MY BACK IS KILLING ME.

Just had to get that out. Here’s the situation- I have had a couple of operations on my back because it seems that my discs are all jacked up, or in medical terms “fucking falling apart”. Once every month or two, I throw it out of whack by doing something extreme like sneezing, walking up stairs, or reaching for the phone. Once my back is out of whack, or “sans whack”, I am in for anywhere from 4 days to two weeks of nonstop pain. I can sleep sometimes, and it ranges from a dull ache to searing, gut boiling agony. Unfortunately, the only pain relief I can find is by prescription, and the doc seems to be a bit of a wiener when it comes to this issue. It’s not like I come in all shaky and pale, begging for a fix. I am in pain, and I need some relief so I can continue to live and work. I want enough to last me for a week. I haven’t taken any sort of controlled substance in over six months, and I have a legitimate and real use for it right about now. Isn’t that what they are for?

He acts like I am trying to take him for a ride or something. Keep in mind that this is the dude who has operated on my back. Twice. He writes me a prescription for Ibuprofen and tells me to take the rest of the week off work. First of all, I can’t just take a week off work. Second, giving me Ibuprofen for this shit is like telling me to have mommy kiss it better and put a band-aid on it, asswad. So there is one prescription for ibuprofen in the garbage can, and my back is spazzing like it is going out of style.

I’m looking for a new doctor. I’m also pissed off at the drug abusers who have caused doctors to be so weird about prescribing pain medication to patients who need it, because right now I would trade my soul for one day without pain and four hours of sleep.

This isn’t meant to be a depressing entry, but hurting will wear on your humor glands.

Okay, I guess I can try.

I’ll let you in on a little correspondence I had with Rob Krueger. Who is Rob Krueger? ONLY THE ROCK PAPER SCISSORS CHAMPION OF THE WORLD, AND MY NEMESIS IN THE QUEST FOR A TITLE OF MY OWN. He is on a photo shoot for the Wheaties box at the moment, but we have been going round and round on this.

I called to congratulate him yesterday, and he seems to be getting a little big for his britches.

Me- Whaddup, champo? Congrats on the win, even though you cheated like hell.

Rob- Well, howdy, loser.

Me- Enjoy it, hack. It’ll be mine next year.

Rob- You can’t handle the heat I would bring with my new crew.

Me- you have a crew? Wha…?

Rob- Yes, captain wannabe, The Order of the Red Fist will destroy you!

Me- Oh yeah? Well, I have a crew of my own, and our name is even more suggestive than yours! Next year you and your pathetic chums will crumble under the might of the 8th Sect of the Sacred Bloodfart! The answer to (and spawn of) your red fist! Just when you think you’ve won, I’ll rock your world, bitch, and if you are rock, I’ll paper your world. Oh, wait. You’re paper, you say? WELL GUESS WHO’S SCISSOR-ing your world, MUPHUCKA’!! See, there is no way out for you, even if I totally messed up that last threat!

Rob- Glad to see you finally understand the formula, genius. Bloodfart? I think you made that up. Plus, your transitions are soooo predictable. Don’t you realize that you blink before you go into a paper, and you sniff when you go rock. Little ticks like that are the difference between amateurs and champions. Don’t even get me started on your stupid little “try to change from rock to scissors at the last second” trick that you think is so original. I was doing that before I was even sponsored.

Me- I’m working on all of that. WITH A TEAM OF TRAINERS. AND A DIET.

All I know is that you’re going down, mister, and I’m going to laugh as you tearfully hand over your cape and scepter to the true chosen one. Green makes your butt look big, by the way.

Rob- Listen, man, I think your imaginary club is cute and all, but I gotta’ go. There are a dozen or so hot little RPS groupies knocking on my dressing room door.

Now hopefully you all understand why this guy burns me up. I must win that contest next year.

My back still sucks. Laughter is not the best medicine. I laughed, and it hurt. Therefore, laughter is poison.

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