On July 21st I had a Tympanoplasty. No, it’s not one of those fancy mixed drinks they were serving in Cleveland after Trump accepted the Republican nomination. Nor is it a Southern specialty made from roadkill armadillo, smothered in thyme and served in your Mama’s favorite Season-Serve® Tupperware container.
Unfortunately, Tympanoplasty is a twelve-thousand dollar word for a medical procedure in which they pretty much detach your ear from the side of your head, graft a patch of tissue over your eardrum, and sew your ear back on. Afterwards, you get to wear a lovely cup, which I modeled for in this photo.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Earschplittenloudenboomer, who has been known to staple her own fingers to keyboard to increase productive output is ThumbelinaWisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To view the writers on a wire in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Sorry, Ma’am, I can’t serve you.”
“Whaddya mean? I just got here.”
“Well, I’m sure it seems that way. Time really flies when you’re having fun.”
“Who said I was having fun?”
“Now, now . . . don’t get testy. You can stay until you sober up—as long as you behave yourself.”
“Sober up? I haven’t ordered yet.”
“Ma’am, you were fuzzy-headed the moment you walked in. Now, the entire room is blurry and starting to spin. You’re clearly intoxicated.”
“Who is this guy?”
“That’s Joe,” said the waitress. “He always stops in for a few drinks before work.”
“What’s he do?”
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Or the three people I guilted into reading this blog, whatever.
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