You know, Sheriff Joe Arpaio of Phoenix may be an ultra-conservative, fire-and-brimstone bulldog of a law enforcer, but you have to give the man points for creativity. When he does things like color his handcuffs bright pink so that other law enforcement agencies can't get away with hanging on to them after prisoner transfers, you have to dig the guy a little.
Plus, I bet he could TOTALLY make money selling those to the general public. I'm just saying there might be a market.
Did I ever tell you that my brother-in-law Mickey is an official "Special Deputy" for the Phoenix Sheriff's dept? He even has an official, heavy-ass badge that gets him access into prisons when he goes to minister there. Sheriff Joe himself gave Mickey the badge and swore him in. Hmm - maybe if I ask really nicely, Mick could score a pair of those cuffs for his sista...? They'd go really nicely with my little bitch gun.
I am happy to report that the formerly recalcitrant toe is now the recalcifying toe. Go, toe!
However, between the healing of Floppy Joe and the winding down of the Neverending Cold, I'm fresh out of maladies about which to whinge and wrangle sympathy out of my friends and colleagues. Worse, soon I'll have to bite the bullet and start exercising like I promised myself I would at the start of the year. Balls.
Brat: (brāt) n.
1) A child, especially a spoiled or ill-mannered one.
2) A child of a career military person.
3) A small pork sausage.
Adult humans may be pests, teases, jerkoffs, assholes, etc. - but they cannot, by definition, be brats. Most of all, "brat" ought never to be used as a self-referential term. Usually, the person doing so means, "Yes, I know I'm being a pain in the ass, but aren't I also kinda cute?" 99% of the time, the answer to that question is, "No. Actually, you're just a knob."
I'm just saying.
Happy New Year, all...
Hope yours was good; ours was fine, although all the big plans I had for household projects over my week-long break were derailed by the Cold Virus from Hell, which set in on the 28th and continues to spelunk in my breathing passages and give me a voice laden with the sultry tones one might expect from, say, a drunk toad. Also, my boss is out all this week, which means that I'm the pseudo-boss, so my level of joyousness is all the more compounded now that we're back to work.
Topping it all off, it seems that my broken pinkie toe has decided to be somewhat more high-maintenance than most. I went to my GP Dr. K for a follow-up visit last week; at first he seemed kind of incredulous that I'd even bothered to come see him, but once I explained that the toe still seemed kinda more - well, wiggly - than I'd expect it to be, he went ahead and ordered a follow-up set of X-rays to compare with the original set.
The results show that the ends of the "nasty break" (to quote Dr. K) have apparently engaged in absolutely no healing in the 3-1/2 weeks since they parted ways - probably because there is a gap of 2mm or so separating them. (Doesn't sound like much until you look at a ruler...). Can't knit back together if they aren't touching, I guess. So, rather than having a useless nugget of meat flapping off of the end of my foot for all eternity, Dr. K has suggested that I go see an orthopedic surgeon for an evaluation.
So, I guess my decision to go with the more expensive insurance plan with better coverage this year was a good move after all...
This year had better improve from here, or... or I'll give it what-for! Or else! Buh.