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other self-injurers ahead of me, some apparently so devoid of intelligence that

they barely missed being classified as cardboard. Really, what kind of a person

shoves a polliwog up his own nose?

This time I was easily the dumbest person in the room. There were sick kids,

injured construction workers and a pregnant woman. Nobody else who I could

see had lost a fight with a sandwich.

While my tongue hemorrhaged, I filled out my life

‘

s history for the receptionist.

In the space marked

―

reason for visit,

‖

I wrote,

―

assaulted by chicken,

‖

and in

the space asking for the head of my household I wrote

―

certainly not me.

‖

After swallowing several more pints of blood, I saw a doctor who stanched the

bleeding, told me it was definitely not a beak wound and then had the gall to

refuse to give me any morphine samples.

I left the emergency room feeling sorry for myself. Try as I might to keep the

whole affair secret, word would eventually get out. And there was no way

Sonny, Larry or Killer would let me live it down.

Later, my wife and I visited Dan Bammes. Dan suffers from multiple myeloma

and is in University of Utah Medical Center getting a bone-marrow transplant.

Seeing Dan made me realize just how petty my injury was. Also, it

‘

s tough to

watch a friend suffer and not be able to do anything for him, or so I thought.

They brought Dan dinner while we were there. It was chicken. I threw myself on

it to save him.