Bang, meet Buck.
Let me explain.
Back in March, I broke my goddamn hand in sparring class while basically playing Karate Kid.
Well…less ‘Karate Kid,’ and more ‘Stupid Fucking Broken Hand Guy.’
I hate that guy.
Actually…either one of them.
I hate both of them equally.
Although the hate of the Karate Kid is more for making me wait until years later to see Elisabeth Shue naked.
It was 1984.
I was 16 and really could have done a lot with that back then.
I believe I’ve digressed.
…and spending four long weeks in a cast without getting air or water on it…
…my hand looked like this:
It didn’t look THAT bad.
My hand looked like this:
Makes you want to suck on my fingers, doesn’t it.
Like you don’t want to.
Now, though, my hand looks like this:
However, life has not been all lesbian porn scenes and free quaaludes since the removal of my cast.
Okay. I’m back.
…I have to go to therapy.
Not the therapy that I probably really need.
(Choose one of several valid therapy options here)
The most often-asked question I get is this one:
“Is your therapist hot?”
No, my therapist is not hot.
My therapist is the opposite of hot.
My therapist would be the result of an accidental comingling of Susan Sarandon and Sarah Jessica Parker’s DNA as it landed on top of Renee Zellwegger’s egg which then fell into a vat of Bryan Adam’s sperm.
I made myself throw up a little.
Not fucking hot, thankyouverymuch.
On the bright side, though, thanks to physical therapy:
1) I’m out about $150 in insurance copays at $15 for every goddamn session.
2) I can now bend my pinky finger about 90 degrees and it only hurts like the gates of Hell have opened up and Satan himself is stabbing at my knuckles with his pitchfork. AAAHHH…AAAH IT KILLS!!!
Yeah, this is worth it.