P.F. Chang’s had a two-hour wait.
“Let’s go get some Tombstone pizza instead,” Eric said to his girlfriend, as he imagined the success of this compromise. He’d get back at P.F. Chang by trading their delicious Asian cuisine for the worst frozen pizza in existence. That would show them.
The grocery store was visited, the Tombstone was bought and taken back to Eric’s place. He removed the plastic exterior, discarded the cardboard stability disc and put the firm pizza into the oven to do its magic. Not twelve short minutes later, the two happy little love larks sat on the couch enjoying their warm circle of garbage, watching television, peaceful as peas, having a swell time at home instead of out in the hustle and bustle of the world on a Saturday night. Dexter, Eric’s girlfriend’s beagle spaniel, was also there for the evening to enjoy the fine aromas of melted cheese and mixed-meat sausage and the joy of cozying up under warm blankets. It was a lovely scene. A modern-day Norman Rockwell painting worthy of its own winter popcorn tin.
Every so often, they would pull a sausage from the pizza and toss it to the pooch, like any loving pet parent with bad feeding habits would do. Dexter would squee with thrills, jump with delight and devour the bits without chewing, like any pooch with bad eating habits would do.
Until the moment when he decided one sausage bite wasn’t enough. He wanted more pizza. He wanted much more pizza. So he RANDOMLY JUMPED UP TO BITE ERIC ON THE FACE AND REMOVE A HUNK OF HIS NOSE. Bit it right off. For apparently no reason. At least that’s how Eric tells it. If he was teasing the dog or blowing on the dog’s face or twirling his wiener around like a high school color guard flag, he left that part out.
Eric came to work Monday morning with a really cool bandage all over his face. I want you to picture John Hurt in Elephant Man-style bandaging. You will not be picturing it accurately, but you will be picturing it awesomely.
He showed us a picture of the wound that was taken after his evening in the hospital. It basically looked like a clown nose; a giant super red blotch taking up most of the tip of his breathing triangle. Like a kid who dunked his face in a cherry pie and pulled back. The end was definitely not visible.
“That’s not blood you see. That’s just the inside of my nose.”
Maximum sexy. I’m glad I wasn’t chewing any Big Red at that moment.
The emergency room visit obviously took many hours, and his apartment bathroom looked like an episode of CSI was shot there. Apparently that’s what you get when you name your dog after a television serial killer. Good thing I also intend for that to be my son’s name, if I manage to make one one of these days.
They looked for the nose hunk when they got back to the apartment late that night. It was nowhere to be found. (I bet I know where it is.)
Dexter didn’t touch the rest of the pizza while they were at the hospital. It remained perfectly in tact on the coffee table upon their return. But, you know, saucier. From the blood. From his face. Added iron.
Right now, Eric is at the plastic surgeon discussing which piece of his ass he’d like to have ripped off and taped to his face to cover the hole. I honestly do feel very bad for him, as having any type of damage happen to your face is absolutely the worst. It’s the most definitive and obvious part of your body, plus you’re forced to tell the story over and over to everyone because they all see it. I am however looking forward to calling him butthead. And have it be literal.
I think he should just have the rest of it ripped off and go Voldemort with the whole thing.
See? It really doesn’t look so bad like that. And yeah, that’s the bloodlusty beast that did it.
All in all, he blames P.F. Chang and their too-small restaurant for all this. If they let him in, he wouldn’t have bought Tombstones, wouldn’t have gone home, and wouldn’t have had this happen. Nevermind it was Saturday night in one of the busiest places around Pittsburgh and he didn’t make a reservation.
I hope everything goes well for him and the process to fix his pretty face isn’t terribly cumbersome. Good luck, my friend.
(Oh, and Eric doesn’t read my site because it isn’t about baseball. Please leave some comments I can show him so he is forced to see this!)