The Chronicles of Hernia

According to a number of movies from the 40s and 50s, Christmas is a warm, wonderful time to gather with loved ones and sing carols, exchange gifts, and eat goodies—much like it was in first-century Palestine. And so, I thought to myself, what more appropriate time  than that of joyous celebratory yuletidiness to have an abdominal mesh inserted into my nether regions?  I went to see my doctor about just such a possibility.

For those unfamiliar, such a mesh is the long-term fix for what is known in medical jargon as a ‘hernia’. For laymen and Jim Fowler fans, a hernia is not a wheezy African dog; that would be a laughing hernia, which are more painful than a coughing hernia but less painful than a sneezing hernia. A medical hernia is Continue reading

I Didn’t Post Last Week Due to an Old Golf Injury

DISCLAIMER:  The following story is true.  My name has been changed to protect the idiots.


Much like soccer, ping-pong and dating my daughter, golf is supposed to be a non-contact sport.  Unfortunately, a somewhat embarrassing incident occurred recently that was an exception that proves this rule.  I wasn’t seriously injured, but it was bad enough to evoke a face-palm out of The Queen Mother.  Plus, I can now get out of things I don’t really want to do by claiming “an old golf injury.”  Things like helping someone move or eating vegetables or watching “The Bachelor”.

For legal purposes, Continue reading

Date Night? Actually, I Prefer Figs.

The other night The Queen Mother and I found ourselves in possession of an expiring Groupon for one of your finer dining establishments in downtown Minneapolis.  For those of you unfamiliar with the Groupon concept, it is a discount coupon that you purchase, then forget you own until it expires in 45 minutes, at which time you scramble around and rework your entire life so you can redeem it and save the $17 you had so coveted six months earlier. 

This particular Groupon was for one of the more trendy Minneapolis eateries, and by ‘trendy’ I mean to say we were among the most heterosexual of patrons.  The idea was to have a nice half-price dinner for two, then meet our various offspring for an ice-cream chaser all for under $40.  We were even being so economical as to opt to drive our 20-year-old puddle jumper as opposed to our planet-killing gas-guzzling SUV, which in a politically correct nod to the Sierra Club we affectionately refer to as “The Axles of Evil.” Continue reading