INTESTINAL CRANK
This method of
torture, or rather, capital punishment, involved making an incision in
the abdominal area, separating the duodenum from the pylorus, and
attaching the upper part of the intestine to a crank.
The
crank would then be rotated to extract the intestines from the
gastrointestinal cavity of the still conscious person. The outcome was
always death, but not immediately.
Just Roll With It
“And he smote them hip and thigh with a great slaughter.”
– Judges 15:8
Within
our front closet lurks a hateful device: The Foam Roll. The purpose of
this thing is to use pressure to stretch and loosen tight muscles,
which is all very nice in theory, but when one has an extremely short
iliotibial band in one’s right leg that has caused all manner of
physiological problems, the Foam Roll becomes an instrument of
Dante-esque torture.
To such a person, the Foam
Roll combines some of the most horrid ways human beings have come up
with to kill one another throughout our creatively violent history.
Purpose: to make you spill your guts. To death.
How
does the last one apply, you ask? Because every time I’ve used the
blasted thing I’ve been swamped by waves of nausea and/or actual
vomiting. Admittedly it’s a creative stretch, just go with it.
J.
can use this device without so much as a wince whereas there are days
that even a light tough on my right leg (to say nothing of putting all
of my body weight onto it) hurts like the bleeding devil. Nevertheless
whenever I get a pain flare up or overextend myself exercising, J. will
smugly point at the Foam Roll and declare it my only chance at
salvation.
He did this the night before last when I limped
into the flat after work. My mature response was a feral snarl and an
attempt at a quick escape, which looked more or less like a Quasimodo
lurch at a snail’s pace towards our office.
“It’ll be good for you,” he insisting, picking up the hated thing and following.
“Don’t come after me! It’s not fair, you can out-run me,” I gasped, thumping faster.
“I can out-walk you,” he retorted and thrust the roll at me. “Use it.”
So
I did. And since he found me five minutes later, clutching the toilet
with mascara running down my face, I’m choosing to hate him for it.
Any less immediately painful solutions, ducklings?
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