Call a toe truck

Welcome to this week’s Reno News & Review.

Over the course of my journalism career, I’ve been from the peaks of mountains to the depths of Yucca Mountain. I’ve scubaed and hiked, investigated and sweated. I’ve soberly sat in sombre halls and churches. I’ve drunkenly sat in country clubs and dive bars. I’ve hobnobbed with the wealthy and famous, and guttercrawled with the destitute and infamous. I’ve seen a murderer executed and an executive prostituted. But through it all, somehow I’ve managed to keep all my parts together.

You won’t believe what I did Wednesday. I got up from my living room sofa, took one step and broke my little pinky toe on the coffee table leg. I heard it snap. I was totally sober. I didn’t even curse. (I know many of you wil be surprised by that, since I use the F-word like a chef uses butter.) (I’ve been Facebooking too long. I think the punctuation at the end of a complete parenthetical statement looks like a smiley pirate.)

First, I went to St. Mary’s emergency room. The fine young gentleman who was reading the RN&R told me I would be there at least two hours. Life’s too short. I went to my regular doctor’s partner the next morning and was out in half that for less money.

And you know what he said, after the technician took an X-ray? “Well, I’d send you to a podiatrist, but he’d just tape it, so why don’t you put a cotton ball between your toes and tape it?” To which I replied, “Cool, and you got any samplers for Cialis?”

Well, I taped the toe. It’s a lot less painful, but now I’ve got a hard foot. The thing is really, really swollen. You can see the veins on it, and it’s throbbing like a motorcycle. Anybody know how long it takes for something like this to go down? I’m supposed to be in a wedding in a few weeks, and I know no one’s going to want to see this big old thing make me limp along.