Mood:
hug meNow Playing: Maria Callas
In fact, this trip to DC was far better than my last trip in May, but that’s not saying much. Why you ask?
Apparently two fuck nuts in a Cessna were unable to follow their flight plan and busted air space near the White House. What does that mean exactly? It means thousands of folks evacuating our Nation’s Capitol on foot in a panic. In a total fricking panic.
There I am at Cannon House building. We’ve just finished meeting with one of our U.S. Representatives when this unholy noise comes out of nowhere. WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WTF? It’s crazy! All of a sudden, everyone starts tearing out of the building in a rather weirdly organized fashion.
And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. Security guards were running around getting everyone out. As I ran out, I asked one of them what the deal was. He told me that a small airplane was headed for the White House. Eeek! Good enough for me, I start bailing. As I bail, I am surrounded by some dork mall rat high schoolers who were turning their Sony cams on themselves and doing instant video a la Blair Witch Project. They blow past me muttering to their cameras “I’m so scared. We have no idea what’s going on, no one will answer our questions.” To which, I reply “A small plane busted airspace over the White House.” So much for Meg-O-Rama info central. The little pimply cretins simply ignored me and kept saying over and over “We so scared—no one will talk to us.” Oy! So not glad these kids will be voting some day but I digress….
It was a bizarre thing to participate in to say the least. Tens of thousands of folks evacuating the Capitol in minutes flat. A veritable fleet of black sedans and Suburbans screeching up to the curb and VIPs like Senator John McCain were being shoved into them, then security would slap the trunk and the vehicle would whiz off to destinations unknown. Perhaps to Dick Cheney’s ‘undisclosed location’ which contrary to popular belief is not the men’s room in the basement of the Hart Senate building, it’s Jackson Hole, WY, where he can usually be found fishing but I digress. Some folks were running full out for their lives. Others were lightly trotting. Some were simply meandering while eating lunch from take out boxes, apparently interrupted mid-nosh….bummer.
As I attempted to run as far away as I could (because at that point it was being reported as a terrorist attack) in 90 degree heat with five million percent humidity while wearing kitten mules, so not the footwear of champions, I was actually passed up by one our Arizona congressional members who, prior to this, I was unaware can run faster than an Ethiopian in a 26k race all the while flapping his arms hard enough to either take flight or at least to approximate a drunken chicken dance at a Minnesota wedding.
Long and short of it. Traumatic experience. And I say that as the uncontested queen of trauma. Take it from someone who was downtown when the riots broke out in LA, got held up at gunpoint in Santa Monica, got caught in the Sepulveda Dam Basin flood, lost her home in the ’94 Northridge Quake and then a week later got attacked by a dog to the tune of 42 stitches in her ass. Trust me, I know trauma.
Speaking of the dog bite shaped scar on my left ass cheek, boy was that a good time! Not! As I was homeless after the earthquake, I was staying with a girlfriend of mine in Burbank. Her neurotic Sheltie, Sir Percival (enough said), was not handling the earthquake nor the subsequent aftershocks well. As I soon found out, not well at all.
As he went to mount my leg for the umpteenth time in the dance of dominance or horny small dogness, I once again told him “No Percy—not the leg.” I apparently said this one too many times or Percy desperately needed to rub one out as the next thing I knew, the dog leapt at me in full attack mode.
I put up my hands to shield my face and he caught a piece of my wrist. As all animals love me, just not usually in the physical way, I am beyond freaked! I turn to run and he nails me—right in the ass! I look down and I basically have a Sheltie hanging from my butt. It always looked funnier in the cartoons you know?
I let loose with the mother of all screams which startled the crap out of the dog just long enough for me to make my escape to the bedroom.
I call my friend Veronica and tell her that she needs to come take me to the emergency room as her dog has just chowed on my ass.
The ride to the hospital was crazy! First, I have to lower myself carefully into Veronica’s bitchin’ Camero (tongue in cheek) and then ride all the way there precariously balanced on my right ass cheek (as the left one is bleeding copiously and feels like the fricking dog is still attached to it) as she shifts gears and weaves in and out of traffic like a NASCAR driver on crack.
The next thing I know, I am standing in the middle of a large exam room pretty much nekked. They have cut what remains of my sweats off and as I am normally commando, I am standing there clad only in a t-shirt and my partially tattered birthday suit.
Enter Dr. Tran. The man who further engenders the continuance of stereotypes. He walks up without so much as a ‘how do you do’ and gets down to the task at hand. It is bad enough that I am naked from the waist down, I now have a small Asian man crouching down at eye level with my twippy as he stiches up my ass without the benefit of any pain killers or anesthetic.
Pretty soon, I am hysterical….with laughter. I’m making jokes. I tell Veronica, “Man, that dog knew a sweet piece of ass”, etc. and then howling with laughter. Dr. Tran looks up at me (from crotch level mind you) and with one eye kind of squinted says in heavily accented English “Are you drunk?” To which I responded “Uh, no” wondering WTF so then he says “Are you on drug?” and I said “I wish—you got anything you wanna’ share?” and laugh some more. He looks even more aggravated and says “Then why you laughing? It no funny!” To which I started laughing all the harder which is so not good or bright when someone is wielding a needle and thread on your ass.
I explained to him that as I am accident prone, I tend to make a lot of jokes when I am hurt to keep my mind of the pain (Friends tell me that this is much more preferable than when I used to loudly sing show tunes) and that basically he has two choices: I can either laugh hysterically or cry hysterically. Which would be preferable?
He didn’t even respond. He just glared up at me from my nether regions and went back to stitching up my ass mudflap.
To make the event even more fun? Not only did I get a Tetanus shot which hurt like fuck all, I had to wear a paper hospital gown taped around my waist on the right ass cheek trip back home so that I didn’t startle other commuters on the 405.
Ah, the indignity of it all….
