Kloppenkleimerschaftwerst Annullary Capillicators

I just thought it might be right if I were just to spin around in circles for awhile while the contents of my stomach slowly climbed up my throat in hopes of flying out the top of my head so that it might escape to something somewhat calmer or at least a little less spinny for a little while. But I tripped on my shoelace after 80-times around counter-clockwise and fell and struck my head on the corner of a perfectly round toilet bowl. I was rendered unconscious. I was dispensed into a coma. Doctors are uncertain if I will ever see again. Seeing as seeing is harder with your eyes shut. Especially while in a coma.

I am in this coma now. This is the alternate reality coma-dream sequence you heard about on tv. The one with the business trips and tree forts and that tractor beam of irresistible white light and the irresistible urge to resist even though it feels soooo good. Like sex in the afternoon, if I am to believe what I saw on Mad About You when I was too young to be watching Mad About You. These comas are a drag, it is just Neverending White Lights. Oh so much angst and eye liner and droning. Oh the goddamned droning. If I could be anything when I grow up it would be anything other than in a coma.

Not to mention the bed sores and the boredom and my goddamned son-in-law insisting on playing solitaire on the foot of my bed well he tells me about the episode of Friends that was on before the news last night, "The One With the Monkey." The monkey's name is Marcel you nincompoop, not Marcil or Maxwell, or Martin Luther, or Martina Navratilova. For chrissakes!

Pardon my temper. My noxious fuming. My ruminating on the state of unions and bridges built before unions weaseled their way into the collective unconscious and before you know it you are cracking your own skull on the corners of perfectly round toilet bowls and are sentenced to death by bored shallow breath in solitary confinement. The head is a horrible place to spend a winter vacation, a Christmas vacation, a summer vacation.

My skull is roughly the volume of a medium-sized watermelon, it has roughly the mass of a medium-sized 10-pin bowling ball. No matter how much I try or wish or hope or dream or how many Kumon Math workbooks I complete in the allotted time slot my brain will not get any bigger, it is confined to the confines on my skull where it floats in fluids. I saw the fluids once. They sucked them out of my spine to look at under bright white lights. My parents bought me two new hockey sticks for how close I came to breaking the nurses fingers who foolishly said, "squeeze these" as the three-martini lunch doctor stabbed me in the spine, but not the right spine, enough times to finally find the right spine by the time the freezing they said would help had worn off. Spinal fluid sprayed out of my aerated spine like fire sprinklers at Henry Winkler's birthday. Heeeey! This is Spinal Tap was a documentary Rob Reiner made about the event. But the ass cut all my scenes. Litigation is still pending.

The only way, I have found, to successfully grow your brain is to spin counter-clockwise 80-times, trip on a shoelace and bash your head as hard as you and gravity can gather on the corner of a perfectly round toilet. Doctors tell me my brain swelled to twice its normal size and they had to lance it like a boil and deflate it. It made a thhhhhhhhppt sound like a balloon when they opened the deflate valve. I know we all think doctors are miracles of modern medicine and all, but it is just the funny names they use for things, the Kloppenkleimerschaftwerst Annullary Capillicator they use to gauge brain pressure is little more than a sterilized 2.99 tire pressure gauge from Canadian Tire. In fact, the doctor who did the surgery was the Canadian Tire Guy. My wife in my coma-dream is the Canadian Tire Wife. While I've been in the coma I've been growing a beard to look like the Canadian Tire Guy so one day I might be able to satisfy the Canadian Tire Wife. But she only responds to pressure washers and novelty multi-tools with non-slip ergonomic grips. Which isn't really that unusual I guess.

But really, this coma is really a drag the more it drags on, and it really drags on. It's like a dragon boat drag race. Everyone is all impressed with how oriental it all seems, the paper dragons and glass tigers and drum-drum-drum. But at the end of the day it is just a gimmick. Not of our world. Until we jump over a shark in a dragon boat. Then we can call it fusion and raise the prices.

Comas are terribly shocking at first. I know when they finally got my brain drained and deflated and checked the pressure with their state of the art Kloppenkleimerschaftwerst Annullary Capillicator and I woke up to find myself in a coma I was all like, "oh man! c'mon! like what the fuck?!" I remember when Dr. Canadian Tire Guy told me I threw up a little in my mouth. But that might have just been the lingering motion sickness. 80-times counter-clockwise is a lot, I don't care what you say. And my mother started puttering like a motor boat. Like the old motor boat my uncle used to own, or stole, or whatever, that didn't really run really good and would often break down in the middle of lakes, or swamps, or whatever, and I'd have to rescue whoever it was and that'd make me a hero, except I was expected to do that, and when you merely meet expectations, even if you are expected to save lives, and lots of them, you aren't a hero, you are a good employee. And my father grimaced and moaned. And my sister wailed. And my brother howled. And the whole while I was thinking, "this is strange, Beansie can walk again and Kurt did win gold, twice, I must be in a coma. That kind of really sucks. Oh hey Grandma haven't seen you since Lanny MacDonald's moustache was red."

But that wears off as it wears on and it wears on you and every once in a while the wild orgy that is a coma-dream (somethings are too hot for tv) paused for a commercial or that particular episode ends inconclusive as though it was scripted that way you come to realize that you are, after all, in a coma, and your ass is sore from bedsores and you need a vacation away from your watermelon-bowling ball head and most of all you just need to wake up.

Wake up already. I've already seen this episode like 25 times.

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