Good grief
Oh, yes, I forgot the original reason I came here to blog.
With apologies to Hengst's shirt, I think I am the keeper of Charlie Brown's legacy.
To wit: Less than 24 hours before the Spurs play the most dramatic game in franchise history, one that could unleash a celebration of epic proportions, worthy of many, many fishbowl margaritas, humble Mr. Wright was toiling at his computer, just trying to make them artistic ends. My patrons in the Netherlands were getting antsy because I hadn't delivered the pumpkins yet, so I was engaged in a two-hour battle trying to get huge TIF files on the Internets. Flustered and tired, I went to wash my face.
I turned on the water, leaned over the sink, and nearly splashed scalding hot water on my face. I recoiled, awkwardly, with my head bobbing like one of those drinking bird things. And then I felt it: an odd sensation at the base of my spine, a tweak, weakness in my legs and then the sharp, searing pain — coupled with rage.
I threw my back out. Washing my face. The night before Spurs game 7. You've got to be fucking kidding me. I felt like that guy from Aliens, who makes a cameo in Spaceballs, in which an alien pops out of his stomach. He, defeated, says calmly, "Oh, no. Not again."
After trying to sleep it off, I could limp around the house this morning. But driving to work, putting pressure on the clutch, sent a needle of agony up my back from my waist to my shoulder.
How the hell am I supposed to get to San Antonio tonight? Pain killers, I guess. But, Dios mio, I'll be there, bringing the River Walk my own lovable loser lasagna.
Go Spurs Go!
With apologies to Hengst's shirt, I think I am the keeper of Charlie Brown's legacy.
To wit: Less than 24 hours before the Spurs play the most dramatic game in franchise history, one that could unleash a celebration of epic proportions, worthy of many, many fishbowl margaritas, humble Mr. Wright was toiling at his computer, just trying to make them artistic ends. My patrons in the Netherlands were getting antsy because I hadn't delivered the pumpkins yet, so I was engaged in a two-hour battle trying to get huge TIF files on the Internets. Flustered and tired, I went to wash my face.
I turned on the water, leaned over the sink, and nearly splashed scalding hot water on my face. I recoiled, awkwardly, with my head bobbing like one of those drinking bird things. And then I felt it: an odd sensation at the base of my spine, a tweak, weakness in my legs and then the sharp, searing pain — coupled with rage.
I threw my back out. Washing my face. The night before Spurs game 7. You've got to be fucking kidding me. I felt like that guy from Aliens, who makes a cameo in Spaceballs, in which an alien pops out of his stomach. He, defeated, says calmly, "Oh, no. Not again."
After trying to sleep it off, I could limp around the house this morning. But driving to work, putting pressure on the clutch, sent a needle of agony up my back from my waist to my shoulder.
How the hell am I supposed to get to San Antonio tonight? Pain killers, I guess. But, Dios mio, I'll be there, bringing the River Walk my own lovable loser lasagna.
Go Spurs Go!
posted by Matt at 9:13 AM
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