Big Balls In Cow Town

(Written Tuesday Night 6/17):

When I was in high school, there was this coach who taught economics. Complete stereotypical Texas coach -- big belly, tight pants, and a very heavy accent. And did I mention his NUTS WERE THE SIZE OF TENNIS BALLS? Well, they were. And when I say he wore his pants tight, I'm referring to Wranglers. The really really tight ones.

And do you want to guess where his favorite place to hang out in the clssroom was? Front and center, half-perched on a kitchen stool. As if to say, "See? See my ridiculously LARGE BALLS?See them. Love them. "

I never once got through that class without humming, Big balls in cowtown, we'll all go down...

Why am I subjecting you to these cruel, cruel visuals? Because until last night, I hadn't thought of him in years. In fact, there's another reason why I've desperately tried to banish him from my memory (as if that wasn't enough).

First, let me just say how pissed I am now that they let a coach like him teach economics. He was horrible. Didn't teach me one damn thing. I, of course, got an A in the class. (My project partner was the valedictorian--it was a tight race; he insisted on completing the project entirely on his own. He didn't trust the rest of us mere mortals. We, being 17 and months away from FREEDOM, sad "have fun" and kicked back. So now I know shit about economics, all because Big Bazlls didn't care enough to actually make me work. Or, perhps he was a phenomenal teacher -- I was most certainly so entranced by the lure of the loins that it all went right past me. Either way, I was short changed. (Put that in your economics pipe and smoke it)


Second, and most important, Big Ball's class was the scene of the FATAL FINGER FOLLY. It was a warm summer day, we were counting down the weeks until graduation, Valedictorian Boy was covering my ass in eco, so I, of course, was spending my class time severing the head of a min-Barbie doll (I'd had a Happy Meal for lunch that day... hmmm...not much has changed, has it?) with my mini Swiss Army knife. So there I was, happily sawing along, and Slip! Slice! Spurts of blood came shooting out of my middle finger, covering my books, desk, Valedictorian Boy in splashes of red. Big Balls, rolling his eyes at the weird girl playing with a pocket knife and a miniature Barbie, sent me straight to the nurse with strict instruction not to come back "until you've got all that crap cleaned up now, ya hear?" (Hauck, spit, adjust ENORMOUS BALLS)

Aside from the fact that my finger was throbbing and losing pints of blood by the minute, I was enjoying my break from class until I had to start explaining how it happened to everyone I saw in the hallway. And you know me, Miss TMI, I couldn't get away with simply telling people I cut myself; no, I had to stop and mime the actual activity, explaining it pretty much the same as I just did above. (Again, not much has changed on my end of things.)

Beyond the fact that after about the 3rd explnation, I began to catch on that people thought I was a bit off, and stopped thinking of it as a funny diversion from class, I also learned that there would be a possibility of stitches.

This was not turning into the fun joyride I'd thought it'd be.

Lucky for me, I ended up with just a butterfly bandaid thingy and some very funny "You Are The Dumbest Human On The Planet" cards from my closest friends.


Good Lord, this is longer story than I'd planned.

Anywy, the reason I thought about him was because I sliced my finger open earlier this week, blood spurted, it hurt, and this time, well this time I ended up with 6 stitches. REL ONES. The kind they do on tv. AND I hd to get a tetanus shot. TETANUS SHOTS HURT.

And then? And then he shot numbing stuff into each of my 2 huge, gaping cuts . WITH A NEEDLE. HARD.

I wasn't aware that this would be happening until about 2 seconds before it happened. Apparently Shawn knew, but I was clueless. It was after the 5th time the doctor asked if I was sure I would be okay, did I need to lie down? Throw up? that I finally said, "what the hell are you about to do to me?"

Then they told me, I lied down, almost threw up, told him just to do it, and squeezed the ever-living soul out of Shawn through his hand.

That was Tuesday morning at 1:30. We'd been there since 9:30 Monday night, but what with all the waiting and xrays and TETANUS SHOTS, you can understand how putting 6 stitches into a cut pinky finger would take 4 hours.

That's all I kept saying, by the way..."but I just cut my finger. I wasn't even going to come in." I think it was the shock. But this time? This time I had a much more valid, grown-up excuse: I was washing our glass blender in the sink, lost my grip, it shattered and sliced my pinky. Twice.

When I wasn't whining about all the fuss, I was humming...Big Balls in cowtown, we'll all go down...