Tales from the Vacation Part 3.2 out of Too Many
By the Juice
As promised. You can check out part 1 here, part 2 here and the first half of part 3 here. Follow your nose, it always knows. Now to the matter at hand…
If you remember from last time, the lovely attendant at the first aid station at the Magic Kingdom was servicin’ my needs. And not in the good way, neither. I waited patiently (read: anxiously) in the lobby of the first aid station. Eventually the attendant returned with my assortment of pills, salves, ointments and a glass of water. I quickly swallowed the pills and lubed my face up with the aloe. I thanked her for her “kindness”, which she returned with a thinly veiled scowl of disgust. At that point, I bee-lined it to the nearest store and bought a hat. Notice not once did I mention puttin’ on sunblock?
picture this, but with a really red face. And I don’t mean communist, either.
After purchasin’ the hat, I figured it was probably a good time to head back to the family eatin' at the restaurant. I'd like to say that I was in a better frame of mind, but I wasn't. At this point, it’s been about ten minutes since I took the meds. And not only am I NOT feelin’ better, but I’m feelin’ progressively worse. By the time I get back to the family, I’m headin’ south down 95 toward Panicville. Somethin’ in the ol’ noggin realizes that somethin’ ain’t quite right. Even the missus realizes somethin’ ain’t right. I could tell ‘cause she was actually bein’ nice to me. That’s usually a bad sign.
To gather my thoughts (read: so no one would see my panic attack), I scuttle on down to a semi-secluded part of the restaurant and try to maintain composure. Which probably might’ve work if it was just me. However, with 100 kids raisin’ all kinds of bloody hell, relaxin’ just wasn’t gonna happen. It was probably at this point when I notice the hives on my arm. And the hives on my other arm. I pulled up my shirt to find I was cover in huge red welts. Well, that was definitely the straw the broke this camel’s back. I mumbled somethin’ to the missus about headin’ back to the infirmary. The next 15 odd minutes I have to admit are a bit of a blur. I didn’t pass out or anythin’, I just don’t recall how I ended up in one of the beds with the paramedics hoverin’ over me. They had me wired to all sorts of crazy machines, testin’ this smellin’ that. Apparently, I was havin’ an allergic reaction. A systemic reaction at that (yea…ol’ juice had to look that one up. Truth be told half the words anyone says to the juice I gotta look up. I ain’t what you call a “scholar”). I recall that the paramedics wanted to take me to the hospital. But, there was no way on the Christ’s blue planet that I was goin’ to a hospital. I’ve been on too many vacations to Florida that I ended up in the hospital. And with all due respect to the Nicaraguan people, their hospitals are better than any of the Floridian hospital I’ve had the pleasure.
At least I got a pic of the sign, right?
The only reason the paramedics decided to comply was that my vital signs were all normal. I’d like to say it’s because of a regular meditation practice. It’s probably more the 17 beers I drank to get through this blissful day at Disney World. The paramedics said they would give me an additional half hour. If I was no better in that time, they would have to give me an injection and that was a trip to the hospital. So, the Disney folks move me out of what I guess they would call their ER and into a standby bed. This is where I imagine they put people to die. You know, folks that really had to much sun. Or, the lucky ones that were dyin’ from all the fuckin’ fun they were havin’. They’re probably the ones without the kids. Anyways, I’ve got a half hour to consider life. In that 30 minutes it seemed that anyone that was anyone in the high rankin’ universe of Walt Disney World came out to check on the Juice’s condition. I bet if Walt was still livin’, even he would’ve made a stop by my bed. I would say that reflects less my status as a celebrity and more the graveness of my condition.
artist representation. Not actual footage
So the question begs to be answered. And I hear you askin’ it. “What was it Juice, what were you allergic to?” A very good question. Which kinda leads me to another story. A few years ago, the Juice was hospitalized with a kidney stone. Now, if you know pain, I can guran-damn-tee that you haven’t had pain until you’ve suffered through a kidney stone. I know what you gals are sayin’ out there. “Juice, you’re a chauvinistic pig. You try birthin’ a 9 pound bowlin’ ball…yak, yak, yak.” I love that argument. I am by no means sayin’ that birthin’ doesn’t hurt. I’m just sayin’ that I’d rather birth a Mac truck than suffer the wrath of a kidney stone. And how can I lay such a claim. I’ve had women folk who have had kids and kidney stones say that the later is worse. And not just “Joe Stupid Gal” on the street, either. I’ve had nurses tell me that. So, all you whinin’ gals can go fuck yourselves. Now excuse me while I see my court appointed attorney about a digression
artist representation. Includes fillers AND beef by-products
The point is that while I was hospitalized, those crazy quacks wanted to run a test on the Juice. So, they injected me with some junk and left me on the table to die. Turns out that the shit they injected the Juice with was iodine. It also turns out that the Juice is allergic to the massive amounts of iodine they injected into me. And how did those crazy quacks find out I was allergic to iodine? Oh, it must’ve been the shock that I was in. I was pretty much near dead when the fuckers figured out what was goin' on. And by figured out I mean come back in the room after leavin’ me there alone for 10 minutes. I’m pretty sure it went down like this:
“Hey Nurse Nancy.” The doctor asked enterin’ the room with 2 smokin’ hot candy strippers on his arms. “What’s with the corpse on the table? We need that table to run a test on a douche bag with a kidney stone.”
Nurse Nancy turns away from her People magazine. “What corpse Dr. Hajmdpjjrajah? We have a patient already on the table who’s being tested for a kidney stone. You mean there’s another?” she manages to choke through her third donut.
The doctor stares at her blankly ‘cause he’s been up 15 hours straight. Doin’ coke and whores. “No. Nurse Nancy. There is no other patient.” He trails off.
Nurse Nancy returns Dr. Hajmdpjjrajah blank stare. After a few moments they make a horrifyin' realization. “Then who is that on the table?” They cry in unison…And end scene.
After pumpin’ me full of god knows what to bring me back to life, they wheel me back to the emergency room. No harm, no foul, right? I awaken to the missus talkin' to a minister over me. So what do I say as I’m comin’ to? “Oh, you can’t stop givin' me last rites. I ain’t dead yet.” I manage to point a finger at the missus with a crooked smile. “And you ain’t gettin’ my life insurance just yet.”
Now that I established that I’ve "got" an iodine allergy, lets return back to our story. Specifically what I had eaten. If you remember back to 3.1 I stated that I had “After a few bites of my dinner, and a fight to try the missus’ Thai shrimp fuck bowl”. Yes! You guessed it. It was that Thai shrimp crap. (I was wonderin’ if you had picked up on my clue. I believe those stupid wordheads call that “foreshadowin’”. I call it giving the dang story away). All of this dawned on me as I’m waitin’ on the Disney Death Beds, for my half hour to expire. I came to this realization ‘cause the chef of Noodle Station stopped by to see the man who he had poisoned. He conveniently brought with him the ingredients to the recipes of the food I digested. He said he was “sorry”. Although, by the look of him, I didn’t believe him.
uuhhhh…I got nothin’. Just enjoyin’ the view
So what was it about the Thai Shrimp bowl that I was allergic to? Well, you would assume it was the shrimp. Shrimp = iodine= reaction, right? Well, that’s the path I led you down. I had you nailed like a cop entrapin' a hooker. Truth be told, though, I don’t really know if it was the shrimp. The real mystery of the story is it may have been some exotic spice that they were callin’ “Thai”.
The long of the short of it was that I was fine. And that by the time I got out of the infirmary the park was empty. We hit every ride. Even some a number of times. Except (cue dramatic music):
Next: That flyin’ fuckin’ elephant.
As promised. You can check out part 1 here, part 2 here and the first half of part 3 here. Follow your nose, it always knows. Now to the matter at hand…
If you remember from last time, the lovely attendant at the first aid station at the Magic Kingdom was servicin’ my needs. And not in the good way, neither. I waited patiently (read: anxiously) in the lobby of the first aid station. Eventually the attendant returned with my assortment of pills, salves, ointments and a glass of water. I quickly swallowed the pills and lubed my face up with the aloe. I thanked her for her “kindness”, which she returned with a thinly veiled scowl of disgust. At that point, I bee-lined it to the nearest store and bought a hat. Notice not once did I mention puttin’ on sunblock?
picture this, but with a really red face. And I don’t mean communist, either.
After purchasin’ the hat, I figured it was probably a good time to head back to the family eatin' at the restaurant. I'd like to say that I was in a better frame of mind, but I wasn't. At this point, it’s been about ten minutes since I took the meds. And not only am I NOT feelin’ better, but I’m feelin’ progressively worse. By the time I get back to the family, I’m headin’ south down 95 toward Panicville. Somethin’ in the ol’ noggin realizes that somethin’ ain’t quite right. Even the missus realizes somethin’ ain’t right. I could tell ‘cause she was actually bein’ nice to me. That’s usually a bad sign.
To gather my thoughts (read: so no one would see my panic attack), I scuttle on down to a semi-secluded part of the restaurant and try to maintain composure. Which probably might’ve work if it was just me. However, with 100 kids raisin’ all kinds of bloody hell, relaxin’ just wasn’t gonna happen. It was probably at this point when I notice the hives on my arm. And the hives on my other arm. I pulled up my shirt to find I was cover in huge red welts. Well, that was definitely the straw the broke this camel’s back. I mumbled somethin’ to the missus about headin’ back to the infirmary. The next 15 odd minutes I have to admit are a bit of a blur. I didn’t pass out or anythin’, I just don’t recall how I ended up in one of the beds with the paramedics hoverin’ over me. They had me wired to all sorts of crazy machines, testin’ this smellin’ that. Apparently, I was havin’ an allergic reaction. A systemic reaction at that (yea…ol’ juice had to look that one up. Truth be told half the words anyone says to the juice I gotta look up. I ain’t what you call a “scholar”). I recall that the paramedics wanted to take me to the hospital. But, there was no way on the Christ’s blue planet that I was goin’ to a hospital. I’ve been on too many vacations to Florida that I ended up in the hospital. And with all due respect to the Nicaraguan people, their hospitals are better than any of the Floridian hospital I’ve had the pleasure.
At least I got a pic of the sign, right?
The only reason the paramedics decided to comply was that my vital signs were all normal. I’d like to say it’s because of a regular meditation practice. It’s probably more the 17 beers I drank to get through this blissful day at Disney World. The paramedics said they would give me an additional half hour. If I was no better in that time, they would have to give me an injection and that was a trip to the hospital. So, the Disney folks move me out of what I guess they would call their ER and into a standby bed. This is where I imagine they put people to die. You know, folks that really had to much sun. Or, the lucky ones that were dyin’ from all the fuckin’ fun they were havin’. They’re probably the ones without the kids. Anyways, I’ve got a half hour to consider life. In that 30 minutes it seemed that anyone that was anyone in the high rankin’ universe of Walt Disney World came out to check on the Juice’s condition. I bet if Walt was still livin’, even he would’ve made a stop by my bed. I would say that reflects less my status as a celebrity and more the graveness of my condition.
artist representation. Not actual footage
So the question begs to be answered. And I hear you askin’ it. “What was it Juice, what were you allergic to?” A very good question. Which kinda leads me to another story. A few years ago, the Juice was hospitalized with a kidney stone. Now, if you know pain, I can guran-damn-tee that you haven’t had pain until you’ve suffered through a kidney stone. I know what you gals are sayin’ out there. “Juice, you’re a chauvinistic pig. You try birthin’ a 9 pound bowlin’ ball…yak, yak, yak.” I love that argument. I am by no means sayin’ that birthin’ doesn’t hurt. I’m just sayin’ that I’d rather birth a Mac truck than suffer the wrath of a kidney stone. And how can I lay such a claim. I’ve had women folk who have had kids and kidney stones say that the later is worse. And not just “Joe Stupid Gal” on the street, either. I’ve had nurses tell me that. So, all you whinin’ gals can go fuck yourselves. Now excuse me while I see my court appointed attorney about a digression
artist representation. Includes fillers AND beef by-products
The point is that while I was hospitalized, those crazy quacks wanted to run a test on the Juice. So, they injected me with some junk and left me on the table to die. Turns out that the shit they injected the Juice with was iodine. It also turns out that the Juice is allergic to the massive amounts of iodine they injected into me. And how did those crazy quacks find out I was allergic to iodine? Oh, it must’ve been the shock that I was in. I was pretty much near dead when the fuckers figured out what was goin' on. And by figured out I mean come back in the room after leavin’ me there alone for 10 minutes. I’m pretty sure it went down like this:
“Hey Nurse Nancy.” The doctor asked enterin’ the room with 2 smokin’ hot candy strippers on his arms. “What’s with the corpse on the table? We need that table to run a test on a douche bag with a kidney stone.”
Nurse Nancy turns away from her People magazine. “What corpse Dr. Hajmdpjjrajah? We have a patient already on the table who’s being tested for a kidney stone. You mean there’s another?” she manages to choke through her third donut.
The doctor stares at her blankly ‘cause he’s been up 15 hours straight. Doin’ coke and whores. “No. Nurse Nancy. There is no other patient.” He trails off.
Nurse Nancy returns Dr. Hajmdpjjrajah blank stare. After a few moments they make a horrifyin' realization. “Then who is that on the table?” They cry in unison…And end scene.
After pumpin’ me full of god knows what to bring me back to life, they wheel me back to the emergency room. No harm, no foul, right? I awaken to the missus talkin' to a minister over me. So what do I say as I’m comin’ to? “Oh, you can’t stop givin' me last rites. I ain’t dead yet.” I manage to point a finger at the missus with a crooked smile. “And you ain’t gettin’ my life insurance just yet.”
Now that I established that I’ve "got" an iodine allergy, lets return back to our story. Specifically what I had eaten. If you remember back to 3.1 I stated that I had “After a few bites of my dinner, and a fight to try the missus’ Thai shrimp fuck bowl”. Yes! You guessed it. It was that Thai shrimp crap. (I was wonderin’ if you had picked up on my clue. I believe those stupid wordheads call that “foreshadowin’”. I call it giving the dang story away). All of this dawned on me as I’m waitin’ on the Disney Death Beds, for my half hour to expire. I came to this realization ‘cause the chef of Noodle Station stopped by to see the man who he had poisoned. He conveniently brought with him the ingredients to the recipes of the food I digested. He said he was “sorry”. Although, by the look of him, I didn’t believe him.
uuhhhh…I got nothin’. Just enjoyin’ the view
So what was it about the Thai Shrimp bowl that I was allergic to? Well, you would assume it was the shrimp. Shrimp = iodine= reaction, right? Well, that’s the path I led you down. I had you nailed like a cop entrapin' a hooker. Truth be told, though, I don’t really know if it was the shrimp. The real mystery of the story is it may have been some exotic spice that they were callin’ “Thai”.
The long of the short of it was that I was fine. And that by the time I got out of the infirmary the park was empty. We hit every ride. Even some a number of times. Except (cue dramatic music):
Next: That flyin’ fuckin’ elephant.
posted by the Juice at 8:53 PM
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