I'm Down a Pint, so I Down a Pint

Good evening wonderful people. Good evening to you suckas too, punks. But for real, I just got back from donating blood and it was fairly uneventful, with the exception of the following events...

For the first time in the history of blood donation drives, there was no line. I waltzed in, "read" the crap they hand out, filled out a survey and was into the little booth-ah right away. The lady ran down her questions hitting 'n' on the keyboard before I could even respond. She probably had me sized up as the kind of hose-bag that wouldn't do anything to risk the quality of his delicious blood. She was wrong, I just haven't had the proper opportunities.

Just one time I want to eff with the nurse and when they ask about having sex with someone for money or drugs since 1977. I'll pause and ask: "After 1977? Does that include 1977? Then no." And what makes it more humorous is that I was born after 1977. Suckas! Okay, so that would be my little morsel of fun for the visit.

The last ort of fun I had at the donation center came when I started to bend my elbow to look at my watch, with the needle still intravenous. Apparently I should have experimented with heroin in college so I wouldn't be such a hypodermic newbie. Thank God the nurse was quick to slam my arm to the bed and tape it there before the needle poked out the back of my arm. For rizzle.

So this evening's nurse looked new. I usually recognize the whole crew, but this one seemed to be fresh out of school. "YESSSSS", an inexperienced nurse sticking metal into my vein. I calmed myself with the notion that they probably don't just hand you a degree in one hand and a needle in the other, you also get gloves and some training. But when she was having trouble sizing up my python-sized arm veins, my fears returned.

Normally the nurse will say something like "Hmmm, which of these juicy veins shall I use?" or "Hey sweet thang, you have really big veins", but this one had to pull out the extra arm cushion, turn my hand this way and that, and squeeze the blood up from my hand. I'm not kidding when I say that my veins are like 3/16" around with the blood pressure doohickey strapped on. You could insert a Bic pen into my vein with room to spare. I can crush and digest a small child in my arm veins.

So as she gets ready to spray blood all over the donation center, she calms my fears with "This will burn a little". BURN? WILL? Usually it might "sting a little" or you might "feel a little pinch" but since when does the needle burn? Do they clean the needles in boiling water between patients?

At this point I'm starting to think about how I want to spend my lawsuit settlement: boats, lake houses, a new right arm. Much to my chagrin she knew what she was doing and everything went fine. I filled that blood bag in under 5 minutes. I've lived in houses with worse water flow than that. See what I mean about the veins? It wasn't pressure either, my blood pressure is what God chose when he made the human heart. Nope, just sheer volume. It was like dipping a bucket in the Niagara River (think Niagara Falls), only I filled it with my Grade A blood.

Mmm mmmm bitches.

So there you have it. Now it's just about bed time and I haven't even had my evening ice cream. I had phone calls to make and LLBean purchases to make. I guess they'll have to wait until tomorrow. Later players.

Over and Out,
Old Coot