching for.
What. The. Fuck. 
I mean really, what does the internet think I'm writing about?  I don't think I've ever mentioned that I can kill someone with just two fingers!  But I bet I could if I tried. (I watched A LOT of "Xena: Warrior Princess" growing up.)  I've never written about a crying face with a fist.  I promise.  I'm like 99% certain.  The whole "that was the end" thing I can't vouch for.  I may have said that a few times.  I'm not even concerned with the term "hoggy" being linked to my blog because of my love of the awesome hedgehog and all of his "Hoggy Glory."  I used the term "hoggy" a bazillion times in an entire post about the magnificent hedgehog! 
But I'm still distressed by this you guys.  Especially the "I can kill you with 2 fingers" search.  I'm seriously concerned and confused.  What the fuck is wrong with the people on the internet?  Now, I have no objections to gaining new readers, but I just want to know why these terms are getting linked to my blog...it's just...creepy...and disturbing.  And I want to know who wants to kill someone with just two fingers.  Mainly so I can avoid them.  It's probably the same person that was looking up the "crying face with a fist."  *shudders*  That fucker is out to get someone...

So, in light of these recent distressing discoveries, here's my contribution to the internet search engines:

• Face punching lemon sniffers
• Retarded monkey ball scratching
• Big hairy masked yeti bandits
• Nacho titty leg hair
• Prison dancing orange strawberry shampoo
• Adorable labradoodles peeing on a goat
• Eggplant back hair
• Mandatory nacho eating contests
• Hobos fighting over Rico cheese
• I can kill you with NO fingers

Now let's all sit back and see what happens...heehee.

An Award for Danny D. in Orlando, FL: The Greatest AT&T Customer Service Rep EVER. (Alt Title: How I Became Known as "El Jefe" and May Have a New Alias With the Sheriff's Dept.)

Guys, I got a phone call today.  And if you know me, you know that I answer my phone regardless of the number.  Especially if the call WAKES ME UP.  If you know me personally, you know that you DO NOT WAKE ME UP.  I am an evil fucking bitch if I am roused from a deep sleep.  Well, the fuckers in Honduras didn't know that.  I also didn't know that they were from Honduras.  They called, and I couldn't distinguish the language (for the record, it wasn't Spanish guys.  I know Spanish when I hear it.  It wasn't Spanish.  I swear it was freakin' Hindi or whatever language it is that is spoken in India. But AT&T confirmed that the number came from Honduras AFTER I had made an ass of myself!)
So, I decided that if I was paying for the call anyways, I was going to have some damn fun with it.  So, I (in all of my infinite wisdom because I thought the call came from India) said:  "You got my shit, ese? You don't call El Jefe unless you got my shit, man!  I will fuck you up pendejo unless you callin' to say you got my shit! Don't fuck with El Jefe!  El Jefe will fuck you up, pendejo!" (All said with a horribly stereotypically racist Mexican accent.  I apologize to the Mexican people for that.  I was pissed.  And that shit was fucking funny.  I know I said I would never apologize to anyone ever in this blog, but I do feel that I should apologize for that one.  I may have already caused one international incident, I don't need to cause two of them.)
Yeah...I said that.  I'm a bad person, I know.  Well, they hung up (which made me sad, because I was really just getting started).  I assumed that was the end of it, so I roused myself out of bed (El Jefe was pissed enough to not go back to sleep), and called AT&T.  I hate calling AT&T.  I really do.  But they assured me that I WOULD NOT BE CHARGED for that call (no matter how much fun "El Jefe" had with it), because it was obviously a wrong number.  But then I started to get weird phone calls from numbers that weren't even fucking complete phone numbers.  So I called AT&T back to see if they could block them from calling.  Unfortunately, the Hondurans were using some kind of "spoofing" device and on AT&T's records, it appeared that I was calling myself so there was nothing they could do...Enter Danny D. (Last name abbreviated for privacy's sake.  But he knows who he is.  He knows he's getting a blog post.  He knows how awesome he is.)  Danny speaks Spanish.  These fuckers called 3 times while I was on the phone and I finally caught them and put them on 3-way.  So between Danny, The Honduran Douchebag, and myself (aptly calling The Honduran a pendejo the whole time...because I have no damn sense.  Danny was way more polite because he likes his job.  He's a good person.  That's why he gets an award) the 3-way call ended with The Honduran Douchebag hanging up, leaving me and Danny alone to figure out what the fuck just happened.  Danny spoke Spanish to them.  But he said that the dude was speaking 3 different languages at the same time, and switching between them.  Spanish, Hindi (still not sure of the actual name of the language), and something else.  But the calls did stop (Thank you Danny!). 
Now AT&T records all of their calls.  Plus I had a voice mail from the Honduran Douchebags.  So I go to the Sheriff's department here in town, because seriously, those calls were annoying, and I filed a report.  And I made sure to get Danny's name, and the location of his call center in case this did escalate into something major and the cops needed something that had been recorded.
Guys, I have A LOT of tattoos.  A LOT. (Please refer to this post: Uninvited Tattoo Conversations)  I look like I could belong to a street gang.  Seriously.  So walking into the Sheriff's Department was a feat in and of itself, because I got some crazy weird looks!  But I'm actually an overly privileged and wealthy mostly white girl. While I have Spanish heritage, I am most definitely NOT "El Jefe."
So, the Sheriff's Deputy takes my statement, and listens to the voice mail.  This is vital, because the Deputy is Hispanic.  I figured maybe he could figure out what the fuck was going on.  DANNY, THE THIRD LANGUAGE WAS NOT SOME CRAZY BACKWARDS JAPANESE PIG LATIN.  IT WAS A NATIVE LANGUAGE SPOKEN BY THE AZTECS AND STILL SPOKEN BY SOME PEOPLE IN HONDURAS CALLED NAHUATL. The Deputy confirmed it, though he couldn't understand it.  So, crazy third language confirmed! YAY!
However, as I told my story, with the times and the initial conversations, the Deputy giggled (Thank the gods he still laughed when I said that I decided to come to them instead of hopping a plane to Honduras and just crazy murdering people), and he wrote down that I will now have an official alias.  It's on the paperwork.  It says "El Jefe" and underneath that it says "The Boss."  I am not making this up.  I have a fucking Sheriff's Department DOCUMENTED ALIAS.  I am "El Jefe."  Fuck. Me. Running.  And for the record, I still have to go back to the Sheriff's Department on Monday to speak with the investigators.  And they will know me as "El Jefe."  Goddammit.  My life is so wrong...But as Carrie Fisher (My idol) says: "If my life weren't funny, then it would just be true."

But what is going to be REALLY FUCKING GREAT, is if it makes it in the paper tomorrow in the police reports or the "assumed names and alias'" section.  Then it will be official.  And I will scan that shit and post it right fucking here for the world to see that I am officially "El Jefe." And "El Jefe" is to be respected motherfuckers.  It also means that every time I get pulled over by the cops, "El Jefe" is going to come up as an alias when they run my driver's license for any warrants.  That is going to be fucking FUN.

But Danny D., I promised you an award for the greatest customer service phone call EVER in the history of customer service phone calls.  Because we got to do a 3-way phone call with weirdos in Honduras and YOU stopped them from calling me (at least for the rest of today) and for that you are my hero.  So here's your award.

And the Hedgehog is the official Ambassador of Good Will and Love for the blog and he approves of you.  So because you saved my sanity and kept me from crazy murdering people in Honduras (which the Deputy asked me how I would even find these people to do that, to which I replied, "Google, dude.  Google is the answer to everything.  Google is on my cell phone.  Google would help with crazy murder.") you, Danny D., of the Orlando, FL AT&T call center are officially "Hog Approved."  Enjoy. :)

A Post for "thesalt." The Blogger Help Forum Member That Saved My Blog Because it Went Crazy.

Guys, one of my blog posts, How My Mom Told Me Where Babies Come From, decided to go all renegade and change its HTML coding on its own, causing my entire blog to go crazy and look retarded.  Everything on my sidebar, was at the bottom of my page.  It sucked and I couldn't figure out why it was doing this.  Why would my blog betray me like that?!?!  I had loved it, nurtured it, given it drawings and become friends with it!  So, I went to the help forums.  Apparently, I'm not the only one who has had their blog betray them in such a manner.  I scrolled through the posts thinking to myself:  I understand.  I'm one of you now.  I too, cry at night because I don't understand why these things happen to me. Just look at my blog and the mess it has become...
So I posted my own question.  And sure enough, a wonderful blogger known as "thesalt" came to my aide!  They said that they too had experienced such betrayal by their blog (sadly, I know not their blog's address, nor "thesalt's" gender) and suggested that I check each post individually.  Sure enough, I found the offending post.  It has been spanked, given a timeout, locked in the closet, sent to bed without supper, re-coded, and has learned its lesson (I hope) and it will never do it again.

So, to "thesalt" I say to you, thank you! You are my hero/heroine, and you have won this:

You prevented my fragile little psyche from exploding completely and so I give you 1 bazillion Internet Points...and a new car. (Note:  The car is strictly metaphorical.  It is merely a vehicle for which you may cruise the internet in style.  But it's a fucking bad ass metaphorical internet car, and you will be a pimp/pimpette in it.)
As the ambassador of the blog, The Hedgehog extends his gratitude as well: