Sunday, March 28, 2010

Photographical Update Affable

Well, time does not stop, but my blogging occasionally does.

As those of you that gave my birth to me have noticed, I have not posted pictures of myself in some time. Perhaps this reeks of some mighty setback in the recovery that I am trying to cover up--Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead! Also don't tell her that my nose collapsed.

So, without further ado, I am going to empty out my pictures folder, entitled "Day 4 and Beyond." This is an intimidating amount of views of my face for a mirror to handle, much less a human being--scroll at your own peril. I'm going to keep commentary to a minimum.

To save space, pictures "After the jump," which, for the uninitiated, means you have to click the "Continue reading" link just below this paragraph. Also, shame on you for missing Initiations, they were super fun.

A common theme is going to be my failure to smile in a picture, followed by my attempt to smile.

Also, I would warn you that a majority of these pictures are going to feature a shirtless J-Dawg. Well, it's misleading to say "I would warn you," since I just did and I'm not qualifying it with anything. Oh, idioms!

As you can see, I don't keep my bed one half of my bed very tidy. And with a face like that, why bother?

Promotional poster from the Lifetime movie about my alcoholism ("Succumbing to the Darkness")

Bravely toward the sober future..

Sometimes I don't understand the emotions that go into making the faces I make.

Basically my default face. This is what I look like when I wake up in the morning.

I have really pretty eyelashes, and a less pretty eight-hour mustache.

Fastidious observers will notice that my television is a cowboy.

The cocaine-binge eye-baglets are slowly receding. inability to take a picture where I don't look like I'm vomiting, however, is not.

With just a sprinkling of chest hair. round out the motif...

...ah. Callbacks.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

THAI-NO-PLASTY 2010: Day 3 (Kick Back)

Well, it is nigh Day 4 already, you Greenwich-mean-minded thinkers may be thinking, but I assure you that though I am posting this quite late, all pictures were taken earlier in the day, for consistency's sake.

Before I get to the visual aid portion of this evening's symposium, I want to share two anecdotes.

The first anecdote is a conversation I had with the doctor minutes before the injection of the anesthesia. I was lying on the operating table, arms by my sides, eyes closed, when the doctor, perhaps to eliminate a nervous, uncomfortable silence in the room, asked me: "Are you scared?"

I really wasn't--I would compare it, at that moment, to the dentist's chair before the scraping starts on a bi-annual visit.

And so when the doctor asked me if I was scared, I answered truthfully:

"No, I trust you."

The doctor chuckled.

"Why do you trust me?"

Now, wait a moment. I don't know if this is some sort of Thai-Hippocratic humor; and I know that as an ambassador, I am supposed to be culturally sensitive to the Oriental ways, or whatever; but perhaps the last thing you want to hear before a life-altering, potentially-lethal facial surgery is your own surgeon questioning his competence.

For weeks family and friends had been asking me this very question! "Why do you trust this doctor?" How could I trust him? I had done no research, had barely had a consultation with him, had not seen the operating room, had gotten no recommendations or heard or read any testimonials, in person or online. All I knew about this doctor, frankly, was that he advertised himself as one who performed nose jobs. That's all. I had never seen him actually perform a nose job; the before-after pictures on his website could be stock photos, and even if they weren't, every picture was of a Thai person (mostly female) getting a bigger nose, which was the opposite of what I wanted; he worked out of what looked to be a store-front converted laundromat in between an out-of-business motorcycle mechanic and a dirty Thai kitchen, just a block from one of the most unsanitary produce-and-fish markets in Chiang Mai, and across the street from a wink-wink-nudge-nudge nightclub-cum-whorehouse with an upfront sign advertising that it is "cleaned and disinfected" after each presumably splooge-filled fluid-drenched orgiastic night; and my God, he could barely form a grammatically correct sentence in English, and I was going to let this man, this mystery medicine man, take a Goddamn scalpel to my nose and I wouldn't even be asleep for the carving?? WHY DID I TRUST THIS DOCTOR???

"You have a lot of people here," I told the doctor. "That means you are good."

And then he stabbed at my nose and super-cranial regions with sharp instruments for an hour as I lay under only a blanket and with an Orthodox-Jew fucksheet over my face.

Second anecdote: I was talking to friend and fellow Heeb Kate (Hi, Kate!), and she noted something in one of my photos of the clinic that had not even caused me to blink pre-surgery. The nurse (the one running from my Godzilla nose) is barefoot, which struck her as quite odd, perhaps unsanitary, unprofessional, potentially a clue that I shouldn't be getting a rhinoplasty from these shoeless freaks.

Well, I am happy to report that neither the doctor himself nor his operating assistant were barefoot. They were both wearing bathroom slippers. I am not making this up. The doctor's slippers were white and fuzzy (like bunny slippers, but without the bunny facial features (perhaps he chopped them off)) and the nurse was wearing pink fuzzy slippers. I'm just happy that, if the surgeon who was determining my appearance for the rest of my life couldn't wear work shoes, then at least his feet were warm.

I suppose also that this is one of those moments where I'm supposed to light a doobie, or pass the apple bong, or whatever, and remark on how much Asia has changed me, and how I'm just, like, so much more at peace and less worried and more relaxed and how Asian people just get in, man, they are, like, so spiritual and so at one with the eternal Buddhist being, maaaaan.

I'm not going to do that because I hate that and anyone who ever says anything like it.

(Programming note: I will be saying this while wisely and wistfully nodding my head at every cocktail party and  job interview for the next eight years).

And now, it is Day 3, and it is picture time!

Feeling great, everyone! I don't know what it is, but every first picture of the day I take, I look as thought I have just emerged from a five-car pileup. I would also like to take this space to assure everyone that my brains have not been eaten by zombies.

I think this picture pretty well shows the unevenness of my nostrils as they exist now. The left is far, far bigger than the right, and I will also add (stop reading, booger-squeamish) that there is a large dry clod of crud, or something, just at the tip of my left nostril, next to the septum, that, under normal circumstance, I would have picked (and eaten LOLOLOLOL) days ago; and yet I cannot now, because I am under strict orders not to put my fingers in my nose. As it was in Kindergarten, so it is now. Anyway, I am pretty sure most of it is dried blood (you may remember that my left nostril bled for the first six odd hours following the surgery), but my post-operative literature also states that it may be a stray suture or stitch. So, uh, I don't want to pick that. Yeah, I'm just gonna let it stay.

Some good lighting let's you see the current state of my black eyes. I am going to downgrade my condition from Mongoloid panda bear to the cartoon dog Marmaduke. (Physical therapists consider the Mongoloid-Marmaduke downgrade to be one of the most significant steps in the rehabilitation progress).

(Recently discovered photograph from Day 1)

This picture was taken not 20 minutes ago (yes, this entry is being typed shirtless, and yes, I will be appearing on the album cover for the next Vampire Weekend LP). As you can see, I just sort of look very tired (or else I was very tired when attempting to put mascara on). I expect that by tomorrow night I will be looking quite normal, and will no longer cause street vendors to furrow their eyebrows and ask me, "What is that?" (This actually happened).

So the worry stage should be over, right? I don't look like I'm in terrible, post-2012 pain anymore?

And to anticipate a question: My nose does not yet look like it will. It is still quite swollen around the eyes, and the nostrils are still certainly misshapen. But , especially above the moustache area, I can see the results. The moustache area below my nose, for example, was always obscured by the downward curve of my nasal tip: no more. My moustache is now on full display, which is great, because, really, growing a sweet, comprehensively viewable fu manchu was what this whole hypothetically-life-shattering nose job thing was all about in the first place.

Friday, March 19, 2010

THAI-NO-PLASTY 2010: Day 2 (Full Throttle)

Awaiting my awaking this morning was a missive from my mother, asking me if the swelling had gone down, and also asking for "more pics please!"

Well, I am happy to report that the swelling has indeed gone down. The soft blood pockets under my eyes are a little less full, the unicorn's horn is receding back into my skull. I still can't go out in public without terrifying children and dogs, but I am at least getting a glimpse of what I might look like when all of this puffiness subsides.

(Just kidding about scaring children and dogs: I have a foolproof disguise.

Just a normal, everyday dude! No major facial discoloration here!

Actually, now that the swelling has gone down, I have ditched the bloody flu mask in favor of a new look:

Also, before you ask, no, I don't know the directions to the homosexual rodeo.

Anyway, onto the pictures of the swelling/non-swelling:

Okay, after the last post, many of you, some of whom were my mother, and some of whom were not my mother, remarked that I looked miserable, and so that I must be in pain. Not true! Those of you who know my best know that I am capable of being miserable without pain as a justification. 

So I embarked to take a picture of myself looking happy, despite the bruises and disfiguration. This proved harder than it sounds.

This was my first attempt at what happy people call a "smile." I don't know much about this "smile"; supposedly in order to broadcast happiness, one can simply press their two rows of teeth together, as though biting an invisible Twizzler.

Also, my eyes look really pretty here.

I looked happier in my second photo, but unfortunately a bat flew in front of the flash. My eyes look pretty again.

In other news, this photo won me a role as the latently possessed villain in The Ring 4.

Anyone else think I look a little like an older Elizabeth Taylor here?

This is the closest I ever got to true happiness. Look at me, laughing, carrying on!

Also, if you are wondering why I am not wearing a shirt, then obviously you have never lived with me.

So, there is your day 2 update. Swelling and bruising are down, happiness and shirtlessness are up. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go run my fingers through my sweaty, greasy square-patch chest hair.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Thai-No-Plasty 2010: Picture Post!

Fair warning: this is going to get disgusting before it gets pleasant.

These are some before/after shots of my erstwhile nose and erstwhile face. My face is in...a weird way right now. Granted, it has always been in a weird way--but until now, I don't think you could ever describe me as looking like a raccoon with Down Syndrome.

To the photos!

Well, here's my nose on the day of the surgery. Contrary to what you might think, this picture was taken from 30 feet away with no zoom lens.

This is what I look like all the time. This face was last seen on television getting a cold-stricken Marge Simpson a free T-shirt at the Springfield mall.

Here is my doctor. Yeah, I can't believe he's named that, either! Just like the Grand Funk Railroad song!

This is a two-part series. First, the nurse sees my nose...

...GOJIRA!!!! GOJIRA!!!!

The clinic's store front. Basically they can rip your body up any way you please.

The surgery is finished and I'm lookin' goyisch! Hey, who wants potato skins!?

The doctor took the following multiple angle shots of my sneeze box (hat tip: Jon Weed)

Side view 1.

Side view 2. Again, one eye open, one eye closed. Why am I the way I am?

3/4 view.

Does anyone else think I look vaguely like the female doctor in Syndromes and a Century here? You know, in the scene when she is looking out the window pensively?

(It just struck me that that describes half of the movie.)

This is me in the operating room. This is also the last extant picture of my original nose. Look how happy we were together? Or was I happy because I was about to get rid of him? Because I knew that soon, he would be gone, forever? The sly grin of the murdered before the hack?

Now, I'm gonna warn you, what follows could be charitably described as freakshow shit. There are no pictures of the actual surgery; but my face is looking weird. How can I describe...remember the character Chunk from The Goonies? John Merrick in The Elephant Man? Gracie Hart from Miss Congeniality?

After the jump, post-op, in descending order of stomachability:

Me in the taxi (yes, I took a taxi home from my plastic surgery) immediately following the procedure.

Does anyone want to get in any jokes about how they can tell how much more handsome I look with the mask on? Anyone?

Moving on.

Side view, one hour out.

Full frontal, an hour out. When this picture was taken I was apparently watching some shocking Japanese pornography.

Speaking of shocking Japanese pornography...let's see how I looked this morning, about 16 hours out:

Someone has a new profile picture!

But wait a sec; if you thought that was appetizing, hold on to your kitten britches. I was given clearance to take off the bandages the morning after. And so I did. And then I took some more yummy in your tummy photos:

All right all right! Who wants to party, you guys! You bring the jamz, I'll bring the smilez!

Whoa, someone needs to stop drinking red bull in the morning, am I right??

Also, I appear to be sprouting a unicorn's horn. I think chicks will dig that. Or, at least, the prostitutes that I will now be forced to consort with.

I'm gonna go outside and frighten some children!

I Now Have A Good Idea What Happens to Nosy Fellas (Part 2)

How can I describe the procedure itself? It happened in darkness. All I have are the sounds, the intense pressure on my nose, imagined visions, hallucinations.

After all of the anesthesia had been (mercifully) injected, the doctor told me that if I felt any pain, I should tell him.

I wanted to say that, if I felt any pain from having my nose sliced open with a bone saw, I think he would know. Quiet fellow though I am, I promise I wouldn't be silent if I felt that.

I was kept blindfolded by means of a sort of green pad, similar in feel to those vests you wear when getting X-rays taken. Imagine that vest, but with a hole only big enough for your nose and cheeks to peek through--eyes covered, mouth covered.

That was laid over me. Close your eyes, don't move your hands. I could feel liquid--probably antiseptic, or anesthetic--dripping into my mouth. I felt a great amount of another liquid splash on my arm, and then around my cheeks. It seemed as though someone was cupping water in his hands from the sink and then trying to pour it on my nose without any slipping through the cracks of his fingers.

Then it started in earnest. I don't know what any of the tools looked like, nor do I know what the actual procedure involved. But the design was to rid me of the bumps near my bridge (as low as possible without my nose collapsing) and to give me more "projection" at the tip (less Jewy).

The bumps were first. The experience was harrowing. I can see why people would want to sleep through it. I could feel the pressure deep in my skull, but not whatever was actually happening on my nose. There was cutting occurring at the speed that mountain-men saw logs during the Outdoor Games--back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, so fast fast fast fast. I could sense through my closed eyelids that a bright light was shining on my face.

It wasn't painful. I could feel the force of being pushed down, but I wasn't in any pain. But what I was thinking, the whole time, was that I hoped to God that my anesthesia didn't wear off--and that if it did wear off, that I hoped I passed out from the pain quickly. Those intense, pressure-filled motions, so strong--and the sound, like mechanically sharpening a pencil--I wondered if I would pass out even without the pain. I hoped I would so much, at the beginning--just fall asleep, conk out, wake up an  hour later after the grinding.

I wondered, too, if I had died. It feels stupid to write, but I was thinking about it. After the grinding stopped, and the doctor backed away, and all was silent and I could feel nothing, I wondered if I were dead. The bright light, the motionlessness, the total lack of sensation. I was floating, until I felt an intense pressure in the back of my head, like when you dive underwater very deep very quickly, in the sinuses.

I hoped I would pass out some more.

The doctor came back and inserted something into both nostrils. The sensation reminded me of those contraptions, like retainers, they place into your mouth at the end of each dentist's visit, that are filled with a flavored gel of your choosing (I was a strawberry lad, but now I find it too sweet, and so I've switched to mint).

Here, there was no taste; only the feeling of something much, much too large being in my nose.

(Those of you who knew me when I had my previous nasal surgery might remember that, days after the operation, at my first post-op visit, dozens of large "slugs" of dried blood were removed from deep within my nasal recesses. This felt similar, except it was permanent, without the end-of-constipation relief that came with the removal of blood slugs).

I don't know what happened during this part of the surgery (Part 2). I remember my large voluminous nostrils, and the fear that there had been some misunderstanding with the surgeon, a communication gap, failure to translate, and that he had understood me as having asked for wider nostrils, and that I was going to end up looking like a dumb Jewish gorilla. I remember two cell phones (neither of them mine) went off inside the operating room during this point; one of the ringtones was Pachelbel's Canon, the other was K Pop.

I hoped to God that I fell asleep. The feeling wasn't so intense, only uncomfortable, and so I thought that I might be able to sleep, as I was tired. No such luck.

The doctor twice told me that the procedure was almost finished and I waited patiently. He kept checking something around the ridge of the left nostril with his fingers (I could feel this). He said it would be finished within five minutes. I wondered if this meant less than five minutes, or if he had just used the wrong preposition  and it was going to be at least five minutes.

I think it was less. He pulled out the voluminous nostril retainers, and my nose still felt huge. I was told to sit up, that the surgery was a "good job." They were able to "lop off" much bone, that bumps had "slowed down" and that my tip "is more projection." He asked if I wanted to look in a mirror, and then had second thoughts--there was a lot of swelling. I said I wanted to see one anyway.

I looked at the operating table. Several dentist-y looking metal tools, all very sharp and severe; shavings of what seemed like fingernails on a washcloth (this was surely nasal bone); the very, very bloody gloves of the surgeon.

A strip of toilet paper was held over my nose, pinched behind both ears, as I was led out into the waiting room, where three teenage girls collectively gasped. A curtain was pulled; I laid down on another table; the toilet paper was taken from me. A nurse cleaned my face and covered my nose with a long piece of gauze, stretching from the tip to between my eyebrows. Clear tape was placed horizontally up-and-down my nose, like stitches on a football. She gave me my survival kit--a bag of pills, to be taken twice a day, once "after breakfast," once "after evening"; a wax that was to be applied inside of my nostrils for two days, thrice a day; and a list of instructions and caveats, all in Thai.

"I have a friend that can read," I assured her.

The doctor wanted to see me. I was told "Moment ka," and the nurse left. I laid down. My nose was quite sore; I felt that I could sleep if I wanted to. I wondered how my face looked--not my nose, but my face: if it was bruised, if I had black eyes, scars. I had heard of black eyes and scars on botched nose rhinoplasties.

I hoped the surgeon was right. I hoped it was a good job.

Pain Update: 2 Hours Out

The anesthesia is wearing off.

My nose feels like this:

My eyes feel like this:

My cheeks feel like this:

And my nose has not stopped bleeding since the surgery was over. Is that supposed to happen? Can I go home now? Heckuva job, Brownie. Hey, I just walked outside to get dinner (that hurt, too) without realizing the surgical mask I have been given to wear has about five different patches of blood on it. So that was fun for the kids I saw.

If ever there were a time to be a heroin addict.

I Now Have A Good Idea What Happens to Nosy Fellas (Part 1)

I just returned from my Thai-No-Plasty 2010. This is going to be rather heavy on description and light on jokes, as I am applying to be a screenwriter for the next James Ivory film.


I woke up around 11:30 for a scheduled 3:00 NJ. I looked at my nose in the mirror a whole bunch during the morning. It was peeling slightly around the bridge from a sunburn I had gotten while at the beach (I had forgotten to apply my lifeguard's sun cream, obviously), and, in fact, appeared to be giving off a shine. I don't know how to interpret this shine. The spotlight on the star of the day? A Pulp Fiction-esque "Light of Meaning" emitting from my Mammoth Caves?

I don't know. I was committed at this point. I was blown off for lunch by an acquaintance--"Can we do 2:30?" "Er--no, I have to get plastic surgery."--which seemed a fitting coda to a bygone age of nasally-influenced relationships and friendships. Enter the NEW ME, with GOYIM NOSE, the super-model dating, GQ-posing, self-confidence having ME. I also expect to be good at basketball now, too.

I arrived at the clinic at 3:00. It was full of people--not even a seat for me (the clinic, if you would like to picture it, resembles a store-front barber shop, or Barber Shop--though, where the barber's chairs would be, there are two small rooms, with partitions (one walled-in room, one shower-curtained) to block their views from the people waiting in chairs). I paid my 40,000-odd Baht (when I pulled out my credit card, I was asked if I could pay in cash--oh, I'm sorry, actually I don't carry around absurd amounts of money with me wherever I go. Who am I, Mario Lopez?) and was asked to come back in one hour, when less people were getting sliced.

After a pineapple smoothie with Charles, I did return. The surgeon's assistants took some photographs from all angles, and then I asked the doctor take some photos from all angles with my camera, too (photos forthcoming). He took measurements of my nose with a steel ruler for the mold he wished to make. Then I signed a waiver form, written completely in Thai, which the doctor explained said I was not going to sue, and that I understood there were certain risks involved. I wrote my name, surname, the date, the words "reduction rhinoplasty," and then signed twice, once on the dotted line, once after my handwritten agreement that "I agree with the information above." I wrote that sentence with conviction, as though I could understand any words written on the contract besides "Name."

I was asked to wait outside for 15 minutes while the doctor made the mold of my nose. I listened to some sad music (The Antlers) to get me ready--I was tired and hoping that I could fall asleep during the procedure. Slim chances.

Otherwise all Thai people, a fat American woman around 50 came in and announced to everyone that she would like a doctor to look at the scars on her face. She wanted some advice about the scars on her face. Can someone get this fat American woman some advice about her face scars? She was led to the back. I waited some more.

Was I nervous? I don't know. It all seemed foregone at that point, like waiting for the dentist. I suppose I was emboldened by the number of people in the clinic--the reputation of the place. It seemed not so much a matter of whether he would do a good job, but rather, how much it would hurt.

Well, it hurt a lot. Initially, at least. I was laid down on a surgical table too short for me--I had to bend my legs to the side to keep them from stretching out into the reception area. My face was cleaned for surgery; a blanket was laid over me; I was told to keep my hands at my side and my eyes closed at all times.

"Close your eyes please."

 The local anesthetic was applied. Little did I know that the application of the local anesthetic involved about 15 needle injections into various nooks and crannies on and inside of my nose. I involuntary cried. I don't know if it was better or worse that my eyes were closed the entire time so that I could not even see when another injection was coming. But, nevertheless, it hurt more than you might expect 15 shots inside of your nose might hurt. Or just the same, I don't know.

"Did it pain?" the doctor asked me when he was finished.

"It hurt a little bit," I said.

He laughed.

"I think it hurts a lot."

He was right.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Drive with a Dead Girl

While I'm here, I will also share one of those "Only in Thailand!" oh-so-crazy anecdotes. Thai people are different than American people! Here's how:

At lunch today, I skateboarded (hey, I can still do that!) down to a little hole-in-the-wall I frequent. It's about the size of a one car garage, with a stove-top and counter in front and a couple rows of tables and stools stretching to the back wall. It is quiet narrow quarters--there is perhaps a total of 10 tables, all of which can seat 2 people, or 8 Thai people.

Now, I ordered my meal, and was pleased to see that I was the only person eating. Fast service, you guys! This guy isn't waiting 7 minutes to get his dish today! I was not so pleased to see that I was not, in fact, the only person in the restaurant, as I was joined by what appeared to be a woman's corpse.

Let me explain. Usually, when I eat here, I am not surrounded by dead bodies, or even one dead body. In fact, I would wager that I see an equal number of dead bodies here as I did in America, which is to say, I'm not exactly knee-deep in dead bodies over here.

But at lunch today, in this one-car garage of a mess hall, stretched out in between the two rows of tables was a makeshift cot, rising about one foot off the ground. That's fine; most restaurant owners here also sleep on the premises...usually not in the actual dining area, but regardless--hey, this is Thailand! It's different from America!

Now, on this cot, covered from toe to neck in three or four heavy blankets, was an old woman. It is 100 degrees outside, and there is no reason for her to need so many heavy blankets. Even one heavy blanket would be pushing it in this weather. I generally sleep under little more than a beach towel, and I sleep in an apartment and not in an open-air restaurant where people are trying to eat.

So, she was sleeping, right? Fine. Right next to me. I'll try not to spill chili sauce on your face. But then there was also this little boy in the restaurant. Let's say he is 7 years old. He was there, I suppose, to attend to this old woman. Here is the attending to that I saw:

The little boy poked the old woman in the shoulder several times.
The old woman did not move or make a sound.
The little boy got a damp wash-cloth from the sink and placed it over the old woman's face.
The old woman did not move or make a sound for the twenty minutes that I was in the restaurant.
I have the plague now.

I have seen some pretty, pretty weird things at restaurants. Once, at Bennigan's, a kid was having a birthday dinner at the table across from us--and wouldn't you know it, but the ENTIRE WAIT STAFF knew it was his birthday, and they had choreographed a song and dance for him. Pretty, pretty weird, you know?

But I have to say that eating garlic pork on rice next to a potentially dead or dying woman would have to top even that experience in terms of strange meals. Because, from my vantage point, looking down at my plate, if I were to glance over even one centimeter, I would see an unmoving wash-cloth covered human head emerging from a thick pile of blankets.

Note to self: If you ever open a restaurant, don't line the aisles with rotting corpses.

Thai-No-Plasty 2010: Nose Holes Barred

I know that you are all ravenous for more information regarding the nose job that will certainly ruin my life and happiness and self-perception and the lives and happiness and self-perception of all of those that know and love me the way I am.

So here is a brief, albeit juicy, update. This one is full of nose juice, people.

I have been emailing with the doctor--whose name shows up in my Gmail as "hung hung"--about the possibilities for the procedure.  He claims that it is a just a small operation, and that I will be able to take myself home following the surgery:

"no need to take someone with you
  and no need to rest but if you want to rest ,you can rest at the clinic before you leave."

You see, my friends? This is a reputable establishment. It's not one of those hospitals that kicks you out to the curb after the operation is done and the money is collected. If I need to rest, I can rest at the clinic before I leave! No post-op rehabilitation in the gutter outside of the clinic for this guy! We're going high-class! I've got a brand new Benz that I ain't even drove yet!

Also, Dr. hung hung suggested a date for the operation:

 "How about on Friday 12nd March"

Hmm, I don't know...what about Saturday 13st April? Actually,  Decembruary works better for me...are you free on the 82th?

Look. Some of you might be worried about my getting irreversible, potentially lethal surgery from the narrator of Gogol's Diary of a Madman. (Actually, I'm willing to bet that none of you were thinking that at all, because most of you who read this have loved ones and/or friends with whom you interact instead of reading 19st century Russian literature for comedic inspiration). 

But really, you shouldn't judge a man based on his grasp of English grammar; surgery, after all, is a universal language. The outcome of the operation is not dependent on my doctor's ability to eloquently avoid split infinitives. It is based on his ability to provide me with a limited amount of local anesthesia and meticulously grind away at my nasal and sinusoid cartilage and bone with a miniature bone-saw, while keeping the blood out of my eyes, which will be open the entire time.

I think everyone can agree that this has nothing to do with English grammar. Everyone, that is, except Dr. Hung Hung, who can't understand that sentence.