The Angry Drunk

It’s been a while since I’ve regaled you with pic­tures of my fin­ger. Behold what almost 2 months of heal­ing hath accom­plished. Considerably less dis­turb­ing pic­tures after the jump.

For this week’s install­ment I get that gods damned split off for good!! See the slightly less dis­gust­ing pic­tures below the fold.

It bog­gles my mind, but some of you sick fucks seem to enjoy these pic­tures. Whatever blows your skirt up.

If you fol­low me on Twitter, or Facebook or even just par­tic­u­larly pay atten­tion to this site you should know by now that I mas­sively fucked up my hand last week­end. Since then, I have received numer­ous requests to explain just what the hell hap­pened. I do appre­ci­ate the con­cern (or just sick curios­ity) but I haven’t really felt up to the task of typ­ing this all out until now. I’m going to make this fairly brief, since the act of typ­ing is excru­ci­at­ingly painful. I’m also going to omit spe­cific names and loca­tions. If you already know the whos and wheres, nifty. If not they won’t add to the story.

The story begins last Saturday night. I was drink­ing at a local bar with a good friend of mine. Nothing out of the ordi­nary. As I was drink­ing I noticed that there was some­thing not quite right with my barstool. For those not in the know, the stools at this par­tic­u­lar joint are basi­cally a welded steel frame with a cheap seat bolted to the top. What I was notic­ing was that it seemed that the uphol­stery of my stool was com­ing unfas­tened. What I didn’t

Continue read­ing Night Out to Nightmare in Thirty Seconds.