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.

Another Shitty Day in Pooville

How does she know? I realize my miniature poodle is more intelligent than most high school students and all rappers, but I still can’t figure it out. Only when I am in the mother of all hurries does my sweet little pookums work up an industrial-sized episode of explosive stool expulsion. On the carpet. Used to be beige. The spot she selected this morning is less than three inches from the kitchen tile where bowel spills would be easy-breezy to clean. But nooo. Unless her fecal fury can cause floor-covering cataclysm, she will save her detonations for the yard.

I made the mistake of gating her in the laundry room once while I had to work. To show her obvious indignation, she first made a substantial doody deposit and then spent the remaining four hours behind bars heinously bouncing up and down in the excrement until her little crap-covered paws had fused the shit to the linoleum with the heat of the manic jumping. I had to scrub the scene of the crime with metal because of the astonishing adhesive properties of her creation. That dog totally discovered a new element. Shitonium. It’s true. She’s going to win the Nobel in science this year.

Now on the other end of the sphincter spectrum, there’s me. Several nights ago, someone apparently sneaked in while I was sleeping and poured a bag of Sakrete up my ass. “Plugged” does not even scratch the surface of my condition. I considered my options and decided that a nuclear warhead would be my safest bet. Let me just say that the results were not pretty. I am absolutely positive that a Mac truck drove out of my lower intestine later that evening. The only good that came of the situation is that I totally reaccepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. Several times.

Funny Girls Write Books.

Well. I’ve been KINDLING lately, and I don’t mean I’ve become firewood. Or that I’ve recently turned anyone on. I really should say “Kindle-ing” if I want to be accurate, since I’m talking about all the reading I’ve been doing on my Amazon Kindle. I’d toyed with getting one for awhile, and a few weeks ago I snagged a deal at Big Box. As soon as I plugged that puppy in, and whole books and magazines appeared in microseconds, I frothed at the mouth and scheduled some near-future rehab.

The first thing I did was order a whole slew of books penned by comediennes (women comedians for all your dumbshits). I’d been anticipating the arrival of Tina Fey’s Bossypants like a gaggle of gay teens pining for a Kurt-Blaine tongue wrestle. But because I had a couple of days before Bpants’s release, I quelled my desire with Kathy Griffin’s Official Book Club Selection: A Memoir According to Kathy Griffin and Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life.

Kathy r-o-c-k-s. I laughed laaaaaate into the night reading her surprisingly sweet and intimate memoir; but I can say with unvarnished truth that Chelsea Handler’s book was so unfunny that I resent the fact that I cannot even use it as toilet paper if I run out. I want my fucking five dollars back, bitch. (Although perhaps the reality that it was five dollars should have been a clue to its suckassness.)

Tina Fey, now, is just as wicked as Kathy Griffin; but because her humor is a little more cerebral, and she’s selected a better class of friends, Tina isn’t on Oprah’s and David’s and every-damned-body’s shitlist. Hey. Both of those girls swear way more than I do, but nobody’s having a stroke about it. So be quiet, Daddy. (Who do you think taught me all those words anyway? Yeah. That’s right. Bathroom bitches at Parkwood Elementary. But you should have warned me about sixth-graders.)

My conclusion #1- If you’re looking for pee-in-your-panties fun, grad a box of Depends ® and a Griffin- or Fey-produced product.

My conclusion #2- The only upside to anything by Handler: If you need to lose a few pounds before an upcoming special event, read Handler’s shit, and you can puke up food you haven’t even eaten yet. Slimming.

My conclusion #3- If they can sell books, so can I. Go, girl writers.

Haters Unite!

So. In the category of shit-we-should-all-hate, let’s begin with those plastic seals on the inside of bottled/tubbed products like sour cream or cold medicine tablets or canola oil. I know. I know. The seals protect us from people who get spurned by a stalkee and then set out to kill said stalkee by lacing a bunch of containers of some common product at Wal-Mart with rat poison. If the seal is broken, you might want to choose some other opportunity to show all those assholes from work that you are not a pasty, paranoid, spineless wuss. This is no time to be all risky and dare-devily. That seal did not pick itself open.

And do you know how I know that? Because those goddamned things require a blow torch and an advanced degree from MIT to open. And there’s no way some plastic seal got into MIT. All right. Maybe if it were made in China. But I digress. Whoever invented those things clearly has sadistic leanings. There is never, ever, ever enough hangover to make a substantial tab, plus your hands are probably going to be wet or ooey in some way, and you won’t be able to grip the slippery fricking film anyway. Then you have to go find a knife and cut the damned thing off, and you can never get all of the shards. Is there no one out there who can design an easier seal for God’s sake? It’s the 21st century. We are supposed to have flying cars and robot maids by now and a dog named Astro. Jesus.

And speaking of that, another thing we should all hate is when people use the Lord’s name in vain! God, that makes me furious. But almost nothing gets under my skin like when people make fun of the mentally ill. I get crazier than a psyche ward full of schizophrenics off their meds. The worst, though, the WORST is when writers end their pieces without a conclusion. Any good writer worth a crap knows to sum up everything she’s previously said and leave the reader with a “final-sounding” thought. But a lot of times