Wednesday, February 25, 2015

ROBBLOG #573



If you don't watch medical dramas on TV-like Saving Hope, because of the blood, you may not appreciate my little fable- Rob*

David threw off his bed sheets and dashed to the kitchen to flick the switch on his coffee maker.
He stood looking out the patio doors, scratching his balls and patting his six pack, as the percolator gurgled and sputtered hot coffee into the insulated carafe.

He poured a mug of Arabica and returned to the bedroom pulling on a tee shirt and track pants. He was still barefoot when he opened the man-door into his garage. This was the day of his long-awaited party celebrating nothing. It was just a party. Cocktails and food. A new recipe he was anxious to try.
David was excited. He liked to entertain and this was his chance to show off his culinary talents as well as his new family room furniture and his 80 inch smart TV.

Grabbing a three-step stool he climbed on top, reaching for the extra martini glasses he kept in a box on the top shelf. As he did so, he nudged the axe which was resting on the top shelf next to the glasses. It dropped off the shelf, falling like a lead balloon, slicing his left arm off at the shoulder.
Blood spurted everywhere.
So, thought David laughing to himself, it was going to be one of those days. He climbed down off the step stool and stuffed an old rag that had been lying on the second shelf next to the turpentine, into the gaping hole where his left arm was once attached to his body. Most of the blood stopped gushing down his chest but it has soaked his track pants on coloured his bare feet a deep burgundy red.

Picking up his left arm from the garage floor, he placed it on the bottom shelf next to the windshield washer fluid. He'd deal with that later. He had tonight's party to think about.

David carefully climbed back up on the step stool gripping the shelving unit with his good right arm as he climbed. Once again he reached for the box of Martini glassware on the top shelf- this time with his remaining good hand and arm, pushing the box slowly to the edge of the shelf. He grabbed it and placed it firmly between his right pectoral and bicep.
He started down the three steps.
As he did, the rag he had stuffed in the gaping hole in his left shoulder, caught on the teeth of a wood saw that was hanging- albeit precariously, on a nail on the front of the shelving unit. The rag entangled itself on the teeth of the saw, flinging it off the nail towards David's body, causing it to slice his right arm off just below his tricep muscle.
Oh fuck David thought! Now, just how inconvenient is this. Of all days for this to happen!
He shrugged and picked up his right arm- that had fallen into the blue recycle container, with his teeth.

Yuck. He hated the taste of blood and besides he had just been to the dentist for a teeth cleaning the day before.

He sat himself down on the floor near the garage door, behind his apple-red PT Cruiser. It was a much brighter red than the blood that was pooling on the floor around him. David shimmied out of his track pants and using his left foot- the same foot he used to easily self-manipulate his penis, he stuffed the track pants into the gapping wound on his right shoulder, stopping most of the blood that was draining from his lean, well-muscled body. His blood ran onto the cold cement floor and pooled under the car's tires.

"Damn and blast!"- he cried, kicking the front left PT tire with his right foot.
As he sat there naked from the waste down and without arms, he noticed he was feeling a bit light-headed. He kicked the tire again in frustration. Suddenly, the PT Cruiser began to lurch backwards towards him and the garage door,
Egads and Shit!
David had forgotten to set the emergency brake when he parked the car in the garage the night before!

The Cruiser lumbered towards the door and David who was sitting on his ass in front of it!
In seconds, the tires rolled across both his legs, slicing one off below the kneecap and the other above his upper thigh. David had to admit he was feeling a bit of discomfort but at the same time as he sat there on his hard, athletic asscheeks, he was mad enough to slap his one good thigh with a clenched fist, until he remembered- he didn't have fists anymore. Why hadn't he remembered to set the parking break. He was starting to feel sorry for himself when he remembered his party that evening.

Great he thought, now I'll have to "bum" around for the evening...


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