Month: April 2019

Early 2000s this song was all the rage,
Blink was at their best, adulthood still seemed far away,
Here it comes, a short story from high school English class,
Truthfully this little memory always got me laughing like an ass.

You know, of all the teachers that I’ve had during my high school years my English teacher (let’s call him Mr. Porter) during the ninth grade was one of whom that I felt sorry for. My tutor class at the time had more than a few rowdy students among the ranks and while some teachers were able to maintain a cool demeanor in the face of some of their more extreme antics Mr. Porter sometimes lost his cool, shouting himself hoarse trying to retain control while they carried on like fools.

In one ear and out the other. Day after day after day.

Poor guy. He was great at what he did and he deserved a lot better. But what can you do? Some of my peers just happened to be straight-up idiots.
But it wasn’t all bad. There were definitely times where he found himself strangely amused at some of their milder hijinks, probably to his surprise. He sometimes allowed himself to shake his head and chuckle at their lunacy before calmly reprimanding them as long as their inane chatter, little slapping contests and silly games of ‘who tapped me?’ didn’t escalate into all-out war. Such was the case one day when we, as a class, were reading a novel together in relation to a particular assignment, students called out at random to read three to five pages each.

As an introvert I would sit behind my desk silently praying that I wouldn’t be called out. On this particular day one of those knucklehead students, a tough kid that we’ll call Chuck who looked like the love-child of the late Chris Farley and Steve Stifler, albeit with a permanent scowl on his face, was asked by Mr. Porter to read three pages. Much to Mr. Porter’s disbelief and the class’ amusement, Chuck’s mind was someplace else other than the classroom and it took three calls of his name before he was roused from his daydream.
“CHUCK! Please read the next three pages!”
Chuck immediately snapped out of his trance.
“Oh shit, what’s up, sir!?”
“Three pages, Chuck. Start reading.”
“Huh!?”
Chuck’s seatmate, a lanky, well groomed student with a booming laugh that we’ll call Jim, couldn’t resist the opportunity to crack a joke at his portly friend’s expense, despite knowing that he would be on the wrong end of a beating for his audacity.
“He said ‘start reading’ you moron!” laughed Jim, “clean your ears out!”
“Fuck you!” snapped Chuck, eliciting nervous laughter from his peers.
“Ok, enough of that,” interjected Mr. Porter, “Chuck, please start reading.”

Grumbling, Chuck picked up his book and began to read – only to accidentally mispronounce one of the words.
Jim immediately threw his head back and began to laugh hysterically, rocking back and forth on his chair while doing so. His pride and ego obliterated, Chuck immediately wrapped one of his huge arms around Jim’s neck for a headlock while the other rammed a couple of punches to his rib cage.
“You better shut the fuck up!” growled Chuck, his face red and crumpled with rage.
“You need to learn to read, bro!” countered Jim, the headlock failing to quell his laughter.
By now, the rest of the class was in hysterics which only added to Chuck’s anger. If he had it his way he probably would have gone all Mike Tyson on all of us, even the girls. Throughout all this, Mr. Porter seemed to struggle to maintain his composure, his face reddening from the effort required to keep himself from laughing. But once Chuck decided to use his fists the teacher put an end to the fiasco.
“Ok, class, quiet, please!” he ordered, “Chuck, please start reading and Jim, keep quiet.”
Chuck released Jim from his grip and began to read as his seatmate buried his face in his hands and continued to laugh. Jim’s giggling only served to stir up the fury within Chuck once more and as he read his tone began to slowly rise and his perpetual scowl was beginning crumple. He was like a dormant volcano slowly reawakening, ready to erupt and Jim would be the sole casualty.

After three pages Chuck seized the opportunity to have the last laugh over his seatmate and without warning, he forcefully shoved Jim on the shoulder, sending him flying off his chair and onto the floor as the laughs rang out once more. A bemused Mr. Porter could only look on and shake his head.
Jim lay on the floor laughing. The punishment he received was merely a small price to pay for humiliating the angry gorilla sitting next to him, who was now looking down at him with a wicked grin on his face.
Once Jim had climbed off the floor and back onto his chair, Mr. Porter put an end to the party.
“Ok, class, enough. Let’s continue reading.”
He instructed another student to read a few pages and with that, peace was restored once more.

Bumpin’ to west coast beats as the rain pours outside,
On the sofa, feet up, happy to chill and unwind,
Still full from dinner time, boy that was a huge feed,
Screw it, I earned it, it was just what I needed,
Lovin’ this tune by Coolio, man, he sure was talented,
The thunder outside is rumbling the storm sure is packin’ it,
From my safe haven the stormy symphony is therapeutic,
Heck, it seems to blend well with the music.

Woke up early today even on a Saturday,
Acclimatized to early hours, damn these working days,
Five days on that nine-to-five, eating up my time,
The grind can be taxing on both the body and mind,
The pay’s good so I guess I can’t complain,
But sometimes I recall that Ramones song, ‘The Job That Ate My Brain’,
Always looking on the bright side, ain’t no hope in being a downer,
Makes me appreciate the weekends more, those two days are my reward,
Was supposed to meet the crew tonight to paint the city red,
The storm killed my motivation, no desire to get my hair wet,
Hope they’re having a blast if they’re out and about,
That storm’s picking up, they’d be asking for a wipeout,
I slide down on my seat, damn near horizontal,
Might as well hit the sack, just want to get this song over with.

12/9/2019

By early September I was taking the full dosage of those Imuran and Mezavant tablets prescribed to me and the effects continued to heal my bowels without introducing me to any of the nasty side-effects. My stools were more or less back to normal and bloody results were becoming far and few between. I also felt my strength coming back and had also put on some weight to clock up 56 kilos on the scale. Still on the thin side but it felt a hell of a lot better than being a sickly 52 kilos.
But the positive developments did not excuse me from my daily routine and going out to enjoy myself, let alone returning to training, remained out of the question. That wasn’t going to happen until I had clearance from Dr. G or Dr. B.

Speaking of training, it goes without saying that my fitness and physique suffered greatly during my exile. Not to sound egotistical but before the ulcerative colitis attacked I was sitting pretty at around 58 to 59 kilos (which is still within the healthy weight range for a vertically-challenged man such as myself) with a ripped, athletic physique complete with chiselled abs. I regularly performed triple digits’ worth of push-ups, pull-ups and squats, a shit load of burpees, worked the heavy bag at home until it was completely bent out of shape and other crazy shit as part of my daily workouts.
In other words I was fit as a fiddle and felt pretty damn indestructable. The colitis changed all that. As stated in previous entries the resulting anaemia had robbed me of my energy, my weight plummeted and the color had been drained from my face, all of which did not go unnoticed by friends and family. And since much of this recovery phase was spent eating, sleeping and taking it easy my ravaged body entered that dreaded ‘skinny-fat’ zone. The abs were long gone, replaced by a doughy mid-section that looked like a semi-deflated balloon, the once-wide shoulders shrank though thankfully never progressed into mild kyphosis thanks to the light arm and shoulder exercises I performed in addition to walking drills, my arms and legs became rail thin and even shadow boxing, which had long been one of my favorite ways to warm-up before working out, became a rather taxing routine if I pushed myself too hard.
The extent of my regression was made shockingly clear when, on one particularly sunny afternoon a week before this entry took place, I decided to see if I could still perform pull-ups from the old swing set in the backyard. Mind you, I had not done a single pull-up since a few weeks prior to being hospitalized so I was well-aware that I would be rusty, but reality hit me harder than than a bar stool across the head followed by an uppercut to the jewels ever could.
I strained to pull myself up from the very first repetition and was completely winded after a mere five pull-ups.

What the fuck!!!???

I immediately stormed back into the house, slumped down on the sofa in the living room and sulked for a good three minutes. What a revolting, soul-crushing revelation that was, years of building myself into supreme fitness down the drain. Getting back into tip top shape was definitely going to be a rather long road once I was cleared to do so. But on the bright side at least I had another goal to shoot for in addition to putting this blasted colitis into permanent remission, it could be a rather fun and rewarding experience.

Not long after my meeting with the immunologist I’d made another trip to see Dr. G regarding the results of the blood test I did. My haemoglobin checked in at the 90s, placing me another step closer to the front door of the triple digits.
“Not long to go now before you’re back to triple digits,” Dr. G mused, “and I’m glad to see some color on your face again.”
My mother breathed a sigh of relief on her seat and crossed herself.
For me, it was mixed feelings. As pleased as I was to know that my levels were climbing and that my body was healing, I was admittedly a little sour at not being in the 100s yet. Yes, Dr. G and Dr. B warned me that it wouldn’t be a speedy process but man, my patience was wearing thin, though I didn’t show it.

So close yet so far.

Looks like I still had many plates of red meat and many doses of sunshine to get through, still, to raise that blood count.

But let it be known that in no way, shape or form was I disappointed with the outcome. To go from the 80s to the 90s was progress and I was happy about that. I was just feeling impatient, that’s all.
Having got that out of the way, my mother and I also informed Dr. G of my upcoming meeting with the haemotologist, set to take place on September 12 at the hospital. Dr. G didn’t say much, this appointment was to keep her updated on my progress. She simply congratulated me on a job well done so far and wished me well on the appointment.
But she added one thing; “They might suggest that you undergo an iron infusion since you lost a lot of blood. That would have affected your iron levels.”
“Fair enough.”
“Don’t be nervous. You’re on the right track, just keep doing what you’re doing.”
My mother and I nodded our heads enthusiastically. She didn’t need to tell us twice.

September 12 finally arrived and I woke up feeling relaxed. I began the day with another set of walking exercises and shadow boxing, ate my breakfast, did some reading and some more exercises in the backyard under the sun, took a mid-morning nap before lunch and then dressed up for my appointment. Both of my parents had taken the day off from work to accompany me and we drove towards the hospital an hour prior to my appointment.
We made it to the sixth floor of the hospital where the haemotologist’s office was located with twenty minutes to spare. In a refreshing change from all the other places I had been in this hospital, the sixth floor was brightly-lit and spacious and that sickly hospital smell wasn’t as overpowering. I quickly approached the receptionist’s table, confirmed my booking, filled out a document asking for my personal details and then joined my parents in the waiting area. There were many vacant seats, indicative of a rather slow day at the office, and I seemed to be the youngest patient in a room populated by senior citizens, just as it was during my two day hospital stay a couple of months earlier.

A pile of worn-out magazines sat on a table in the centre of the area, beneath a post on which a flat-screen TV was hung playing one of those mid-day talk shows. I had been battling the urge to urinate for the last few minutes, believing that I would be called in quicker than expected just like my blood test following my meeting with the immunologist since there didn’t seem to be too many people before me. Alas, the call of nature became unbearable five minutes before my scheduled appointment. I quickly excused myself, made a beeline for the men’s room and did my business.

Damn, shouldn’t have drank so much water before leaving! I hope I don’t miss their call.

Quick as a flash, I cleaned myself up, flushed the can and then power walked back to my seat.
“No one called you yet,” Mom said.
“Ok, cool.”
It would be fifteen minutes before I was finally summoned. So much for the perception of a slow day.
The haemotologist, whom we shall call Dr. R, was a rather short, bespectacled lady of Hispanic appearance with an upbeat personality that was a sharp contrast to the rather small, colorless room on the sixth floor that was her office. It closely resembled that dark office of the very first doctor I consulted months ago, albeit a lot more organized and with more medical paraphernalia lying around. We began our meeting with some good news regarding another blood test I was required to take a week prior to our meeting (which I did not long after my last appointment with Dr. G) and the results almost caused me to jump out my chair, run out of the room and do laps around the floor.
“Your haemoglobin levels are now 104,” she said, grinning.
Man, I didn’t care that my parents were seated near me and that I was speaking with a medical practitioner, I allowed myself to show some emotion. Consumed by excitement and relief I did a silly little victory dance on my seat, managing to keep a tight lid on the more extreme emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface. At last, I was out of criticaly-anaemic territory.
But there was another obstacle to the victory.
“Your haemoglobin levels are on a decent level now,” said Dr. P, “but your iron levels haven’t quite caught up yet. And since you are currently on medication to treat a digestive disease, putting you on iron tablets could have adverse side-effects. Therefore, you WILL need to undergo an iron infusion.”

Ugh! That fucking ulcerative colitis! Even in a bruised and battered state it was still taunting me, reminding me of its handiwork through months of blood loss.

Get ready, motherfucker. I’ll kill you some more with Mezavant tablets tonight!

My parents, too, seemed quite apprehensive, particularly my mother. Dr. R sensed this and gave us all a quick rundown on the procedure.
“It will take about half an hour,” she said, “you will be hooked onto a drip and the solution will be pumped into your system. There may be side effects but they aren’t very common.

Ok, I’ve had experience with being hooked onto a drip. I can handle that. Hold on, did you say ‘side effects’?

“What type of side effects?” asked Dad.
“Some muscle pain, probably headaches and nausea, and in rare cases fever and chills.”
Yup, uh-huh, ok, doc, thanks for the heads up.
“But again, they’re not very common,” added Dr. P, “but I still have to inform you of the possibility.”
Dr. R leaned in and smiled. “Don’t worry about it too much,” she said, “your haemoglobin levels are at a good level now, you’ll be back to normal before you know it. The iron infusion should speed up your results.”
I love how the doctors and specialists that I’ve seen so far know just what to say whenever they can sense that I’m starting to feel nervous or pissed off. Or both.
Dr. P then did some brief tests on me, checking my blood pressure, heartbeat, breathing and also my lymph nodes, before giving me some printed documents during the conclusion of our meeting; a few pages’ worth of my latest blood test results, a pamphlet that informed us of the formula that they were going to pump into me, and a sheet for…….drum roll, please…….another blood test!!!!!
Yup, that’s right, I was to have more blood drained out of me before we left!

Oh man……I hope this doesn’t knock me back into the 90s.

And so we took an elevator back down to the ground floor, over to the blood test clinics and…..you know the rest.

We got home just a little after 5pm, narrowly missing the afternoon peak-hour traffic. We had a nice family dinner before I washed up and got ready for bed.
I lay in bed that night, reflecting on the meeting with Dr. P. Well, I guess I’m about to find out what an iron infusion feels like. I wasn’t too nervous but I still hoped that my body would be strong enough to ward off any side-effects the way it did with the Imuran and Mezavant.
And of course I allowed myself to bask in the glory of having crossed back into the triple digits in regards to my haemoglobin levels. Finally, I was at the home stretch! Barring any serious mishaps I would be back to normal before the month was out.

Was well into my exile when I first heard this tune,
90s slow jam by Bobby Brown, coincided with major breakthroughs,
Making progress with recovery, can almost taste the victory,
Gotta tread lightly, though, no need to be so hasty.

August 24, 2018

WARNING: This entry contains details that some readers may find gross

August was coming to a close and every day, for the most part, continued to be a virtual replay of the last; Eat, read, walking drills, take pills, sleep and repeat. Talk about groundhog day, the only real differences were the clothes that I wore and also the books and random internet articles that I read daily. In addition to taking mid-day naps and watching random Youtube videos (always a fun way to pass the time) I had also taken to doing plenty of reading, a past-time that I usually enjoyed but had largely neglected during healthier times. My sister and I were avid readers during our youths and my parents amassed a rather impressive book collection over the years that we kept in a special room in the house that we nicknamed ‘the library.’ This is not to say that I went through one entire book everyday – that would have been madness – but I chose three books at a time and read bits and pieces of each during a few half-hours that I could steal on a given day, temporarily leaving the confines of house arrest to escape into their worlds. I hung out with Holden Caulfield in The Catcher In The Rye, got a crash course in how to run a kingdom through rather severe means from Machiavelli in The Prince, witnessed the worst of human behavior in Lord Of The Flies, joined Sal and Dean on an epic road trip in On The Road, ran with The Greasers on The Outsiders……..the list went on and on and I am quite chuffed at having been able to get through a decent number of books in a rather short period of time.
But then again, I had all the time in the world to do so.
I even took a trip back down memory lane by revisiting some of the novels that I had to study during my high school and university days. Having spent most of their prime years being bounced, squished and rubbed around inside my school bag the high school books looked every bit the worse for wear, with their crinkled and scuffed covers and dog-eared, yellowed pages. Some pages from the books I read for university still bore highlighted sections and scribbled crib notes that I used for study purposes, reminders of a time long gone.

Did I wrestle with the temptation to break from my routine? Did I consider defying doctor’s orders and starting up the car to set off on an epic road trip or to throw myself back into real workouts? You bet I did! While I had embraced and accepted my temporary (yes, emphasis on ‘temporary’) life as a recovering patient there were days where it felt rather draining for a naturally active lunatic such as myself and during my times of solitude I definitely flirted with the idea of walking on the wild side.
‘To hell with this,’ I would say, ‘I’m gonna go buck wild.’
But something would always stop me, a voice inside my head acting like an all-knowing, all-seeing Big Brother that reprimanded me for my rebellious thoughts.

What the fuck is this? Nineteen-fucking-eighty-four as described by George Orwell!?

Nope, just good old-fashioned common sense.

It was during those moments that I felt, at times, the urge to drill a massive hole through my skull, rip my brain out and boot the motherfucker into the next country but in the end that internal voice of reason and my own strength of mind obliterated whatever reckless streak was trying to get the better of me. It would have been the height of foolishness to give in to impatience and push myself too fast, too soon. Recovery was my top priority and if I had to live like a monk for at least the next few months then so be it.

 

At this point the game of hit and miss continued as far as my stools were concerned but there was some great news; in addition to less bloody results my stools were hardening up and beginning to look normal again. Previously, I was firing off small solid pebbles mixed among blood before it deteriorated to the point where, more often than not, I was shitting nothing but pure blood and that ultimately sent me to the hospital in need of a transfusion.
It made me wonder what became of the food that I ate.
Then once I started taking the medication necessary to fight the colitis there had been less blood – which was a positive sign –  but my stools remained liquid, like a big bowl of caramel porridge that was sometimes topped off with a decent amount of raspberry sauce, not exactly an ‘out-of-the-woods’ outcome.

Apologies to anyone that was eating while reading that part. If it makes you feel better I just put myself off of my next meal!

But it was also during this period that I started to see solid little logs in the mix again and man, all I can say is that the happiness and euphoria that welled within me was damn near impossible to contain and as corny as it sounds I sometimes had to fight the urge to shed tears of pure joy. I settled for looking skyward and mouthing ‘thank you!’ to the big guy in the sky but while I was home alone, I sometimes allowed myself to let loose. Imagine a skinny-fat, hobo-looking nutjob walking out of the toilet and shouting “YYYEEAAAAHHHH!!!!” like Lil’ Jon on steroids before breaking into a weird dance and you’ll have an idea. And let me tell you right now, I cannot dance to save my life! But to say that it was a relief to finally have confirmation that the medication was working is a massive understatement. For the first time in my treatment I saw that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

 

I also had a scheduled appointment with an immunologist on the 24^th of August at the same hospital where I received my blood transfusion and was also ordered to submit another blood test, the results of which would immediately be faxed and e-mailed to Dr. G and Dr. B. My parents accompanied me on the trip back to the hospital where we were greeted by the immunologist, a tall, slim man of Indian appearance who looked to be in his late 30’s to early 40’s, although his smooth features and full head of hair made him look rather youthful. He was soft-spoken but possessed a firm handshake. This lanky fellow was a lot stronger than he looked – or perhaps I was still weak from my health battle.
The meeting didn’t last too long, the immunologist took my blood pressure (which came out normal) and then interrogated me about my current state of health since my hospital stay and I told him nothing but the truth but made sure to emphasize all the positive developments. I admitted that there was still the occasional bloody stool but quickly added that such occurrences were becoming less and less and that the stools were becoming solid again.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said before adding, “and you look as though you’ve regained some color on your face.”
Well, my haemoglobin levels were still in the late 80s at last check but I took his word for it. My lips, ears, fingertips and the inside of my eyes, however, remained pale pink, even if my skin was no longer as pale.

The immunologist then handed me some paperwork that effectively discharged me as an in-patient from the hospital. Man, what a great feeling! Nothing was going to stop me now.
Not so fast, Kiddo.
The immunologist also ordered me to see the hospital’s haematologist in a few weeks’ time in order to examine my iron levels since my recent blood tests indicated that in addition to my haemoglobin, my iron levels also suffered as a result of the blood loss. No surprise there, with great blood loss comes decreased levels of iron. He gave me a sheet of paper that contained the haematologist’s number before sending me off to take another blood test, the purpose of which was to find out where my haemoglobin levels stood.

 

My parents and I returned to the waiting room and I pulled out a card from a stack near the door to one of the blood testing rooms that contained a number.
Number 3. Cool.
Once my number was called I was to trudge into one of the rooms, roll up my sleeve and have some more blood drained out of me. I slumped down on a chair in the waiting area next to my mother and played with my phone believing that it would be at least fifteen minutes before I would be called in. I had just made myself comfortable and almost drifted off into my own little world when a nurse poked her head out of one of the clinics.
“NUMBER THREE!!!!!”
I was called in faster than anticipated and I scrambled as I frantically put my phone in sleeper mode and then hastily walked into the clinic. This might have been the first time I had to wait for less than ten minutes for a health-related appointment.

Once inside the nurse gently instructed me to take a seat and roll up one of my sleeves. It was a rather chilly day and I was wearing a long-sleeve shirt and so I rolled up the sleeve of my right arm and rested it against a cushion on the table. She clamped a buckle around my arm near the elbow and tightened it, raising a vein in the crook of my elbow.
“This might sting a little,” she said, oblivious to the hell I’d gone through over the last couple of months. I nodded politely, but deep down I was rolling my eyes and laughing sarcastically.

 

No shit. I’ve been jabbed so much I’m surprised my haemoglobin levels are still climbing. I am well aware that it will sting.

 

I made a fist with my right hand to keep that vein raised and then she plunged the needle into my arm.
Ahhhh the bitter sting of the needle! We meet again!
She drew about two or three vials worth of my blood before retracting the needle and placing a patch on the area. I slowly rolled down my sleeve and stepped off of the seat.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Have a great afternoon.”
I dusted myself off before leaving the room to re-join my parents.

 

Mission accomplished!

 

The next day, I dialed the number supplied to me by the immunologist and booked my session with the haemotologist. It was a foregone conclusion that I was going to need an iron infusion. Coming off of being ‘severely anaemic’ in addition to the ‘severe pancolitis’ diagnosis there was no doubt that my iron levels would be anything but crash-hot. Looks like I’m going to find out what an iron infusion feels like.

Staring down the barrel of another medical procedure huh? Ok, bring it on!

We shall get to know about this haemotologist very soon. Stay tuned!

Twenty minutes deep through this stretch of road,
Not another vehicle in sight, the silence comparable to the dark of night,
Ventura Highway soars from the speakers, had me bumpin’ to this tune,
No one got to see me looking like a loon,
Mountains and tall hills loomed majestically before me,
Like scoops of green tea ice cream dotted with green jelly beans,
My vehicle held up admirably, just a suburban steed,
Zero breakdowns to ensure a long, smooth journey,
Got no problems other than bugs on the windscreen,
Coupled with dust it’ll take at least an hour to wipe this baby clean.

Straight lines for twenty minutes, barely moved the wheel,
Now I’m locked in a battle against the urge to fall asleep,
The unchanging view ahead offers only a limited thrill,
But the solitude offers the opportunity to chill,
Allowing the mind to wander, perhaps to review the year soon to end,
This is the second last day, may as well pause and reflect,
Seems like only yesterday I was ringing in this year,
Watched the fireworks on TV, even had me a few beers.
Work was ok, had my share of good and bad days,
More of the former, made plenty of coin, yeah I can’t complain,
Dealt with some catastrophes, born from bad luck and incompetency,
Typical workplace mishaps, though admittedly, sometimes the culprit was me!
Explored various parts of the country and for a few weeks another part of the world,
Dented that bank balance but it was all so worth it.

Thirty minutes in now, will take a left in twenty,
At the corner of my eye I see we have company,
A white sports car looms from behind, caught in my rear-view,
Driven by a madman wearing shades with hair dyed a reddish hue,
Barrelling like a torpedo, damn-near rear ended me,
I’m on the left lane, Pal, go ahead overtake me,
The speed freak complies, swerves to the right before re-entering my lane,
Speeds away leaving a trail of dust in his wake.
‘Crazy fool fixin’ to get caught,’ I mutter to myself,
The pink sets into that blue sky to indicate an impending sunset,
I guess it was a good year, I wonder what the next one will bring,
Another winner on the cards? Or will it make my head spin?

It’s all up to me, I’m the master of my own destiny,
A car appears before me, a slow driver running less than ninety,
Had to slam the brakes, resisting the urge for road rage,
Hit the gas hard as I overtook him and drove away,
The sun slowly sinks, the blue sky is rendered red,
Almost at the home stretch, I exit via the left,
It’s been a good day and a great year, and that’s when I saw,
On the side of the road, that speed freak, his antics dashed by highway patrol.