Pegleg: Slower Than You!

As I hobble to my makeshift workstation at the kitchen table with a pan of Stove Top in one hand and a shredded facial tissue in the other, I ask myself:

Self, am I depressed?

I mean, a broken fibula can mean many things to many people, as I have learned on mybrokenleg.com, but the bullshit that you go through on the day-to-day while cooped up in your house can feel slightly oppressive at times.  When the only audience you have for your outbursts are a overly-hyper dog and a lazy motherfucker of a cat, the feedback one gets is somewhat lacking.  Between the blank stares of the cat and the constant gnawing of the dog on his magical rawhide bone, far too busy to look up, I’m not sure they even know I’m here.

Oh, I’m working.  This working-from-home thing is a blessing and a curse.  Besides that, who only takes off one day for a broken leg?  Me, that’s who.  Who is also severely lacking in judgement?  OK, don’t answer that.  I’ve been stuck in an uncomfortable stabilizing boot for 3 long weeks and if I’m lucky, I’ll get out of it next week.

Week 1:  I was totally putting on makeup and dressing in real-ish clothes every day.

LOOK NORMAL AT ALL COSTS

Week 2:  Attempting and failing at looking normal, I instead just stayed angry at my laptop.

Learn to write an email, assholes.

 Week 3:  Complete Decline of all Civilization.

Who the fuck cares anymore. Not me. I look awesome.

And I guess that’s what really makes being broken, in its own way, a little beautiful and somewhat bittersweet.  I may be eating a pan of Stove Top for lunch, but trust me, you’re sleeping better than I am.  Plus 1 for Stove Top, minus 1 for no sleep.  I may not be able to outrun you for your candy, you don’t have Norco.  Minus 1 for being slower than a 90-year old, plus 1 for drugs.  I may be a completely miserable bitch 99.9% of the time at present, but I get to be that way in a robe at 2pm while drinking IF I WANTED TO.  Minus 1 for miserable bi-…

wait, there’s no minus there.

Werdz: Not Rocket Science, NPR

The other day, I was driving home listening to NPR as I am wont to do on most days.  I listen to NPR because honestly, all the other news radio sucks even worse than theirs does.  I try to mostly listen to the BBC (usually always error-free because they are BRITISH) or the non-news programming, whatever.  I don’t need to explain away my shameless abuse of public radio to you.  I had a giant meltdown with NPR 3 years ago and our relationship has never been the same.  But I digress.

I am listening to NPR, and I SWEAR TO BABY JESUS, the reporter says this word:

INTERNECINE

At least I think that’s the word she’s trying to say, because she pronounces it like this:

INTERNȲCȲNE 

Long i sounds on the last two syllables.

ARE YOU FUCKING JOKING.

Look, I’m not an asshole.  That’s a word with which not everyone is familiar.  I’m not going to hold a normal person responsible for maybe never having seen that word before, and having trouble their first go-round with it.  But you are a reporter, ma’am.  Saying words can be possibly difficult at times but aren’t you supposed to practice that shit?

Let me just list the words that radio and TV people get wrong all the time:

ET CETERA:  It’s Latin, folks.  Quit fucking it up.  A dead language cannot rise up and defend itself.  There’s no ECK.

HEIGHT:   It is always this word.  There is no “th” on the end.  Ever.  EVER.

MOOT:  Moot and mute are two different words that do not mean the same thing.  Stop it.  It drives me absolutely batshit crazy.

ORIENTATE:  Not. A. Fucking. Word.

RESPITE:  Again with the long iiiiiiii’s.  Noooooooooooooo.

and last, but oh, not least, and the timeless classic:

NUCLEAR

Just, uh, insert mushroom cloud here.