Folks, there’s something wrong with me.
(Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Look, you’d think you peanut gallery types could sit just one of these out, couldn’t you? Is nothing ‘too easy’? Damn.)
Anyway, what I meant was, there’s something physically wrong with me. With my leg, in particular.
Now, I know — this must be shocking news for many of you. I mean, think about it — a computer programmer by day, who spends his evenings either sitting on his ass typing away or hanging around in bars with standup comics. How could he not be the very picture of good health? And hygeine? And mental stability, for that matter?
Well, I don’t know, frankly. But somehow, my left leg hasn’t gotten the message, and now I’ve got to have it looked at. Not by just anyone, either — as it turns out, my friends and co-workers are about as helpful and unsnarky as you lot. So, if I asked some random person I’m hanging out with to look at my leg, I’d probably get a diagnosis something like:
‘Yep… it’s a leg, all right. And hey, look over there — you’ve got another one, too! Congratulations, you’re a biped. Moron.‘
Kids can be so cruel. So, to avoid that mess, I’m going later this week to see a professional.
(Um, that’s ‘health care professional’, by the way. Don’t get any ideas otherwise, of the ‘slap it up, flip it, rub it down’ variety. Because honestly — if I were to ever start going to that sort of ‘professional’, I sure as hell wouldn’t do it now. I’ve already hurt my leg; that’s not going to make it any better, people.
And I’d probably hurt the other one, somehow, or cut my head, or get rug burn on my nipples. People get a little crazier having sex with hookers, from what I gather. I can understand that; it works the same way at Avis, right? It’s a rental.)
Anyway, hopefully it’s nothing serious. Or, if it is, then hopefully it’s at least something interesting and serious. Like scurvy, maybe. Or gremlins. Anything but cooties, really, I think I could take. I caught those things in first grade, apparently, and it was years before I could get rid of them. Or so the girls told me. Wow, kids really can be cruel, eh?
Meanwhile, I’m learning a little bit about what being old and decrepit is like. Well, older and decrepiter, I suppose. Which is nice, because with my lifestyle, I’m not so likely to actually make it long enough to experience it for real. So, this is good — I groan and cry every time I sit down or stand up. It takes me three minutes to get into the damned car. I’m thinking of peeing my pants every once in a while, or telling kids to get the hell off ofmy lawn, just to have the full experience. Or maybe I’ll pee on the kids; hell, that ought to keep the snotly little whippersnappers away from my property. Worked on me growing up, that’s for sure. Old man Johnson sure was a hard-ass. Liked his asparagus, too, apparently.
Okay, that’s probably enough for now. I’ve got shit to do, which is going to involve getting up, so I’d better start that process now. My wife offered to buy me a cane — but not in that ‘honey, I love you, and I’m concerned about your well-being‘ way. More in a ‘you’re a whining douchebag, and I should probably make fun of you now, when you can’t catch me‘ sort of way. So, I hope the doctor fixes me, because she’s right. And until I can run her down to give her noogies, the shitstorm of teasing isn’t gonna stop. Man, this is worse than when I had cooties.Permalink | 7 Comments