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Get Off My Lawn: Hit me with your best shot

Me and needles have always had what you might call one of them there love-hate relationships, more or less.

Well considerably less or more than more or less, if you know what I mean.

(More “hate” than “love,” if you didn’t.)

But now that vaccines for this dagnabit virus are just around the bend — and even the loons on the fringe who swore this whole thing has been nothing but a bucket full of gullywhoppers will push and shove their way to the front of the line to get first shot at the needle — I reckon I’m gonna have to gird my loins and take one for the team.

Well, I guess take two since supposably this vaccine is a two-step dance. On that account, at least, I’ve had what you might call some practice.

Seems that when you’ve been around long enough — just how long is none of your beeswax; unless you’re already there in which case, you already know — the docs suggest getting protected against the shingles, which from what I hear tell, will nail you pretty good.

So, a couple months back, me and the Mrs. did just that and come to find out that this, too, was a twofer, which came as a shock to one of us.

She says it was right there on the instructions the doc had given us, as if that would have made a difference seeing as, being a man, I don’t have no need to read instructions.

On this, she agreed, but that didn’t help her none from keeping me from making a danged fool of myself when I told the kid behind the counter that we was there to get our “herpes shots.”

Believe you me, it sure sounded a whole heckuva lot worse out loud in the drug store.

Now, in a month or so, the pressure will be on not to botch it up again when it’s time for the second round of herpes shots.

Shingles, I meant shingles see what you made me do? She better do the talkin’ this time ‘round.

I remember back when I was a towheaded yute in elementary school and we got sent home one day with an instruction sheet and a permission slip for us to get a shot for the polio.

My mother signed the slip — because she was the one who had bothered to read the instruction sheet — and I walked to school the next day shaking in my boots, because my older brothers had filled my head with nonsense (which, in your retrospect, probably sounds redundant) about how much that big old needle was going to hurt.

Turns out, the joke was on them, because we just had to swallow some foul-tasting liquid and for our bravery they gave us an orange-flavored Vitamin C tablet to boot for doing our part to keep the polio out of America.

I escaped unharmed that day, but the point is ... me and needles don’t see eye to eye.

There was this time back then when I was laying on an emergency room table, as a result of having had an emergency when I was hit in the face by a flying bat — not the kind of bat that does it’s flying at night, but a softball bat made of alumninium which, as we all know, ain’t supposed to fly at all.

Well that thing hit me square under my right eye — ripping open a gash and breaking my nose for good measure — and as the nurse was getting me ready, I lay there without my wits about me which, in your retrospect, probably sounds redundant.

The Mrs. was holding my hand, being all brave like, until I saw outta my good eye that something had given her such a shock that she had to scram like her hair was on fire.

It was a needle, alright, the longest danged thing I’d ever seen and it was coming right down to the spot where, if you ask me, I was already in enough pain.

At least the doc had the good graces not to say “uh-oh,” or words to such effect — which put him one up on the dentist who gave me one of them novocaine shots (the ones where after they stick it in you, they wiggle the thing around like they were trying to make a dead worm look alive to attract the fish), when I was having a root canal.

“Uh-oh,” the dentist said. Or words to such effect, anyway, as she told me that there was a second root hiding behind the first one and she couldn’t give me any more novocaine, so digging out both them roots was bound to hurt.

That there might have been the only time when not having to face a needle fell into the “bad news” side of one of what you call your “good news, bad news” situations.

More or less.

Truth be told, as much as I can about such things, I’m looking forward to the coronavirus vaccination both of them.

You should be, too, and so should those fringe-living loons and the horses they rode in on — irregardless if they cut the line in front of you or not.

We need to get rid of this thing, so that we can get back to being who we were before we had to decipher the mumbles coming from the masked face six feet away.

And treat yourself to an orange-flavored Vitamin C tablet ... once you do your part for America.

Mail Tribune news editor Robert Galvin’s bat-disfigured nose can be reached at rgalvin@rosebudmedia.com.

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