The Warmth of James Earl Jones

As I awoke this morning, I was thinking of far-off things, as I usually do when I awake: an accordion made of butter; day-glo sweatpants on Dolly Parton (turns out you wouldn't even notice them); and, today, James Earl Jones on the toilet. This last occurrence is the only of the three that I've experienced first hand, thanks to a trip to the Late Show and a duck that appreciated cottage cheese. I didn't see James Earl Jones on the toilet, but I did hear him on the toilet and, when he was done, I assumed his throne, and I did feel the heat of him left on the seat. It was very intimate and something I immediately called to tell a friend about. And you thought there was nothing warm about Darth Vader. 

This is my left ankle:

(This is where a picture of my ankle should be, but I tried to take a picture and, because I'm freakishly pale, my camera couldn't translate what it saw into anything but a square of pure white.)

When I was five of six or seven my mom was giving me a ride on the back of one of my grandpa's brakeless bicycles. She took a right turn, I failed to keep my legs out, and my left foot was sucked into the spokes much like a bony, featherless goose is sucked into a jet engine, but without the sucking. My leg twisted around for a bit before my mom figured out I was screaming, not about how much fun I was having, but about a bloody, mangled appendage being cleaned of its skin. She and some nearby horrified neighbors pried me from the wheel, carried me to a bright orange Volvo wagon (the closest thing to an ambulance we had access to), and we were off to St. Anthony's where a large nurse in tights and a wedge hat (I know!) scraped, with a wire brush, whatever was left of my ankle into a stainless steel bin. I don't remember the noises I made, but they were, apparently, quite obvious. 

Here's that horrible bike:

Here's that horrible nurse: