Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Good Week, Bad Week
Our prognosticating skills have reached a fever pitch. We went 2-1 ATS on Thanksgiving, and 2-1-1 the following Sunday, to bring our season long record for NFL games, to 27-17-2 ATS. We would challenge any sports handicapper, who actually documents his picks, to show us a winning record equal to at least 10 games over .500, this late into the season. How does our ass taste, Brandon?
Our winning ways have been offset by what has been quite the fucked up week. Yours truly, who has been attempting to make child with my significant other, had to drive over to Reston on Monday and drop off a sample to be evaluated. Good times...
Nothing beats walking into an infertility clinic, and being greeted by the 5 women standing behind the counter, who know you've just walked in to rub one off. The chagrin I felt was wiped away by the shock on all of their faces, when I pulled out a dozen roses for my date.
"So where is my Dixie Cup?... Where is she?", I asked.
OK, so I didn't really bring roses, nor did I ask where my date was, but I probably should've of. Upon signing in, I took a seat in the lobby, and waited for a room to become available.
So they call your name, and this woman leads you back to this room. The room is about 10 feet by 10 feet, its cold, with tiled floors with no bed or couch, and its not exactly the ideal place to be Hammering your Hank. They equip the room with a TV and some DVDs, which is a feeble attempt to get one in the mood. By the time the door is shut, and you're by yourself in that room, next to rooms that "house" other dipshits who are pounding their puds, the mood is about as romantic as a prison rape.
So there I was, kneeling on the tiled floor, with my jeans around my ankles, my junk in one hand, and the Dixie Cup in the other, looking at the DVD cover of some pig in lingerie. What a fucking debacle.
You would think that for the $325 I just spent to kneel on a cold floor and dump a line of rope into a 2" circumferenced Dixie Cup, couldn't they send in one of those house frows to at least stick a tongue up my ass while doing so?? And I tell you what. The little bastard that comes out of all of this, better grow up to cure cancer or something. Or at least handicap me some football winners, when I'm old and decrepit.
And if Monday wasn't a total mess, Tuesday was a once in a lifetime, never again experience; teeth whitening. And contrary to some of the razzing I took from friends, no, I don't suck cock part time. My bride actually lined this one up as well, via Groupon.
Teeth whitening, in summary, is an hour and a half of someone putting cotton swabs and a mouth guard into and onto your mouth, and peroxide on your teeth. The peroxide eventually seeps into your gums, and it's as comforting as nails on a chalkboard. Its comparable to drinking a hot bowel of soup, and then immediately being forced to bury your teeth into a block of ice.
My only saving grace was the poker I was playing on my phone during each of the 3 stages. To sum it up, the teeth whitening experience is a good incentive to drink less coffee and red wine, and to brush your teeth as often as humanly possible.
Things happen in threes, and certainly last but not least, we found out on Wednesday that our almost 6 year old Boxer has cancer. As anyone who knows the breed, this should not come as much of a surprise, but it sucks major donkey dicks, nonetheless.
The tumor was discovered on her front left paw, and pending a second opinion, its supposed to be a soft cell, slow growing Sarcoma. Our options are pretty much to do nothing, surgery with treatments, or amputate her leg.
The first vet is concerned about not being able to 'get all the margins' of the tumor, and they think it will eventually spread. The "fine" folks at TLC in Leesburg, who are equipped with the state of the art lobby, with ceramic tile floor straight out of the Caesars Palace in Vegas, wanted almost $10,000 to perform surgery, and then put her on chemo/radiation treatments.
The dog is pretty much 6. She's a breed that is lucky to make it to 8 or 9, and you want us to fill her up with radiation and chemical so that she can be fucking miserable the remaining 2 or 3 years of her life, when she'll probably develop cancer somewhere else anyway? Go fuck yourself.
The other option, amputating her leg, doesn't make sense to us either. Again, it comes down to logistics, and making the dog as stress free as possible. The tumor on her leg is not bothering her, as she appears to have no discomfort. If we cut her leg off, and force her to be physically stressed for the last years of her life, that could do more damage than it does good. The only cool part we'd be missing out on, is bringing the amputated leg home, and allowing our other dog to use it as a chew toy.
Just kidding. (Going for a light moment)
We're hoping this second opinion will be the determining factor. If this vet, who came on high recommendation from a friend, thinks they can remove most of the tumor without affecting the quality of life of the dog, then we're probably going to attempt that. If they can't, we'll just hope(and so will she) that it is the slow/passive cancer that the lab result says it is, and that our beloved Boxer can live out the last year(s) of her life in peace, with all four limbs and without being all drugged up.
In closing, we'd like to say that regardless of the slobbering love affair the sports media currently has with Michael Vick and his resurgence, he's still a piece of fucking shit in our eyes. Fuck you, Mike.
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