Dinkleberg (Part I)

Yesterday was a good day.

Did some yard work for one of my grandma's friends, did some siding with my dad and I pruned a tree.

Oh, and did I also mention I sliced my hand with a bow saw?

I feel like a casually just slipped that in there.

(That's what she said)

And you now may be asking yourself silenty or aloud how the title Dinkleberg comes into play. Well my friends, that is how this story begins...

It was a perfectly temperate June afternoon. I had just finished installing a rock garden for Judy and she said she needed a tree in the front yard that needed to be trimmed. I asked my father if he was sure if I should do this.

Not because of the fact that involved sharp objects, but because I did not know the first thing about properly and symetrically trimming a tree.

But Judy but me at ease when she said, "I do not care what you do, just as long as the basstard does not touch the house".

Fair enough.

So first just started using clippers to do away with the weak leaves and what have you. But there were some stern but fair branches that needed to get sawed.

Enter Sandman.

A.k.a.: Enter Owwwwww.

I knocked out the few branches like Tyson in his hey day. Then there was this one branch that would not break off.

So I kept on sawing and sawing. It still would not break.

Then I saw red.

My first actual thought and reaction was:

"Wait, trees don't bleed".

I was about to call over my dad to check it out when I noticed my hand looked weird.

Yup.

Now you know that scene in Young Frankenstein when Frankenstein (Peter Boyle) has his thumb lit on fire by the friar (irony)/(Gene Hackman).

Similar reaction.

Once I noticed it was not the tree but my left hand. Well, shit got real so to speak.

And I uttered a vast sample platter of profanity and the phrase, "Damn you Dinkleberg... Mary Poppins, bitch tits".

I knew it was bad not because I just mangled my hand with a bow saw, but because it turned me, a 6 foot 2 nineteen-year-old man with facial hair into a five-year-old. My hand was gushing blood, (Like full on Quetin Tarantino movie) and I ran to my dad.

(Also I am pretty sure I saw my knuckle bone)

(Not going to lie, I kind of thought that was pretty badass)

He looked at me and I looked at him and I said, "Daddy, I got a cut".

Before I continue this story let me just take an aside.

(Aside)

If my dad was a hockey player, he would be a bruiser. The guy who gets hit in the mouth with puck, looses all his teeth and is gushing blood, then turns to his teammates and asks, "What happened" and then gets in a fight with the guy who hit him in the face with the puck.... Then gets stitches.

True story, while working in the garage he was using a power saw. The board slipped. He slice off about half of his index finger, yet he still turned off the saw, pick up his finger, turn off the light, grab a towel, walk from the garage to the house, go through the house to my brothers room and then tell him, "Yeah, I think I sliced off a part of my finger".

(Aside over)

So my dad knows a boo-boo when he sees one.

His reaction to me showing him my cut.

And I shat you not.

He looked at me, then looked at the cut, then he looked at me and said,

"Yeah".

He ran inside to tell Judy and to get some alcohol and band-aids for the wound.

Judy was already on her way, because she heard me swearing and knew it wasn't because I missed the ice cream man.

Then I saw my dad with the brown bottle.

As I saw him walking to the door and I was clinching my blood soaked hand, I yelled at him, "Don't you dare put that on my hand, I swear to God I will punch you".

He did not listen.

He just grabbed my hand and said, "This is going to sting".

At least he was honest.

I appreciated how he chose just to pour it on the cut instead of dabbing it.

I swear I saw Jesus' eyes.

Then he wrapped it up and said, "'Tis but a scratch".

On the inside I giggled and gave him a mental tip-of-the-hat for incorporating Monty Python into this debacle. But on the outside all I could muster was, "I see what you're doing and I don't like it".

I got all bandaged up, and I went back to prunning the tree.

Judy was having none of that.

She pretty much paid me 80 dollars to go home.

It was at that moment that I made a completly adult, mature, and non-monetarily influenced decision to go home.

Except there was one elephant in the room with an inch wide (ball park estimate) cut on his hand, I had to ride my bike from her house which is literally the street that St. Joan Arc is on, to my house. Which is about two miles away. This time I had to do it with a mangled hand.

If Charlie Sheen was there and said, "Winning", I would seriously would have Chuck Norris round-housed him. Because there was no winning here. Just alot of "Owwwwww" and "(Words that have to be translated from the native tongue of people from the land of Cursewordavania to English".

But before I left I shared a true father and son moment, with my dad.

I walked up to him and asked him, "What do we tell mom?"

Because if she saw this cut, we both would be S.O.L.

He took a second to think it over and told me to tell her that I was just trimming a tree and I cut myself.

Mr. Honest Abe... Pisses me off.

So I embarked on the journey home, I called my brother to ask if my mom was home/if we had any medical tape. I got a no on both accounts.

Because we did not have medical tape I had to stop at CVS on the way home.

And in case you just joined this blog, the score is 2-6 and I AM STILL BLEEDING.

I rush into the CVS, see the aisle that says, "First-Aid". And externally exclaim, "Bingo".

The medical tape cost me 11 dollars. I asked the cashier if I could get a discount because of my hand.

She said no.

It was worth a shot.

First thing I did when I got home was I played the guitar.

That was a bad choice.

A very bad choice.

So I took a nap instead. Now I do not know if that nap was because I was tired or because of the loss of blood. If we were in Vegas betting on this one, I would say it was a "push" on the over-under because it was too close to call.

Then my dad came home and the first thing he said was, "How is the hand?"

I replied, "Well, still hurts."

He then said, "Alright, let's fix you up before mom gets home."

Then my mom came home...