I’m sick, dude. As you may remember, I tweaked my back some time ago.
“When was that?”
Oh, I don’t know, about a weak back. Damn, that’s funny.
Anyways, it’s slowly healing and I’ve been taking proper precautions as to not obliterate it again. As someone who likes to stand, walk and handle a fork without assistance, I’m doing what I can to make sure I maintain that sort of lavish lifestyle.
However, I’m no Superman (insert your own Christopher Reeve joke here). In fact, I’m a bit of a crybaby. When the Missus has a migraine or the cat has a kidney stone, you don’t hear them blubbering (well, the cat screams like hell, but that’s understandable). Yet, put me in the slightest amount of discomfort, and I transform into the exact handicapped loser I’m trying to avoid. Pretending not to be hurt was never one of my strong points; I’m bawling in every photo of me that hasn’t been posted on this page.
The reason I bring this up is because I’ve been benched all week with some sort of mystery illness. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not helping my back any and I feel even more worthless than normal. If you’re in the mood for an armchair diagnosis, here are my symptoms:
1. My throat’s closed up, I can’t breathe very well, and my voice is completely shot. I sound like I’m talking through one of those electric-box things they give to folks with lung cancer. Always making the most of a bad situation, I’ve been working hard on taking my Mr. T impression to the next level. I’ve also started a Death Metal band that I’m fronting called GoreRock. My growls are top-notch, and with said illness, I can vomit at will on stage.
2. Every morning without fail, I feel like I’ve been punched awake. I ache all day, almost as if I got up in the middle of the night and unconsciously participated in a Golden Gloves tournament.
As a side note, wouldn’t that be cool? I’d just wake up in the morning with a trophy on my table. In the sports section, there would be a photo of me in the ring with my pajamas bottoms on. This is very funny to me for some reason; specifically if I won my matches.
3. Every time I blink, I crap my pants.
I’m sure it’s just a bug going around (I have been making out with more strangers lately), but I’m concerned because I’m officiating a wedding this weekend. This is supposed to be the best day of the happy couple’s lives; they don’t need me up there, high on cough medicine and gurgling like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. I also don’t want my sexy Reverend outfit to go to waste. It’s all held together with velcro, so I can use it to strip during the bachelorette party the night before. It’s all very sacrilegious. Or sacri-licious, depending on your views.
Song of choice? It’s Raining Men.
Another thing that greatly hinders recovery is my refusal to take medication. I try to avoid anything that alters my body’s natural ability to heal itself, besides all the liquor and cheap Afghani heroin. I hate trying to function when I’m jacked-up on meds, so I decided a long time ago that feeling sick was far better than feeling loopy. Sick I can handle. Sick is real. Loopy is not real and it allows you to pretend your not sick. I’ve never been a fan of fiction, buddy.
By the way, feel free to work the term “Afghani heroin” into your day-to-day conversations. The above paragraph existed solely to use that in a sentence.
As I mentioned before, me and the Missus will be heading back to our hometown this weekend for my uncle and future aunt’s wedding. From what I can gather, they really liked the ceremony script I sent them, which made me exceedingly happy. I had never written a wedding service before, so I was mapping a lot of uncharted territory. Now, all I have to do is read it aloud without passing out or ‘yodeling groceries.’
You can steal ‘yodeling groceries,’ too. I know you’re going to anyways.
The next time we talk, I’ll have my first wedding ceremony under my belt. I’ll share pictures and tell you all about it, like a family. Sound off in the comments section and tell me to drink plenty of fluids.