I sit here a crumpled mess, repositioning myself every five-to-eight seconds because nothing is comfortable. I’m smoking my girlfriend’s cigarettes and I’m in a tremendous amount of pain...not just because said smokes are ultra-light, but because I hurt myself in our year-end softball tournament this past weekend. There is a mysterious and excruciating pain in my left, non-throwing shoulder, and then there is the hamstring, the muscle in back of my right thigh that feels as though someone is cramming a ball-peen hammer into my tender, though hairy, flesh.
I’m completely befuddled as to the former, but an incident from a couple of weeks back explains away the latter: I managed to spank myself in the ass with the bat on the tail-end of a particularly hellacious swing, dropping me like a stone to the delight of one & all...and while I caught the brunt of the bludgeoning on the fleshy part of my right ass-cheek, there was a little twinge, just a pittance of pain, down in the hamstring muscle. Like an earthquake cracking the concrete of a metropolitan community, this "little twinge" gave my hamstring the perfect opportunity to yank itself into a knot during my first at-bat on Saturday, causing all physiological, right-leg-traffic to stop at approximately 8:40am.
Still, adding to my lifelong ledger of legendary performances, I mashed 5 homeruns in 4 games, 80% of which were one-legged...this should come as no surprise because, as most of you know at this point, I am a hero; it’s just too bad that my decrepit, 31-year-old muscles aren’t nearly as heroic.
Also too bad is the unfathomably un-heroic bitching & moaning that my friends & family will have to endure for the next week or so, sighing in deep irritation as I laud myself further for my incredible on-field exploits and courageousatory heroicitude.
Pity them.
An Elicitous Ending
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