Category: Funny Business

You know how you get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and you hit your knee on the corner of the bed?

It hurts.

Often, you’ll make a groaning noise moments after impact.

You might even scream, “Shit!”

Then your darling person will wake up and yell, “What!”

“I hit my damn knee on the damn bed,” you’ll say. And you’ll likely mutter “Shit!” again because it just seems … right.

I think we’ve all done it, or at least done something similar. But while the pain can be sharp, it’s usually fleeting, so instead of rolling up in a ball and crying, you cowboy up, go pee, and then go back to bed.

This is how normal people react; they don’t get mad at the bed.

The bed meant no harm.

Sadly, I don’t think I’m normal.

Why?

Because there is one particular inanimate object in my home – a portable fan – that makes me angry because it does mean harm, and I’m holding a grudge against the fan itself.

I hate that little bastard … I hate it with every fiber of my being. I want to hurt it and destroy everything it loves.

Here’s how it started:

We have an old house with a small downstairs bathroom.

It has no ventilation, so when you take a hot shower everything steams up and the walls sweat and you open yourself up to mold and mildew. However, if you place a fan by the door and aim it at the shower, it acts as a faux ventilation system.

And for that purpose, it works well. The trick, of course, is to move it out of the way when you’re done.

I tend to forget to do this, and it absolutely refuses to leave on its own accord.

So over the course of a week, I’m going to crash into this fan at least five times.

And that means at least five times I’m going to suffer various injuries and scream “Shit!” at the top of my lungs.

It’s really pissing me off.

I’ll walk by and kick it and stumble – once I even hit my head on the door after losing my balance completely – and it just looks at me.

And I know it’s laughing.

I can’t hear it cackle over the whir of its noisy blades … but I believe it to be true.

And every time there’s a collision, I grow angrier with it.

Just a few days ago, I rounded the corner in broad daylight and kicked it. I swear I had moved it out of the way, but there it was back in position … and in this instance, I was only wearing socks so there was actual wailing and gnashing of teeth due to the excruciating pain.

I was so mad I picked it up, shook it and screamed at it.

I felt kind of bad because it happened right in front of my bedroom fan, which has always been really sweet and probably didn’t need to hear what I was screaming.

On the other hand, making an example of the evil bathroom fan might serve as an object lesson in case the good fan ever decides to go rogue.

Now, do I have some responsibility here?

Maybe.

If I moved it out of the way after showering, I wouldn’t run into it.

But I can’t be expected to remember everything.

With two cats and two dogs – and one of the dogs being a hyperactive, vocal, criminally insane young Chihuahua – I tend to get distracted. And it would be nice if the fan showed some initiative from time to time and moved itself.

Further proof that the fan is out to get me is that Mary never has this problem with it.

It’s like the car “Christine” or that “Talky Tina” doll from “The Twilight Zone.” Much like those Mephistophelean objects, perhaps this fan has made me the target if its evil intent.

So the battle will rage on.

I’ll shower in the morning, step around it when I’m done, and hopefully remember to put it away.

But it’ll find its way back, and we’ll go round and round again.

Who knows?

Maybe one day I might accidentally leave it on the side of the road during trash pickup day.

That day might even come next week for that little prick fan.

Besides, how bad can mold and mildew be?

My dentist and his staff are great people. They’re highly skilled, have a great drill side manner, and do everything in their power to make my visit as pleasant as possible.

Still, “going to the dentist” is a terrifying experience for me.

Here’s why.

I’ve had dental issues ever since I was a little kid.  Without dentists, orthodontists, periodontists and other kinds of “dontists,” I would either be walking around with hillbilly teeth or no teeth at all.

As a child I had this one tooth that was basically a fang, and if a kind dentist – I think his name was Van Helsing – had not removed it and done some sort of dental voodoo, I would currently look like half a vampire.

All that being said, I was quite the little trooper up until my mid-teens. Thanks to nitrous oxide (laughing gas), I would get good and relaxed before any dental work was done, and the procedures were mostly run of the mill.

I might leave with a numb lip and sore gums, but it was no biggie.

Then came 1978.

For reasons I can’t fully recall – or perhaps simply don’t wish to – I found myself at a dentist who did not provide laughing gas.

Strike one.

I needed a filling, so he had to give me a shot of Novocain in the upper left side of my mouth. But early on in the drilling, I started experiencing some pretty intense pain because the shot didn’t completely deaden the area.

Strike two.

After a couple more shots kinda/sorta did the trick, he again started the process of drilling, but part of the tooth shattered. I’m not sure what happened after that, but I finally had a full understanding of how Dustin Hoffman felt in “Marathon Man.”

Any time I hear the phrase, “Is it safe?” I pee a little.

Strike three.

Because of my fear, I spent years completely avoiding the dentist, and that dental neglect naturally led to a lot of problems as an adult. Only until I had a mind-numbingly painful abscess did it reach the point where I looked like that mountain man in “Deliverance” and decided I had to get back in the chair.

Even then, I wanted assurances.

Do they provide nitrous? And if so, will there be plenty on hand when I arrive? And if so, is there a chance they can go ahead and dose me while I’m in the waiting room?

If not, do I qualify for medical marijuana? And if that isn’t an option, would it be cool to spark up a joint?

(The answer, by the way, was no on all counts).

The fear was irrational, but very real. And I was not ashamed to admit that having dental work done was one of the very last things I wanted to endure.

So when I finally relented and returned to the dentist’s office for some major work, I asked that they crank up the nitrous to 11. I sniffed as hard as I could because – and I’m being completely honest here – I wanted my ass high before anyone came at my mouth with a needle.

Despite the gas I still remember gripping the armrests as hard as I could and contorting my legs in such a way that I looked like I was either trying to score a goal via a bicycle kick, or acting out a scene from “Flashdance.”

But you know what?

I came through it fine.

I didn’t enjoy it because only a masochist would, but the doc and his team held my hand (figuratively) throughout the ordeal and did all they could to ease my angst.

And since that time – which was about 10 years ago – I’ve had everything from a root canal to a crown replacement, and every time they make a point to comment on what a big, brave boy I am.

So, no, I’ll never look forward to trips to the dentist, but I at least know the folks there are going to do a great job. And I’m very grateful to them.

They still won’t give me nitrous when they clean my teeth, though.

That kinda pisses me off.

Road rage is a serious problem, one that can result in violent, physical acts from people whose anger manifests itself in the worst possible way.

But what do you call it when you confine your rage to screaming, cursing in unknown tongues and secretly wishing bad things on people in other vehicles – all from the relative privacy (and safety) of your own car?

I ask because I find myself suffering from this on a daily basis, and I may need help.

Before I go further, let me assure everyone that I’m no threat to become violent while traveling the highways and byways of America. I follow the rules of the road closely, which makes me (according to the film I saw in high school) an ACE driver – alert, courteous and educated.

I drive the speed limit, use my turn indicator for changing lanes, and stay out of the passing lane unless I’m passing.

I do not shoot birds at other drivers or ram them repeatedly when they piss me off. Such actions are dangerous and, if I don’t run the person off the road and into a ditch, thereby disabling their vehicle, they might retaliate.

And I never liked it when the mean kids beat me up.

However, that doesn’t stop me from raging in my own way.

For example, if you’re stopped at a red light, and the red light turns green, that means you should go, and you should go immediately.

Don’t lean down and look for that renegade French fry that escaped the bag, or check to make sure the cap on the half empty bottle of vodka in the passenger’s seat is twisted tight, or look in the backseat to ensure that the blindfold on your hostage is in place – just floor it.

Back in my kinder, gentler days, I would allow the driver in front of me a full second to get moving after the light changed before I started cursing. Now, if they don’t floor that mofo at the first green hue, I unleash a stream of obscenities so perverse and vile, I simply won’t repeat them here.

I even make up curse words, the latest being “catassdickery,” to describe the, well, the catassdickery of other people on the road.

I also scream, although it isn’t so much a scream as it is a strange, guttural noise that I imagine a yak would make if the yak was in line at the DMV trying to get his license renewed. This often happens when some wanker veers over into my lane without signaling, or flies off the on ramp right in front of me.

After I’ve cursed and made the yak noise, I then wish ill on the perpetrators. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help myself.

I envision them finally reaching their destination and then having a large boulder fall directly on top of their car, crushing the vehicle and maiming them.

One time I imagined a man being mauled by a rabid owl.

I even went so far as to hope this one guy who almost sideswiped me got stuck in radioactive quicksand surrounded by cobras, although I’m not sure what scenario would cause quicksand to be radioactive, or even where quicksand might be found or how the cobras would make it through customs at the airport.

My spousal unit gets on to me when I react in such ways, offering advice such as, “Chill out!” and “Pick your battles.” She says it’s not healthy to get so worked up.

But really, I think what I do is quite healthy.

The offending driver can’t hear me curse or make yak noises, and if they happened to look at me during those moments they wouldn’t realize I was mad.

They’d just simply think I was having a stroke.

And more importantly, they can’t journey into the darkness of my mind, a mind that sees them covered in fire ants while being bludgeoned by snow monkeys with claw hammers.

Again, I’m not proud of any of this, but I just want you to know if you have similar thoughts and emotions, you’re not alone.

There are ways to vent your road rage so that no one gets hurt, even when their catassdickery warrants it.