Original humor & comedy articles daily weblog

Walk It Off, Doofus

Apologies to anyone who tried to leave a comment over the weekend. A wee little technical problem — fixed now, I’m happy to say — kept all of the programs on the server from working. Including the posting scripts, which is why the ‘Weekend Werind‘ was also rather conspicuously absent. But all the hamsters have been properly fed now, and the duct tape doubled up on the corners of the server box, so we should be good to go again.

“I either need to stop turning around, or find body parts less likely to hold long grudges.”

Just don’t shake the screen too hard. We’re not exactly working with Deep Thought here, after all. It’s a fragile system.

Speaking of ‘fragile’, I had a semantics discussion earlier today with my wife. Or tried to, anyway. As usual, she cut through the language difficulties to tickle the crux of the matter directly. Here’s how it went down:

I’ve been having some troubles with my foot recently. A trip to the doc and a couple of meds cleared that up nicely, but this ailment is just the latest in a long line of recent ouchies, hurts and boo-boos needing kissing. It seems like every time I turn around, my back or neck or arm or one of my toes objects to the activity and gives me grief for a few days. I either need to stop turning around, or find body parts less likely to hold long grudges. In the meantime, I’m stuck with my aches and pains, it seems.

Still, I don’t let that sort of thing stop me. I’ve got a full schedule of softball and volleyball and billiards leagues scheduled — the modern trifecta of ‘fat old man sports’ — and a bad wheel or wonky wing isn’t going to keep me away from my appointed dates with aging mediocrity. It was this distinction, the propensity for more nagging injuries as I careen over the hill versus not missing the very activities that are causing said sprains and strains, that I tried discussing with my wife.

With the usual results.

When I mentioned to her my latest minor malady — a right knee that doesn’t bend painlessly, since Sunday afternoon — she offered a ‘helpful’ observation:

“Wow. You’re really getting frail in your old age, aren’t you?”

Point, her. That’s my little sweetie muffin, all right.

But I had a question. Did she actually use the right term there? Is it fair to call me frail, if I’m not (yet) slowed down by most of my self-afflicted injuries? I called for a semantic point of order:

“Now hold on. Am I ‘frail’, or ‘fragile’? I yoink something or other all the time, but I keep playing. Which one is that called, ‘frail’? Or ‘fragile’?”

“I think that one’s just called ‘stupid’.”

My girl, she was never much one for semantics.

So now I’ve got a brand new ailment to worry about. I’m not sure how well I can play 8-ball tomorrow with a badly bruised ego, but I’m prepared to give it a shot. Can somebody just point me in the right direction of where to put the ice pack tonight? I should really try to keep the swelling down on this thing.