Friedo and the Case of the Immoral Doorholder

I shall relate to you now a sordid tale of intrigue, romance, danger, strife, and above all, sex.

Before I begin, I would like to note that this whole affair, in all its licentious turpitude, can be blamed squarely on one Noble Aquaintance who, for somewhat unclear reasons, shall remain nameless, who in reckless depravity caused me to suffer the most grievous of injuries, thus leading to the story hereafter told.

'Twas a fine summer afternoon in August, when I, your humble author, sat hunched at his office desk meddling at some small imperfection in his Computer Program, lest the iron fist of the Director of Development shall have pounded down upon him, and mocked him for his mistake, dragging his limp and lifeless soul accross the firey coals of his derision. The problem, or “bug,” to use the vernacular, thus fixed, your humble author gingerly snapped open his timepiece to fall shock to a most startling revelation: it was nearly 5:00 PM.

Your humble author, it should be noted, had waited anxiously for this day to come, for it was the eve of the glorious MacWorld Summer Expo at the Jacob K. Javits Center on the west side of the sprawling island of Manhattan. Unfortunately, in his brilliant fervor to remove the insidious “bug” from his Computer Program, your author lost track of time and realized he would have to rush to the Javits Center immediately in order to retrieve his credentials for attending the Expo, lest he have to wait in line with the riff-raff and troglodytes the following morning.

Jogging briskly the mile and a half distance to the Crystal Palace of Lord Javits, your author realized that in his haste to arrive at his office in the morning, he had failed to don socks underneath his shoes. As a result, your author suffered very large and uncomfortable blisters upon his heels. To further add to his misery, your author then had to make a dangerous and perilous trek through the savage jungles of Pennsylvania Station in order to meet his conference companion, the previously mentioned and unnamed Noble Aquaintance, at his train, arriving that evening.

In addition to tending to his injured feet, your author had to gingerely guide the terrified Aquaintaince, who had never before visited the bustling Metropolis your humble author calls home, through the caverns of the subway system to secure lodging and sustinence. Convinced that my aquaintance was satisfactorally fed and tucked in, and was no longer soiling his pants, your humble author tended to his aching feet and went to bed.

The details of the Expo that followed in the next several days, while fascinating and rife with lurid subplots of their own, is immaterial to the heinous moral travesty of which your humble author writes. Indeed, while the rantings of Steve Jobs and the unique variety and fetidity of Body Odor eminating from the armpits of his disciples were fascinating, they are of no signifigance.

Rather, let us move foreward in time to the events of last week. During the week, your humble author had noticed that his massive blisters on his feet had begun to heel, and old, dead skin had begun to peel away, much in the manner of a growing snake. Indeed, some pieces of skin were so large they had to be cut away with scissors. Your humble author thought of making a small change purse out of the dead pieces of skin but then sanity slowly crept back into his mind.

It was Wednesday of last week when your humble author noticed a small green spot on his foot near the intersection of one of these large flaps of scaly dead foot skin and the tender, new flesh that had replaced it. An infection, your humble author realized, could be dangerous, and he immediately applied a liberal dose of antibiotic cream, found in his medicine cabinet, to the affected area.

Unfortunately, the modern medicine had no appreciable effect and the infection grew to occupy a large green bubble on the bottom of your humble author’s foot, causing searing pain when pressure was placed upon it. The next day, your humble author suffered painful fevers and headaches as his body tried in desperation to stave off the inevitable gangrene and subsequent amputation.

It was thus decided on Friday morning to seek the advice of a Physician, so your humble author took the subway to 96th Street and Lexington Ave instead of commuting to work. Once there, he limped slowly to the emergency room of Mt. Sinai Medical Center on 101st and Madison. He then explained his condition to the attending nurse and allowed her to inspect the grievious wound, which he had covered with a large Band-Aid.

After supplying his medical history and insurance information, your humble author was directed to a cot and told to wait for a doctor. One appeared shortly, a young gentleman of twelve or thirteen years who for the purposes of this essay I shall call Dr. Howser. Dr. Howser inspected my foot excitedly and reached his prognosis.

“Give it to me straight, doc,” your humble author implored, “I can take it. Just make sure you give me something to bite before you turn the giant diesel powered saw on.”

“Well,” Dr. Howser said, “I’m going to anesthesize your foot and drain the infection.”

Unfortunately, Dr. Howser didn’t know how to do that, since he had never had to anesthesize someone’s heel before. So he called over another doctor, who was bald and had glasses, so your humble author figured he must have actually graduated high school. The other doctor said, “Yeah, I think your gotta go in in the wuthchamathingie.” Dr. Howser nodded. “I haven’t done that in a while, though, better look it up in the book.”

Your humble author was glad they had a book handy.

Dr. Howser then explained that because the heel has no useful arteries and because the skin is thick, he would pump some anesthetic into your humble author’s Big Ankle Artery, which has a fancy name since forgotten. After allowing several minutes for the potent drug to take effect, he poked my infectious lump and your humble author let out a loud yelp. This convinced Dr. Howser to shoot him up with more drugs.

Soon, Dr. Howser grabbed a giant needle and punctured your humble author’s large infectious bubble, which caused your humble author to experience and tremendous amount of pain, despite the aforementioned drugs up with which he had been pumped. The amount and variety of blood, puss, infectious goo and other things which came out of your humble author’s foot was truly astounding. “All the colors of the rainbow,” one nurse commented. “Indeed,” said Dr. Baldwithglasses.

My ordeal mostly over, my wound covered with a bandage, Dr. Howser had the nurse administer an IV of antibiotic medicine. Your humble author had been on the receiving end of an IV before, but never paid much attention to its operation. Thus, he was shocked when he noticed that after puncturing another artery, blood appeared to be coming out of his body into the IV tube. He then saw the nurse connect the bag of antibiotic fluid to the tube and release a valve. “Ah ha,” your humble author commented, “that’s so you don’t get any air in there, huh?”

“Yeah,” the cute and methodical nurse muttered.

“That’s very clever,” your humble author observed.

Despite his best efforts, your humble author’s flirtatious advances went unanswered. He suspects this may have something to do with the toxic fluids leaking from his foot.

Properly drugged and bandaged and a $50.00 copay later, your humble author was sent on his way. He hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take him to 40th and Broadway, so he could finish out his work day. The cabbie took a very lovely route through Central Park, which was made even more lovely by certain side effects of certain painkillers.

Your humble author then slowly limped to his office building where, he noticed, a rather cute girl was holding the door for him.

“Thank you,” your humble author stated, which, because he was talking to a Hot Woman, is loosely translated as, “I perceive your good manners as a sexual advance and wish to acknowledge it by in turn exercising good manners.”

“No problem,” the doorholder said, “I always try to go out of my way to help disabled people.”

“Oh, I’m not disabled,” said your humble author, “I just hurt my foot.” This translates as, “I am in fact a strong and highly fertile potential mate who merely ran into some bad luck while doing Manly things, such as hunting or building, and once my recouperation is complete I will be able to provide you with many children and lots of food.”

“Well if I had known that,” muttered the doorholder under her breath but loud enough for your humble author to hear, “I wouldn’t have bothered.”

Your humble author, dejected and exasperated, limped slowly to the elevator, in despair.

I wonder if anything like this ever happened to Don Johnson…

Who’s Don Johnson?

Oh, my, that was a positively wonderful tale. Thank you.

The doorholder was unmannerly but why “immoral”? Did something else happen while she held the door? Was she chewing on the severed leg of a nun as she propped upen the door for you?

An immoral wench is anyone who won’t sleep with you.

She was immoral because of her motivation for holding the door. She was willing to hold doors for disabled people, but not mere injured people.

Your humble author holds doors for everyone.

Well, be thankful she didn’t slam the door on your foot.

And what city did you say this happened in? NYC? Huh. Imagine that. :slight_smile:

I first read the title as “Immortal Door Holder.”

That would be an interesting story too. A tormented soul, doomed to spend eternity holding the door open for people…

Or maybe not.

But that would be a long story. Even longer than the one in the OP. If you can imagine such a thing.

That’s how I read it too. I thought it was going to be a case of holding the door open for someone, then realizing that a two-bus herd of old ladies was ambling thunderously toward the door, and that the rest of your party would be on desert by the time by actually made it inside the restaurant, and to your table.

But as for the story itself, at least you had a genuine doctor inspected and fixed injury, my story is much more pathetic.
Wolfman goes to bar, bar is mostly empty except to two old guys, and cute bartender. Wolfman flirts with cute bartender for a couple hours. As there is nothing else to do bartender appears to be flirting back. Wolfman decides that by leaving before closing time and allowing the bartender to get home early, the bartender will recognize the saint-like charity in Wolfman’s soul, and offer sex. Wolfman smiles as he stands up, and starts to walk toward the door. Wolfman almost falls flat on his face, instantly realizing that his right leg is 100% asleep, and that his normal cool-guy stroll is quite difficult to do on one leg. Wolfman walks along the bar holding onto the stools and bar, vigorously shaking the leg to get feeling back into it. By the end of the bar the leg has about 10% use and as long as the leg is carefully placed in the locked position,it will support the weight long enough to move the other leg in front of it. As Wolfman makes slow progress toward the door, Bartender rushes out from behind bar around Wolfman and holds door open. As Wolfman passes though door, Bartender notices that Wolfman’s car (the only one in the parking lot) is far away. Bartender helpfully sugests that Wolfman look into getting a handicapped parking permit. Wolfman mumbles that it is not really nesassary, but Bartender assists Wolfman all the way to car, saying how a disability is not something to be ashamed of. Finally Wolfman is forced to admit that he is simply to stupid to know when his leg is asleep. Bartender gives Wolfman a look of unhappiness and betrayal. Sex is not offered.

Calvin Coolidge’s son died from an infected blister brought on by playing tennis without socks. You’re lucky to be alive. So quit whining about not getting laid.

What, do you think Calvin Coolidge’s son never tried to get laid either?

What, do you think Calvin Coolidge’s son never tried to get laid either?

Actually friedo, your story was very amusing. It’s just that I’ve been waiting a long time for an excuse to use that little piece of trivia about Coolidge’s son.

You go to Dr. Baldwithglasses too?

I used to see him, but now I go to Dr. Shortindianguywithaccent.

This reminds me of a true story told to me by a friend of my mom’s who went to college with, a then as yet unknown, Hillary Rodham. The FOMM was exiting a building on campus when he saw HR approaching the doors with a large load of books in her arms. The FOMM held the door for her. At this point Hillary snapped at him that she didn’t need his bleep bleep help. So the FOMM shrugged and let go of the door. The door swung shut and smacked the future senator full on, knocking all the books out of her arms. This guy swears this really happened.

This reminds me of a true story told to me by a friend of my mom’s who went to college with, a then as yet unknown, Hillary Rodham. The FOMM was exiting a building on campus when he saw HR approaching the doors with a large load of books in her arms. The FOMM held the door for her. At this point Hillary snapped at him that she didn’t need his bleep bleep help. So the FOMM shrugged and let go of the door. The door swung shut and smacked the future senator full on, knocking all the books out of her arms. This guy swears this really happened.

Dr. Shortindianguywithaccent? That’s who fixed me up when I went facefirst into a pile of firewood at a dead sprint! Bang-up job he did, too; it’s not more than once a month now that someone says, “DAMN, what’d you do to your head???” (Note: Scar has now been there for 20 years.)

Now, though, I go to Dr. Shortdistractedlady; she fixes me up when I’ve banged myself up doing something stupid, and she doesn’t give me those fussy lectures like [hand signal for quotes] “power-tool safety” and [hand signal for quotes] “don’t fight dogs” and all that.

Good story, friedo; glad you’re at least fixed up. Er, glad your foot is fixed up. That gal probably had weird issues and she’s one of those women who seek out damaged guys who need mothering. You’re better off without her.

Well I was damaged. And I could have used some mothering. Mothering in that bizarre-Freudian-have-sex-with-me-and-make-me-breakfast-in-the-morning way.

Probably. :stuck_out_tongue: