December 21, 2011
Fighting Tyranny, One Step at a Time
(with help from lots of Scotch and a lingerie model)
Blondie and I pulled into a parking spot at 4:52 p.m., thirteen minutes before show time. She asked me: "You got the number?"
She meant the direct number to the desk of FCC Commissioner Robert McDowell, who had generously agreed to appear as a guest on our show to discuss an insidious United Nations treaty that could put the Internet under U.N. control.
Regular listeners know we have been fortunate to have had some very high-profile guests, such as Ron Paul, Rand Paul, Andrew Napolitano, Jesse Ventura, Christopher Monckton, Peter Schiff, Tom Woods, and many others. Sometimes I schedule the guest, sometimes The Blonde schedules the guest. The difference is, when The Blonde schedules the guest, she does responsible, adult-like stuff, like putting the guest's phone number into her phone. As a backup, she takes with her to the studio a note with the phone number on it. Like adults do.
When I schedule the guest, I scribble the phone number on a random scrap of paper, then forget about it.
As it turns out, The Blonde's method works a lot better.
"You got the number?" she asked as she's parking the car.
Crap. No. I don't got the number.
Do not panic. . . . Do. Not. Panic.
I confessed to not having the number, then I told The Blonde to plug the meter and run into the studio, while I run back to the office to get the damn number.
The office is three-quarters of a mile from the studio.
"How are you going to do that?" she asked.
"I'll make it."
A mile-and-a-half in thirteen minutes might not sound so difficult, even in street clothes and dress shoes. But listen: Those of you who were born during the second Eisenhower administration (like me) and haven't exercised since the first Reagan first administration (ditto) know it ain't no walk in the park.
But off I ran. The show must go on.
A few blocks shy of the office, I stepped into a hole in the sidewalk and turned my right ankle big time. Not Roethlisberger bad, but bad nonetheless. Pain, and lots of it. Half-ran, half-limped the rest of the way to the office. The show must go on.
Up three flights of stairs, grab the number, start the journey back. Ankle worse by the minute.
Arrived at the Booth of Truth as the music started and The Blonde started doing that thing she calls singing. Ankle throbbing, sweating like Newt Gingrich after a donut-eating contest, but the show must go on.
We called Commissioner McDowell right on schedule, and we had an excellent interview.
By the end of the show, I had to resort to hopping on my left foot. Pretty pathetic.
The Blonde drove us to our usual post-show watering hole. She dropped me off at the back door, and I made quite the spectacle of myself as I hopped on one foot to the nearest bar stool. Had to explain to a bunch of strangers that I had just sprained my ankle. Whatever.
I ordered Scotch, with no ice. Just Scotch. Got a big bag of ice for my ankle; pulled up another bar stool to rest my bad wheel on. Downed the Scotch and ordered another, then another, and I think another.
And then . . .
You can't make this stuff up . . .
This beautiful young lady who just finished nursing school noticed my injury. She wasn't just any recent graduate of nursing school. She actually specializes in broken bones and such, and she gave me some excellent advice. She also just happens to be a lingerie model and was on her way to change into her, uh, work uniform. How awesome is that? Here's how awesome it was: Way.
So, three or four Scotches later, plus ice and advice from a lingerie-model-slash-nurse, and it seems that the ankle can be saved.
Fighting tyranny, one step at a time.
There are lots of Bombasts at the Baldy's Bombast page.