My cousins and I were sitting around, chatting, when the subject of Napolean Dynamite was broached…
Me: Egads! Like it wasn’t bad enough that we’re known for potatoes, now we’re known for the likes of Napolean Dynamite. I traveled all the way to Denmark and that’s all a guy could say, ‘Idaho – isn’t that where Napolean Dynamite is from?’ Sigh.
Mags: Yeah, well we’re now the land of balloon boy.
Hay: I’ve got you all beat – Forks.
Who knew she lived so close to Forks? Certainly not I. And apparently, the only thing worse than hordes of Twilight fans mid-pilgrimage, is having to take your husband to a doctor in Forks to have a hook removed from his calf. My cousin, being a nurse, would have rather gone elsewhere; but seeing how her husband’s ankle was numb, it was a bit of an emergency.
The doctor came in, took a look, and applied a local anesthetic. The nurse asked what tool he wanted. He glanced over at her display of carefully organized, STERILE instruments. No … actually … I want some pliers. Oh, you read it right. The poor nurse stared blankly for a moment before mumbling, Okay, I’ll check with maintenance. She came back with a grip and a needle-nose. The doctor made an incision, took the pliers and yanked.
True story.
We sat there, stunned. It’s like the Twilight Zone, I said. Yes, my cousin answered, that’s exactly what it is.
