I really wish I liked shoveling snow as much I as do shoveling shit. I'm speaking metaphorically about the latter, of course; I do in fact like shoveling actual snow more than shoveling actual shit. If the weathermen (and women) are right, we should get socked pretty good by old man winter tomorrow here in the Philly area.
Dylan might have been right that you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, but apparently you need them to tell you ad naseum as to when and where the white stuff will be falling. More
Al Roker than
Bill Ayers, though they're both equally likely to be accurate in their predictions.
Should the weatherguessers beat the odds and the white stuff does arrive in force, I'll at least need to make an appearance on sidewalk patrol to avoid becoming even more of a neighborhood pariah than I already am. Whatever happened to enterprising teenagers looking to make a buck mowing lawns and shoveling driveways? Not that I ever did it as a kid but I just thought that was because I was lazy. The kids were always helping out us harried adults doing these kinds of chores for loose change on TV shows, after all. And television doesn't lie.
My God! As I'm writing this and flipping channels, I come across my fav,
Dr. G, and hear immediately from the voice over that she is "cutting into the scrotum sack." #?@?! Like
Pavlov's dog, these words cause my male reflexes to kick in, hands moving down to protectively shield the groin area from the Medical Examiner's blade.
There's a big close up of the good doctor's face as she's hacking away with relish - I'm just glad they don't actually show you what her hands are busy doing, apart from a couple of crude courthouse sketch-artist grade diagrams. The doctor is
whish, whish, whish with the scalpel, the grand maestro conducting her cadaver orchestra. And all the while she's babbling away happily about the specific and putrid odor of a dissected bowel. Apparently she'd carved that up just prior to her current
Bobbitsque act on this poor, dead dude's genitalia.
I have no idea what the context of all this is having arrived late to the party (and I'm surprised to say I've not seen this particular episode). That said, I do know I feel a helluva lot better about my lot in life suddenly. Things can always be worse. Except for that guy on
Jan Garavaglia's slab with his ball sack sliced-n-diced and his bowels emptied into a bowl. I bet he'd kill to shovel snow given a choice between that and a guest appearance on Dr. G (it's not quite the same as doing
Letterman). Three words you don't want to hear applied to you: standard Y incision.
And the next thing you know, Dr. G is out of this dude's bowels, out of the morgue and on the road to shop for supplies at a big ol' medical supply "mall" (sort of the
Walmart of forensic sundries). Great segue, guys - I'm still gagging from the gross-out of the last examination and now Dr. G is trying a new pair of jumbo rib cutters on for size and checking out overhead exam lights on this little "lighter side" field trip. She seems out of her element among the living, outside the confines of that ghostly crypt that is her domain to me.
One quick
Activia / Jamie Lee break and we're back in the exam room again, with more slicing and dicing and blood-filled silver bowls, followed by a good hose-down. The doc is back where she belongs!
"She turns her attention to the chest cavity."
Look, Ma! No more cavities! Cavities in teeth: bad. Cavities in chests: generally pretty good. It's a place for the heart to go - pretty much all of us have one of ample size, except for the
Grinch and
Dick Cheney. But they're special. And I hear they have machines that pick up the slack. And besides, the Grinch had that problem fixed by one
Cindy Lou Who. Perhaps one day Dick will find his too. Meanwhile the machines will suffice.
The rest of us, we need our cavities and can do without Dr. G-types poking around in there.
Well, time to prepare for the snow. I'm all loaded up with
Inglourious Basterds and
Star Trek on Blu Ray now so I'm prepared for the weather.
Of course I forgot to buy rock salt earlier and it seems now that the public has drained the local supply (damn hoarders). Perhaps I'll be a pariah after all. I could always just nail a cardboard sign onto the telephone pole next to the sidewalk:
Ice. Don't slip. After all, it's the thought that counts and that is at least as thoughtful as actually shoveling and salting the thing down. In my mind anyway.
Personally, I think the people doing the walking should be doing the shoveling (they've already out there in that shit and they're the ones that need to get somewhere). Meanwhile, I'm going nowhere pretty fast.
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