Flat Heads Belong Only on Screwdrivers

You know what sucks worse than that little shitlicker “running” North Korea? Having a flat head. Apparently, when I was a baby, my mother never turned my ass over, so practically my whole pre-ambulatory life I lay on my back in my crib or in this crank-up baby swing that had a seat made of turquoise canvas.

According to a news report I recently read, I’m not the only one whose caretakers just left them endlessly lying there while their heads flattened out. The article, entitled, “Nearly half of babies have flat spots, study finds,” does not make me feel any fucking better to know that I’m not alone. Fifty percent of the population don’t have flat heads, and those are the successful people.  You don’t see any runway models who spin around and make the crowd gasp because the backs of their heads align perfectly with their necks. Like mine.

And although Donald Trump has gasp-worthy hair and it SEEMS like part of his brains might be missing, when he turns to the side, he doesn’t look like somebody lopped off the back hemisphere of his skull. Like me.

The Donald

I can’t wear a hat because I look like a deck-post. I can’t rock a high ponytail like Jennifer-fucking-Aniston. And when I lie on my back with my head on any kind of pillow, it looks like somebody put a ramp up to our headboard.

Even though the study in the article I’ve mentioned was conducted on two-month-old Canadian babies—and who the hell knows what kind of babies they have in a place where there is no “ow” sound—there is at least one American company that manufactures orthotic helmets to reshape a baby’s head before it hardens permanently into the shape of the capital letter D. Like mine.

Unfortunately, the helmets cost thousands of bucks and make your family look like child abusers or hockey freaks, which are equally bad.

The cheaper option is just to turn the damn baby. I mean, what are you doing that you can’t rotate the baby every hour or so? Even the laziest sumbitches can get up off the couch at the end of every episode of This is Us or I Love Dick or Game of Thrones and turn. The. Baby.

The Canadian study showed that when their flat heads were not caught in time, the babies’ facial features were also affected. Great! You lazy assholes are creating children who are all chainsaw accident in the back and Quasimodo in the front. I hope you are proud. Your children will suffer a lifetime of mediocrity, a hand-to-mouth existence, the failure of all of their hopes and dreams, and no cute hats in their futures.

I now know exactly why I have had limited success and why I have a face that incited my grandmother to say things like, “You’re pretty to me.” Flat head. Thanks. When my grandmother was teaching her own daughter—my mother—all those parenting skills, she might have spent a little less time on left-handed compliments and more time on turning the flat-headed baby.

Update From the Heart of Hess 9

7/1/16
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Now, I’ve never cut anyone open from throat to tummy with a sharp instrument before – so I’m not saying it’s easy – but I grew up watching my grandparents clean fish out at my granddaddy’s pond, and in his 70’s, Papa could gut bream like they came with factory perforations. His handwriting looked like a drunk practicing penmanship with his non-dominant hand during a ride in a rusty pick-up with worn-out shocks on a dirt road after heavy rains. But, goddamned if he didn’t slit a straight line in a fish that might even still be squirming to get away. So, you can see why I’m baffled by the veering wound down Hess’s chest after his heart surgery.

Hess's chest wound

As if I needed another reason to hate on Dr. Toothy, a.k.a. Doodie Chowser, M.D. But, come on. Even the Jehovah’s Witness who stopped in earlier this week commented that she’d “never seen a heart surgery wound so crooked,” which leads me to believe A) she might really be a home healthcare worker after all, and B) Doodie had pot brownies for breakfast the day he operated on my husband, or Katharine Hepburn did NOT, in fact, die in 2003 and has been immersed in researching her role as an asshole cardiac surgeon for the upcoming re-imagining of Adam’s Rib. And come to think of it, Doodie DOES have a horsey face. I’m liking this theory.

Anyway: the jiggly hypotenuse of a scar on my husband’s chest. Was Hess trying to dodge Doodie in the OR? Was he placed by mistake on one of those vibrating beds instead of a proper operating table? Was there perhaps a loud cover band playing “Wipeout” on the floor below? Who can say? All I know is that Hess looks like he might’ve had a drug deal go sour with a kindergartner.

If you want to get down to it, the meandering river of an arm wound where Doodie harvested Hess’s radial artery looks ever worse:

Hess's arm wound

And now, NOW, we’ve got a serious problem. As we wash and swab with Betadine the gradually drying, hardening protective wound cover his body has produced, I see the desire sparking in Hess’s eyes because, Reader: My darling is a picker. Loose skin, errant mustache hairs, nostril dwellers, scabs – These beauties are a plate of pastries and pie wedges in front of a woozy diabetic.

Because I’m deaf, God has gifted me with the heightening of other senses in compensation; I’m not sure how this makes up for my inability to hear music, conversation, laughter, and evidence of achievement during sex, but I’m blessed with the olfactory skills of a bloodhound. I can detect urine at 2 parts per million and the remnant of a cigarette smoked by a pizza delivery guy fourteen years ago at 200 yards. Thank you, Jesus!

Also, I have a “picking” radar with the accuracy of Mormon sperm. Bulls eye, every time! If I’m driving, and Hess’s pointing finger gets within one-inch of his nose hole, I’m on it like Bill Cosby on a roofied blonde.

Early in our relationship, I’d say something like, “Can I get you a shovel?” and we’d both die laughing. Now, if I notice and mention any of Hess’s picking, he looks at me all slitty-eyed with his lips in a constricted little O not unlike the rectum of a drug mule who’s just spotted a road block.

I admit that when I’m filled with anxiety, I gnaw at my fingernails, which drives Hess mad. And, at least once a day, I put the household through the agony of Elane’s Clearing of the Bronchial Tubes, and I’m SORRY I have to hack up small chunks of lung with such wet auditory detail. But, you have to understand, Reader, that Hess can take a teeny scar from a scraped knee and pick at it until it looks like we’re cultivating a good-sized cauliflower crop on his leg. I can’t tell you how many times he’s created Niagaras of blood down a limb where a scratch was almost healed.

So, now do you grasp our dilemma, Reader, do you? Tonight, when we saw for the first time that the arm scab has just started to lift off at one end, we shared twin looks of horror that said, “Trump is the Republican nominee for fucking president!” But, we were really just aghast because we recognized the allure of all that luscious scabbing to a man helpless to resist its siren call. God! There’s going to be blood everywhere, just everywhere, and he’s going to pick that arm wound until it’s the width of the Mississippi. Do you all think a straight-jacket would help? Not for Hess. For me, people. For me.

A Little Consideration, Please

You know, it is evil to post photos of people on social websites without their permission. I have never, ever, ever liked having my picture taken because taken means stolen, and whatever tribe it is that believes cameras steal your soul is absofuckinglutely right. One should not have to suffer even in private the humiliation of the hard, cold pictorial evidence of one’s actual appearance, yet alone in a global forum teeming with former high school classmates’ malicious anticipation that you are more swollen than they are.

I prefer to live in a sort of delusion that I don’t really resemble what a Polaroid says I do. If you have seen a photo of me, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. My fat fricking chinnage looks like one of those inner tubes for river rafting, or like Trump when he’s sputtering. Coincidentally, my upper torso appears to have been inflated by a gigantic air mattress pump perhaps inserted into one of those little plastic valves that may be hidden beneath my back-fat folds. Who knows what’s all up under there? You can understand why I don’t willingly pose for posterity. It’s totally unfair to be the cause of mass pukery.

Now I realize that many folks enjoy flaunting the goods, especially when they are young and firm and dumbasses. I mean, who out there hasn’t allowed the occasional tasteful Hustler-crotch-shot or the harmless sex-with-multiple-kitchen-accessories tape? What? Yes, I meant besides Paris Hilton and anyone who assists Hef with his catheter and collection bag. What? No one? Huh.

Well, booby shots, then. Everyone does that. Even Pippa. And what happens to all embarrassing exposures the second the image develops? They pop up on Facebook. Or somebody’s ex sells them to a skin mag. Whatever. Why can’t we all just show a little more consideration? Here are some pointers that might help: Don’t let anyone ever shove a camera in your hoo-ha. Don’t generate a penis gallery with your own damned cell phone. Don’t smoke. It kills. (I just had to throw that in there.) And please don’t put my age- and jumbo-bags-of-Kit-Kats-tarnished image on display without checking with me first. My answer will always be “no,” but it is strictly in the best interest of public safety.

Celebrities, You are NOT the Boss of Me.

Why do celebrities even open their mouths when they are not A.) speaking in character on screen or stage, B.) getting their teeth whitened, or C.) blowing someone? I mean, the only thing of substance that ever, ever comes out of a celebrity’s dental orifice is partially digested food. Are you paying attention here? Donald. Trump. Could. Be. President. People think Jennifer Aniston is REAL. And for God’s sake, global warming is NOT to blame for the ozone’s holes. The one-hundred percent true cause is Sean-Puerile-Penn’s toxic twaddle.

Why do we—and by we I mean idiots when I don’t personally like the celebrity in question—follow the minute-to-minute functions of people so synthetic that if you flip them over and look at the bottom of one foot, it will say Patent Pending? Did you know there is a Celebrity Attitude Scale developed by a British psychologist, which ranks people according to their levels of celebrity worship? There’s entertainment-social: Celebrities are fun to watch! There’s intense-personal: Celebrities and I have lots in common, and I want to hump one! And then there’s borderline-pathological: The duct tape, chain saw, and map to David Letterman’s house are in my trunk because he has been sending me secret love messages in his monologues, and he wants me to come over and cut him into small squares so that I can keep him in my pocket at all times and maybe wear some of his skin.

There is something seriously bent about the fact that we buy schmillions of products and services just because Tiger Woods or Oprah says we should, unless of course Miss Winfrey selects my book for her Book Club one day, and then you absolutely, by all means, most definitely should get a copy as soon as possible because Oprah really knows her shit when it comes to picking incredible literature except for the couple of times she touted those bogus-memoirs, but everyone makes mistakes. Under no circumstances, though, should you trust any fucking thing Tiger Woods says, even if he is trying to convince you to buy golf balls. The last thing anyone should ever want to play with is that guy’s balls.

Trump bin Laden Sheen

The world may be a better place without Osama, but wouldn’t it have been far sweeter if bin Laden had been throwing a little tea party for asswipes on Sunday? I can just imagine the scene:

Inside a million-dollar compound in Pakistan—unnoticed by local political leaders and officials of the military academy within walking distance—a banquet table, draped in a dainty floral-patterned silk, overflows with scones and jam, buttery tea biscuits, iced lemon cakes, and delicate China cups brimming with café au lait.

The Donald leans slightly forward as Osama tops off Trump’s beverage. The “winning warlock” gently chews a petit four. Osama wiggles a teapot in Charlie’s direction.

“More tiger’s blood for my favorite infidel?” Osama inquires. Sheen declines with a slight wave.

“No. No more for me. I’ve got to go drain my torpedo of truth as it is.” He spots a twelve-year-old girl hesitating in the doorway. “Excuse me,” he says to his fellow fuckers, “Gotta go grab me a goddess.” On the way out, Sheen playfully flips the Donald’s hair.

“Goddammit, Charlie. It took five hours and six stylists to get that right this morning. Now I’ll never be president,” Trump seethes.

“Oh, comb on, Donnie. If I can get my career back after all the lies CBS has spread about me, then you can bounce back from a little follicle fuck-up. We shall overcomb!” Sheen explodes with laughter at his own dumbassness. Trump executes an inverted facelock elbow drop, and the two celebrated dipshits soon end up naked and grappling on bin Laden’s linoleum. Just as Osama strips his pastel striped dress over his head to join in the gay old time, a team of Navy Seals in night-vision goggles drops in for a treat. They shoot anything that even remotely resembles a dumbass.

And the world lets loose a collective sigh of relief.

Fade to black.