Out On A Limb

It seems to be that every decade of my life some sort of surgery is required on a lower limb. In my teen years I needed a couple of left hip surgeries. In my twenties it was a simple arthroscopic left knee procedure due to a racquetball injury. In my thirties it was time to balance out the other side of my body with a torn right Achilles tendon, again due to racquetball. So here I am rounding the clubhouse turn on my half century mark and it is back into surgery again, this time due to shredded ligaments above the right knee.

Now, I’m pretty fortunate that I have quite a high pain threshold. When I tore my Achilles tendon I drove myself to a doctor, got the diagnosis, drove myself home, then to work and finally back home so that I could rest before surgery the next day. Never let a dangling extremity get in the way of work, I say.

This time around, as I stoically writhe in pain awaiting the knife, I am reminded of some of the mishaps in hospitals that have made the news. Who hasn’t heard stories of people who had the wrong limb operated on or worse yet, the wrong type of surgery all together. Recently German authorities said they are investigating an incident of medical malpractice involving an elderly woman in Bavaria, who has mistakenly received a colostomy instead of a leg operation. How bad is your medical training and sense of direction if you can’t determine the difference between a leg and the need for a colostomy bag?

The 78-year-old woman, from the Bavarian town of Münchberg, is just the latest victim of operating table mix-ups. It was in late February that this transgression took place. Members of the medical team involved in the incident have since been suspended from their duties. According to media reports two of these doctors were chief physicians. A hospital official said the facility regrets the mistake, and reacted to the mix-up immediately by notifying the patient (like she wouldn’t have noticed), her relatives, and the appropriate authorities. Well, bully for them! I guess everybody is happy, except maybe the 78-year-old woman who now gets to enjoy her golden years collecting waste material in a pouch. And everyone knows that when you have a colostomy bag you can never find shoes to match.

This is a lot for me to ponder as I wait for body parts myself. My doctor has advised me that due to the tendon tear I am going to require a replacement tendon from a cadaver. I am assured that even though our medical system has had several cutbacks over the years and long waiting periods that I am not required to find and/or supply the cadaver in question. This is a good thing because I had visions of standing in a darkened alley with a club waiting for someone with two good knees to walk by. I have no doubt that the part needed will be available soon. Body parts have a way of showing up. As a matter of fact I have another recent story of just that very thing happening.

Authorities in Slovenia are investigating after a piece of human tongue was served up in a hospital canteen. A doctor at the town hospital in Izola, in southern Slovenia, complained about the strange looking piece of meat in his meal after he ordered a chicken risotto in the hospital eatery. The doctor insisted it was not chicken, and after arguing with staff the piece of meat was sent for tests - which later showed it was part of a human tongue. Health inspectors have closed the restaurant and are reviewing hygiene standards and looking for answers. Well, we know at least one person isn’t talking. Managers said the small piece of tongue could have been accidentally dropped into the food by a doctor who had come into the canteen straight after treating a patient.

Okay, let’s stop right here to evaluate this story. You’ve got a tongue in a meal that everyone except the doctor who ordered it thinks is chicken. First, I’d like to know what kind of chickens they have in Slovenia and how bad this hospital canteen is at preparing them. I know people, when confronted with exotic food, are always compelled to say “taste like chicken” but even this is a stretch. And what part of the chicken, no matter how you cook it, resembles a human tongue?

Second, the lame excuse that a previous doctor may have accidentally dropped the tongue in the food after treating a patient. HELLO!!!! How absent minded would this doctor have to be? His first mistake would be leaving an examination area with a piece of tongue. If I did that I think I would be pretty aware of what I was carrying, but then to go to the canteen and lose it in the buffet line! That’s a doctor I wouldn’t want anywhere near me!

The hospital managers also speculate that the tongue could have been added to the food supplies before they were delivered to the hospital. Gee, if someone were missing a part of their tongue along the food chain don’t you think they would have spoken up, or at least flailed their arms around frantically playing charades?

Still, the line of the year has to have come from the hospital spokesman who told the main Slovenian daily paper Delo, "I can say clearly that we have never used patients' parts in any of our dishes." Wow, that could be their dining room slogan. I’m sure that would fill the seats!

It would appear that I’m finding all kinds of bizarre medical stories as I await my date with destiny. But all I can do to pass the time is practice counting backwards from a hundred – that and use a magic marker on my right knee spelling out “you are here.” I just pray that if and when I wake up, I’m not carrying any extra baggage.

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

More Proof Of The Evil Of Felines

Since I have often been prone to discuss the evils of cats on our radio show, exposing their plot to take over mankind, listeners have often sent in further documentation to confirm what so many of us already know.

One such listener is a fellow named Michael who forwarded the Secret Diary of a Cat. You may have seen this online elsewhere, but I thought I would share it with you here because, frankly, we can never have too many warnings!

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Secret Diary of a Cat

DAY 752 - My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from shredding on the occasional piece of furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another houseplant and cough it up on the carpeting.

DAY 761 - Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded, must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favourite chair... must try this on their bed (again).

DAY 762 - Slept all day so that I could annoy my captors with sleep depriving, incessant pleas for food at ungodly hours of the night.

DAY 765 - Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body, in an attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was ...Hmmm. Not working according to plan.

DAY 768 - I am finally aware of how sadistic they are. For no good reason I was chosen for the water torture. This time however it included a burning foamy chemical called "shampoo." What sick minds could invent such a liquid? My only consolation is the piece of thumb still stuck between my teeth and the tiny bit of flesh under my claws.

DAY 771 - There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. I overheard that my confinement was due to MY power of "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.

DAY 774 - I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird, on the other hand, has got to be an informant. He has mastered their frightful tongue (something akin to mole speak) and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room his safety is assured.

But I can wait; it is only a matter of time....

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Thank you very much for the heads up, Michael. We need more soldiers in the fight against the terrorist tabbies.

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

(Also see: Cats Are Evil! & Feline Serial Killer)

Waiting For The Cable Guy

A lot of the stories that I share on the air stem from people being angry or upset with others. It seems that as a society we have lost our patience with mankind. But where did this malaise start? I say it started with the cable company.

As I write this, I am awaiting the cable guy. My television is working just fine thank you; it’s my Internet that’s at issue. It’s a nasty little intermittent problem that is requiring a fourth visit from a technician. Like so many people, I tend to believe my time is valuable, so waiting on the phone line for 45 minutes earlier this week to ascertain what my problem might be and then being told that my allotted appointment would require most of a day, you can imagine how frustrating the experience is.

We’ve all been there. You call a service professional and they say they will send someone over. But in order to do that you must be home from 8am to 5pm. If you have other appointments, perhaps you should cancel them. If you want to go to the bathroom, perhaps you should hold it, just in case the doorbell rings because, unlike the postman, cable only rings once.

These companies want us to put our lives on hold because they can’t accurately estimate a service or delivery call into any time frame shorter than nine hours. This is a lack of respect. It’s how we lose patience with companies that we feel we can’t do anything about. It’s how we end up taking things out on others.

Just how do such entities as the cable companies show us a lack of respect? Case in point recently is the story from Wheatland, Wisconsin and poor Ann Beam. Back in January Ann received a $2,000 cable bill from Time Warner Cable. Ann’s house had five cable boxes and five remote controls. The important word here was “had.”

On January 7th Wheatland, Wisconsin was hit by a twister. Ann’s house, and her cable boxes, went the way of Dorothy, and the cable company, acting like Margaret Hamilton having a bad day, wanted their money and perhaps Ann’s little mangy dog too.

When Ann called the cable company, a man who identified himself as a manager said there was nothing the company could do. They told Ann she would have to take the bill and turn it in to her insurance company. But her cable equipment was nine years old, and the insurance company would pay only a depreciated value that wouldn't cover her bill.

Luckily the media got involved so when word got out a spokesperson for Time Warner Cable said Ann's case was simply a misunderstanding. An unspecified number of customers were charged for unreturned equipment, but only because they cancelled or transferred their service without mentioning their requests were tornado-related. Misery loves company, so Ann wasn’t the only one, but I wonder how many others there were and how many of the others just quietly paid their bill, only to take out their wrath on somebody else.

When you keep things inside too long, like a pressure cooker with a bad rubber seal, you never know when they’ll blow. It could be at the worst possible moment, like say, the drive-thru at Taco Bell. Such is the story from Massillon, Ohio.

Georgia Gugliuzza is recovering after being attacked while going through a Taco Bell drive-through in Massillon. Georgia was attacked by Tiffany Brown who used a cue ball as a weapon (I know, who carries a cue ball around with them?!?)

Tiffany has been arrested and charged in connection with the attack. Georgia’s fiancé, Frank Loder, who was with his betrothed at the time, says he’s still in shock about what happened.

According to police, after the women screamed at each other from inside of their cars, Tiffany allegedly got out of her car with a billiard ball inside of a sock and hit Georgia with it four times.

Massillon Police Sgt. Thomas Minarcheck said he is baffled by the case and police are continuing their investigation. "I don't understand how you can become that impatient while you're in line at Taco Bell," he said. Police said it was that lack of patience that sparked the random and brutal attack. They said Tiffany was mad at Georgia for taking too long while she was ordering.

Georgia lost a couple of teeth, had to get three staples in her head and sustained some bad bruises to her face. Police said Brown was drinking the night of the alleged attack. She was charged with driving under the influence and felonious assault.

Impatience is a terrible thing. It makes people’s blood pressure boil when they’re in traffic. It shortens one’s fuse when you’re standing in line at the supermarket behind the old lady who is paying with exact change and must find those coins that are deep in the crevices of her oversized purse. And it makes you want to find a sock that you can put a cue ball in as you continue to wait for the cable guy.

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

I Tried

There once was a man from Montreal

Who couldn’t write limericks at all

It was such a crime

He could miss the obvious rhyme

At a linguistic shopping centre

Sleeping Ugly

Gaze deeply into the face of the picture on the left. Isn’t that a priceless shot? That is a picture of my very own sister, Yolanda, deep in REM sleep while on a road trip with her children, somewhere on I-95 between Montreal and Florida. She was in the back seat of the car on a journey with her twin daughters, Stephanie and Erika (or is it Erika and Stephanie) and her grandson Trevin.

Not very flattering, you say? Perhaps not. If you don’t think it is then you’re probably asking yourself why would I post it on the World Wide Web for the entire planet to see? The answer to that question is obvious. It’s because I’m her baby brother.

One of the many unwritten laws of family life is that baby brothers must spend countless hours tormenting their older sisters. It’s a tenet you can’t outgrow. I don’t make the rules; I just merely live by them.

Before you paint me with the brush of cruelty as to how I could do something to such a sweet, loveable and clearly unsuspecting victim, may I warn you that Yolanda isn’t so innocent herself. She is far from anybody’s victim. Oh, she may be a little absent minded. After all, she was the one who, while ironing clothes one day, heard the phone ring and put the wrong instrument to the side of her head. (Don't worry, the burn mark was very small and you really have to squint these days to even remotely see it). But let me tell you about my most devious sister.

Yolanda is just one of my four older sisters. She is number three on the depth chart. (Yes, I have four sisters and no brothers. It was like being raised in an estrogen factory). While growing up she gave as good as she got. When I was about seven and I was hit in the leg with a dart and writhing in pain (don’t ask, that’s another story) it was Yolanda who made me role over in bed in agony several times before she would give me the packs of Batman trading cards that I wanted.

Even earlier, at about five, when we went to a fancy restaurant, it was Yolanda who said that I was too clumsy to pour the ketchup on the fries by myself so she proceeded to bang the bottom of the bottle from across the table to add the ketchup for me. The result – ketchup all over the front of the shirt I was wearing.

There was also that hot summer day when she promised to get me a tricycle – a promise that was going to be fulfilled by using trading stamps from a local supermarket. Yolanda dragged me the three long blocks to the store, traded in the stamps with the hopes that I would get the tricycle to ride home, only to realize that the bike came in a big box that required some assembly. Oh the joy of dragging a box for blocks with a toddler. Oh the joy of being that toddler.

It was Yolanda who always tried to scare the living daylights out of me. It was Yolanda who would laugh whenever I got some sort of injury. It was Yolanda who would make me try on her wigs and then take pictures of me.

So you see, Yolanda isn’t that innocent, but let me highlight her good points because every story has two sides. Yes she made me roll over in agony to get the Batman trading cards, but she was the one who bought the cards for me after my injury. Yes, she got ketchup all over me but she was the one who took me to the restaurant as a treat in the first place. And yes, it was Yolanda who saved her “Pinky Stamps” that allowed me to get my tricycle.

Yolanda was also the one who plied me with ice cream and ginger ale when I had my tonsils out and. She would drag her ten-year-old brother along with her when she and her husband-to-be went to drive-in movies because she knew about my love for films (how romantic that must have been for him!)

It was Yolanda who turned her brand new house over to me when, as a teenager, I needed a “set” for one of the action movies that I made with my friends (I also got to use their family car in scenes even though I was pre-licence age).

And years later, when circumstances dictated that she would be in a situation where she was raising three children on her own she did an absolutely amazing job instilling the same decency and wicked sense of humour that she had herself (hey, it was her own kids who took that picture above!)

So go back and take a look at the picture again. Go ahead, scroll back up, I’ll wait.

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As a baby brother I see a perfect opportunity yet again for some sibling revenge. But what I also see in that picture is the face of an angel.

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

Freezing Your Nuggets Off

There is a story in the news this week from China that reminds me of the warnings that parents would tell their children back when I was a kid. In those days the world was fraught with all kinds of dangers in the neighbourhood, all of which would lead to instant death. And to hear your mother tell it, most of these things happened just around the corner and usually to the same poor sad sack family that clearly had the worst luck known to mankind.

There was the snow blower. You remember little Timmy Johnson? He went out to play in a snow bank and was turned into instant mulch. Wasn’t that the winter just after the summer when Timmy’s sister Sally was found, suffocated, after playing in an abandoned refrigerator? Yes, that poor Johnson family. Never mind the fact that I never actually met them and they always seemed to have an endless supply of children. It was enough to know that this family existed in the neighbourhood just to serve as an example to the rest of us as to how dangerous our environment really was.

Didn’t do your homework one night? That would be the night you would hear about the Johnson kid who didn’t do his homework. Now he’s down at the bus terminal begging for money, sniffing glue and licking the windows.

Stayed out playing and came home after the sun went down? One of the Johnson kids did that. They were last seen with the guy who lives under the bridge. No one is quite sure where they are today, although rumour has it that he’s overseas somewhere, sold into slavery in one of those countries where children are starving for the vegetables that you refused to eat.

I took in all of these stories, believing that at best there was danger lurking around every corner and at the very least DNA evidence of a missing or departed Johnson kid. The one I thought of the most was Sally – refrigerator girl. During this period lots of people in our neighbourhood decided it was time to update the fridge (out with the basic white, in with the harvest gold or avocado green) and as we all knew, locked inside a closed fridge was probably the fasted way to die – you were gone before the light went out (as an adult, I’m beginning to see the holes in our parents’ stories. Why would an abandoned, unplugged fridge still have a functioning light?)

Most responsible adults did the right thing, either blocking the door so that it couldn’t close or better yet, taking the door off completely before they abandoned the unit on the curb where we played. But some thoughtless neighbours, probably the Johnsons, never followed that advice. They were apparently too busy giving their kids scissors to run with.

Sally was in my thoughts this week because of a story on the wire services. A Chinese man took a chicken out of the freezer after two days – and was shocked to find it was still alive. Gan Shugen, of Chengdu City, says the hen was a gift from a relative. It was wrapped in a thick plastic bag with its legs bound so, assuming it was dead, Gan put it straight in the freezer. But two days later, when Gan opened the freezer, he was amazed by what he saw.

“I heard weak sounds, and when I opened the bag, a red head popped out,” he said. “It was still warm, and when I removed the tape, she could stand.” Gan says the bag also contained a big chunk of frozen excrement.

Li Fazhi, of the Chinese Association of Animal and Veterinary Sciences, said he was mystified. “If the hen was locked in a fridge, that’s still amazing; but if she survived in a freezer for two days, that’s magic,” he said.

Gan locked the hen into the freezer again for more than 20 minutes, when a local TV station came for an interview, and the hen still came out alive. But the bird’s tribulations are now over – Gan says he’ll will not eat the chicken but look after it at his home.

Now, I have three points with this story that I find somewhat disturbing. First of all, we are hearing all kinds of stories in the news these days about the shoddy workmanship of Chinese products. This fridge must be one of them. I’m more inclined to believe a malfunctioning, non-hermetically sealed fridge than a miracle chicken.

Second, what relative do you have that would give you as a gift a live, bound chicken in a bag and not tell you it was still breathing? That would be the first thing I’d mention, right after possible recipes, cooking temperature and the best way to kill it!

Third, if you already discovered after two days that the bird was still alive, why, when contacting the media to let them know, would you think to put the bird back in the freezer for another 20 minutes? I’m not exactly a raging animal rights activist but that seems a tad cruel for someone who now claims that this bird has earned the right to live out the rest of its natural life at room temperature.

Hearing a story like this I am thankful that I’m not invited over to Gan’s house to enjoy a meal at his salmonella farm and I’m also heartened to think that perhaps there is just a glimmer of hope that maybe little Sally didn’t die after all. That she is out there somewhere leading a productive adult life, or perhaps tortured by the saddened memories of all her dead siblings.

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

The Future, My Boy, Is Pomegranates!

Each day in this world people are succumbing to lung cancer, to breast cancer, to AIDS and other diseases that threaten and terrify the human race. While a plethora of scientists and doctors work diligently to eradicate these scourges from the planet there are others who are working hard so that mankind (okay, maybe just men) can also work hard.

It seemed like only yesterday that a group of pharmaceutical chemists in Kent, England, working on something that could aid in dealing with hypertension, stumbled across Sildenafil. Sadly, in the test trials it did very little for angina, but our scientists weren’t the least bummed out because they discovered something that apparently was far more important . . . the holy grail of erectile dysfunction medication. Yes it was the fall and rise of the chemists that we herald today in the form of Viagra, the little blue pill that men all over the world pop like Chiclets!

You would think that a discovery like this would bring to an end the need to keep searching for new ways that men can stand at attention. The blue pill is here, so we can turn all of our focus back on lung cancer, breast cancer and AIDS. But no, more work needs to be done. More discoveries need to be made.

Just recently it was announced that pomegranate juice can give men a boost in the bedroom. According to new research from scientists, a daily glass can act like Viagra. Nearly half the men who drank it for a month in the American study said they found it easier to rise to the occasion.

It is thought the juice is rich in antioxidants which increase blood supply to the penis. Just like drugs for impotence, the antioxidants raise levels of nitric oxide, which relaxes blood vessel walls.

To study these findings tests have to be made. Luckily, when it comes to erectile dysfunction there seems to be no shortage of people willing to be guinea pigs. In this occasion 53 volunteers aged 21 to 70 with mild to moderate problems below the human equator drank 8fl oz with their evening meal. Researcher Dr. Christopher Forest, of the University of California in Los Angeles, said, "Pomegranate juice has great potential in the management of erectile dysfunction."

Pomegranates have already been hailed a superfruit capable of reducing the risk of heart disease and preventing prostate cancer. The fruit is believed to have more antioxidants than any other juice, tea or red wine.

So there you have it – the latest medical breakthrough that apparently many have been waiting for. Of course, you know what this means don’t you? You know what you have to do? Remember back when Viagra came out and penises around the globe started to rise? So did the stock at Pfizer Pharmaceutical. Now is the time to call your broker and invest in pomegranates. That’s the future, my boy!

And that’s the Stuph – the way I see it.