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Dear
readers, listeners and readers who read aloud. I write to you today with shaky
palms and a nervous stomach. I don’t think it’s contagious but just to be safe,
please simply enjoy this final Meat Log Blog and do not attempt to find me.
Actually, do try to find me. Just know that it is an impossible task for I have
changed my identity and moved to a far away land that is definitely not my
parent’s basement. Lastly, if what I’ve just shared with you has flung you
headfirst into a fit of grief-fueled rage, try to just go with the flow.
Grief-fueled rage is in these days.
When you
wake up in the hospital they give you apple juice, which is nice. A tall nurse
gave me my Welcome-to-the-Hospital Juice with a bendy straw in it; yet another
nice touch. But when I went to take my maiden sip I was denied at the rim. I
couldn’t swallow and worse yet, my sweet new gown now had an unsightly stain on
it. The nurse nodded knowingly, she told me that the doctor would be in soon
and that she was glad to see me awake. And then she left; without even the
slightest show of concern for the fashion faux pas that she had caused me! Can
you believe the nerve of some people!? My parents, who were both standing
across the room from me, approached the bed. Their faces looked much older than
I remembered. As I began to taunt my silly old parents, I was taken aback. My
hilarious words were barely audible, as if each one were being excavated from
deep inside of me by a team of community college archaeologists. And then I
threw up.
Amarillo,
Texas harbors its fair share of culture – a booming meth industry, a tight knit
community of cannibalistic Republicans, and Crazy Larry’s 96 Ounce Steak
Challenge. The signs on the way out of Amarillo read Please, For the Love of God and Business, Come Back Sometime, Anytime.
On the way in, starting at about 50 miles out in any direction, you’ll see
billboards inviting brave men and women to try Crazy Larry’s challenge.
Harold
Thompson is a tall man, roughly 6’4”, with a face like a deflated basketball.
His presence fills a room with unease and even in my weakened state I flirted
with attacking this white coated demon spawn. In his toady voice he croaked out
the news of the day. I had choked – bad.
A late game slip up. An airway blockage with less than a pound to go had
landed me on the fourteenth floor of the Northwest Texas Hospital with a
severely damaged esophagus and $128 in debt to Crazy Larry (before tip).
Crazy Larry
is not as crazy as his name suggests. He’s actually quite nice. Weeks later,
when I finally made it down to his fine dining establishment to pay my bill and
clean my coughed up blood off his tables, floor and waitstaff, he was generous
enough to give me a complementary Crazy Larry Visor. That visor got me through
some tough times like that one time when it was sunny and all my hats were at
the dry cleaners. Thank you Crazy Larry.
There was a
learning curve. Chewing, swallowing and not choking all took time to get used
to again. Eventually though, I was able to do all three in quick succession. I
just put one bite in front of the other and before I knew it, I was eating.
Then I accidentally swallowed a couple marbles. That set me back a few weeks
but before I knew it I was back to where I was at a few weeks before. I was
eating almost nothing but food and drinking like a champ, but there was still
something wrong – chiefly uncontrollable vomiting at the sight, smell or even
mention of meat, as well as chronic bed-wetting.
Doctors
assured me that the bed-wetting was unrelated to my accident, and my mom assures
me that I’ve been doing it for years. I question her memory though, she is
getting quite old after all, but I suppose she might be right. Although it
doesn’t explain all those times someone pooped in my bed.
Therapy is
tough. It’s not all fun and games like you would think and in fact, there is
almost no fun or games; except of course the game that I made up. It’s called
Splash Pants and Dr. Kaiser is the best at it. He’s always yelling stuff like
“Jesus Christ Garrett, you’re an adult” and “for fuck’s sake Garrett” and we
all get to laugh because we know he’s just joking around to try and distract us
from looking at his pee pants.
After a
couple weeks and the conclusion of the Splash Pants Tourney, Dr. Kaiser
determined that I was ready for electroshock therapy. We had tried hypnosis,
reverse psychology, role playing and trust falls; and despite giving me dozens
of erections, nothing had helped cure my meat vomits. With great sadness in his
voice, Dr. Kaiser told me that if the electroshock therapy didn’t work I would
be transferred. He said he was shocked by my lack of progress and that he had
never seen anything like it. I wanted to point out his clever word play but
gave him a silent nod of approval instead. I was nervous as the orderlies
attached electrodes to different points on my body. I knew how serious this
was, if I wasn’t focused I may have swallowed the water and then Dr. Kaiser
wouldn’t get to enjoy one last game of Splash Pants.
The Meat
Rehabilitation Center at the Mayo Clinic has no windows and even less
appreciation for style. The place is like a prison - a fashion prison - filled
with fashion prison guards and a fashion warden who I know stole my visor. And
I know what you’re probably thinking and I’ve already tried. I called Crazy
Larry but he keeps saying that he “can’t help me kill a doctor”; although I
suspect that he could but is choosing not to.
It doesn’t
matter how much food you have in your stomach, you can still vomit on a nurse.
And you can feel bad and cry about it but that’s not going to get the taste of
vomit out of a nurse’s mouth. Really the only thing you can do is just try to
be the best you can be, even if it means the occasional nurse quits to, ‘Go
find Jesus’. Different strokes for different folks.
My folks
were both back at work. They had taken up fun bonus night jobs: my dad at a
7/11 and my mom at a club for gentlemen! They said it was so that they could
pay for my therapy but really it was me that was paying. While they were off
enjoying the company of noble men and unlimited free Slurpees, I was stuck in a
living hell – making nurses consider God. Every day they would wake me up at
the crack of noon to torture me until nap time. For minutes at a time they’d
force me into the pulled pork immersion tank or the flank steak sleep
deprivation chamber. And the worst of all were the sloppy Joe enemas; why they
wouldn’t let me do them more than twice a day, I’ll never know.
I’m an
enigma, or at least that’s what they started calling me. I assume it’s medical
slang for a really cool cool-guy who is generous enough to make sure everyone
gets to hear his cool jokes because that’s what I am and that’s what I do. And I
may make it look easy but I really care about being the cool, funny guy that
people count on me to be. Like sometimes I’d have to track people down so that
I could tell them my cool jokes. And although they may have initially looked
sad, cowering in the corner, I always made sure they were smiling before I’d
walked away. It’s just what I do, I brighten days. I’m like a factory that
produces good times for everyone. But unfortunately, at my good times factory,
the worker’s union went on strike, demanding a wage increase and overtime pay
right before they were supposed to make my personal batch of good times. Stupid
union! Why couldn’t they have just toughed it out for one more 18 hour day of
making good times? I mean, if they’d just kept doing their job everything would
have been all fine. Instead, it was all not fine. I was vomiting all the time,
sometimes mid joke, and all of the therapee-pee wasn’t doing shit!
I was
released from the Mayo Clinic Meat Rehabilitation Center on May 16th.
Their lawyer’s will tell you that I was “discharged due to flagrant misuse of
Mayo Clinic property” but I’m here to set the record straight. I was kicked out
because I took an X-ray of my genitals. Do I regret it? Yes, the stupid machine
wouldn’t print copies, but I’ll get over it. I’m a survivor.
My
homecoming was underwhelming. My silly parents forgot to invite all my best
buds to the party, they didn’t book the marching band I requested and somehow
they also forgot to pick me up. So silly! So I spent most of two
weeks at SeaTac. I survived thanks to the generosity of others who are stupid
enough to use trash cans. Those idiots throw away all sorts of stuff and sure,
sometimes that stuff was meat stuff. And yeah, sometimes I threw up, but other
times I didn’t and that’s something not nearly enough travelers
appreciate.
If there is
one thing I’m good at, it’s racquetball. But if there are two things I’m good
at, it’s theater and racquetball. So in true Shakespearean style, I sobbed near
a trash can in baggage claim for 12 straight days. The audience danced for me
like they were puppets and I was a guy who is really good at using puppets.
Groups of fans would gather, cheering me on with their pictures and pointing
and laughter. Security guards traveled from far and wide to come ask me “if I
could come with them?” As if any great actor ever goes anywhere for free! And
lastly there were the janitors, they will always hold a special place in my
heart for I know they loved my performance most of all. Day after day they returned,
anxious to see how the show was going and how much vomit they had to clean
up.
I cannot say where I went next, although I will assure you,
once again, that I definitely did not go to my parent’s basement. Seriously,
stay away from there. My parents are old and frail and I am NOT living with
them. I can however tell you how this story ends. My Herculean quest for recovery ended with self-realization and personal acceptance. I can no longer
do the hundreds of pull ups that you all remember me doing, but that’s OK. I’ve
still got a rockin’ bod and you still have all those incredible memories. Also,
I can no longer eat meat – stupid medicine once again was stupid and did
nothing. The meat vomits persist but I cannot. No longer do I
enjoy yummy cow meat or juicy pig meat or tender dog meat. And although society
may label me a 'Vegetarian', I know that my tramp stamp will always say
otherwise. What I’m trying to say is, don’t worry about
me, I’m fine. I’m still alive, I’m still Gary Mustard and I’m still the bad ass
super cool dude that you all look up to. So tonight, don’t lose sleep over me;
I’ll be resting easy as the warm rush of self-assurance runs down my leg.
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