It’s a LUMbar…not a FUNbar!

Posted: September 16, 2009 in pain and suffering


I have not a fucking clue what I mean by that title.

Let’s just throw that out there first.

K.

On the bright and shiny day of August 29th, 2009…

The VERY day I turned the ripe old age of 41…

****** SIDEBAR ******

What do they mean by ‘ripe old age?’

Will hot moms squeeze me in the grocery store?

Does this mean I’m finally edible?

If so, can someone try to convince my wife that I’m okay to eat (begging is SO 1992)…

…and/or meet me at Motel 6 around 5:30 pm?

I’ll be the guy in the Elmo outfit.

****** END SIDEBAR ******


Fuck.

Where was I?

Oh…my birthday.

Yeah..so the day I turned 41, I woke up with the worst back pain I’ve had in years.

It was that LOW back pain…just above my perfectly round, firm ass with just the hint of hair to let you know that it belongs to a guy (or Ellen Degeneres).


I couldn’t get up.

I couldn’t bend over.

(Well…Fuck. There goes my raise at work.)

I felt like I was dying.

My wife, thankfully…was as supportive as ever.

Wife: “HAHA! That’s what you get for turning 41.”

We’re a happy people.

Kill me.


The only thing I could think of that would have caused this, was my insistence on going fighting at karate the night before.

Yeah…I’m back fighting.

Although, this time I managed to not get my finger broken in 325 different places with plates and pins and hinges and bionic parts and shit.

Instead…

I come home with shit like this:


Hurts so good.

Wait…

Hurts so good?

Did John Cougar Mellancamp pay dominatrixes to attach clothespins to his nipples weekly?

Discuss.


What really sucks about this is the fact that I’m a giant pussy and like to complain when I don’t feel good.

But I can’t complain about this.

Wife: “You’re going sparring? You said you weren’t fighting anymore.”

Me: “I’ll be fine. It’s fun. That was a freak accident.”

Then I go.

(insert scene of unimaginable violence)

I go and I get the shit kicked out of me and come home with cuts and a bloody lip and bruises and have to hide it like I used to when I worked in South Boston and visited transexual hookers who I paid extra to put me in diapers and beat me with wooden paddles printed with the words “I Voted in a Democratic Congress.”

Perhaps I’ve said too much.


So…my back is fucking killing me and has now for five days.

But I can’t say:

Me: “Oh…man…I think I either twisted it during sparring…or it may have been one of the 43 kicks to my kidneys that did it.”

Because I’ll get…

This:

Wife: “I TOLD YOU SO. You have no right to complain. You’re too old for that.”

Wow.

Maybe that actually made it better.

I feel bent over already.

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