I Hope that’s Chocolate!

Earlier this year my boss made a big production out of the special, “never been injured at work” dinner they threw. Apparently he’s worked as long as I’ve been alive and has never reported an injury. One of my peers got an invite too. I (as usual) was the odd man out.

“What invitation?”

“The one for the safety dinner… oh, yeah…” [glancing at my foot].

I wasn’t invited ‘cuz I had the misfortune of trying to correct some precariously stacked boxes. I guess in this situation I should’ve left them to hurt a guest. That way the guest would receive a chance at a lawsuit, and I would’ve scored some meatloaf.

I can’t join their little club. It’s okay now though…

‘Cuz I’m in a different club! Fuckers! I realized I’m in the exclusive “visited the Zephyr Hills worker comp doctor” club! I’m not joking when I tell you that I’ve spent a good half-hour within the last week talking to our recently injured cashier about the short, angry doctor.

She described him, and he sounded familiar. So I asked the one clarifying question: “Does he have a chair with a ‘do not sit’ message written on it?”

Indeed it did!

Not to brag, but all my boss got for his lifetime of hard work was probably a warmed over hot dog and a pat on the back. I received $50 for mileage and the pleasure of spending every weekend for the next year scrapping dried blood out from under my mangled toe nail.

So clearly I’m coming out ahead. It even bleeds when I go swimming! There’s nothing awesomer than being on a date and having to tell the lady, “oh, yeah, that’s my busted toe. Sometimes it bleeds after I swim. Nothing to worry about though. Just keep your eyes peeled for sharks.”

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