Lame Chef

Thursday, Basementia Buddy and her son, Little Bud, came for a visit. Bud and #1 rode 4-wheelers, BB and I gossiped, and The Pony avoided us. After shooting things with bb guns, and exploding some tame popper firework thingies because I decreed that no bottle rockets or other incendiary devices would be deployed, and before laming The Pony in a battle royale of foam noodles in Poolio, both boys came in for lunch. Kids being kids, I had decided on corndogs for their culinary pleasure.

I hope you're not squeamish, like those people who can't make it through an entire episode of MTV's Scarred. What happened to me with that corn dog carton should not happen to a dog. Not to a darn dog. It was a brand-new box of a dozen or so corn dogs, perhaps Fairground or State Fair brand. I stuck my right index finger under the flap on the end of the box to pry up the glue and open it. That was my mistake. There I was, sliding my finger along between the flap and the box, and that freakin' cardboard critter CUT me! Oh, the pain! Oh, the blood! OK, perhaps I'm being a bit dramatic, but every time I type yuhjnm, I get a sharp pain in my finger. Sure, it was just a little ol' quarter-inch slice between my fingernail and the cuticle, but that is a sensitive area. It was just like a paper cut, like on that show Jackass, when Johnny and Steve-O decided to hold an industrial-strength paper-cut contest, and sliced the webs of their fingers and toes, and the sides of their lip corners with the flap of a manilla envelope. Only I didn't do it on purpose. I staunched the flow of blood with a Puffs With Lotion tissue, and completed my meal preparation. Then I ran cold well water from the kitchen sink over my gaping wound. I couldn't squeal and carry on like I would have normally, because BB was there, and she might have laughed at me. That's the kind of gal she is.

For two days, I have kept it covered with a slather of triple antibiotic ointment and a Curad adhesive strip. No need to tempt fate and end up like my mom's Fat Red Pinky Finger that the orthopedic surgeon wanted to lop off. He probably approves of this new health care plan, what with lopping off old people's fingers instead of doing surgery to clean out the infection. Heck, he probably does the lopping in his office with a meat cleaver to cut costs. Anesthesia? No need for that, what with it being so hard to find after Michael Jackson cornered the market on it to use as a sleep aid. That orthopod might just whack the oldsters over the head with a tire iron. Or maybe slam their heads repeatedly onto the linoleum like a schoolgirl in a cafeteria fight. It's cheaper than a tire iron.

Getting back to those deadly corn dogs... they were quite a hit, though BB didn't partake of their mouthwatering goodness. I overheard Bud shout out to the chef his compliments, in the manner of teenage boys: "Hey! These are good! They're crunchy!" I yelled into the kitchen, modestly, "I buy them at Save-A-Lot and follow the directions on the box."

Don't look for me in Kitchen Stadium any time soon.