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Mr. Wrong

Misery is Back

I totally got the Misery in My Back, man, the other day, I was just minding my own business finishing up my morning ablutions and I just kinda turned one way with the towel I was drying off with while my brain was thinking about going a different way and YEEARRRGHHH! Ow, man, ow ow ow ow oww. . .

So now when I am not hunched over or lying flat on my belly on a cool, cool floor, I am a stack of spiky vertebrae, a bone Jenga-game mated with a rusted, un-slinked Slinky, and in order to walk all upright and erect as is my obligation as an H. sapiens, I must carefully and deliberately by force of will gradually and with no surprises stack my spine so as to rise into a vertical state from the safety and relative comfort of the hooked-over question-mark kinda shape I have assumed since I pulled my whatsis and collapsed into a posture protecting the Lower Lumbar Region, where part of my own fucking body has decided to exert itself and get all the attention; a disc of spinal stuff, a traitorous jelly bag that has decided to bulge and/or protrude, and in doing so impinge itself upon my Sciatic Nerve. Ow ow owowowowow. I gotta relax, though, because if you tense up it gets worse.

Seriously, a lot of this is mental. The spine is directly wired into the brain, man. I may be partially crippled right now by an infringing lumbar, but I know if you try and tense up when you have a Lower Back issue, you end up cutting off the blood supply down there and interrupting the Healing Process. I know, whatever, I have to Believe in something, OK? I mean, I don’t have my Obamacare card yet, but I don’t need to go to a so-called Doctor and wait around to be told I messed up my back but it’s too soon to take an X-ray or an ultramagnetic and I should take it easy, knock back a fistful of ibuprofens or whatever and maybe I could afford to lose a few pounds, you know? I like potato chips.

Meanwhile, to distract me from my pain, there is a giant Powerball-lottery prize this week, it’s like 400 million bucks, and I know it’s the Fool’s Tax and all that, but somebody has to win, eventually, so the winner is not the Fool, that time, and it can’t always be some retired lady who’s probably got one foot on a banana peel already, right? No offense, but why can’t it be an unretired person this time, a working stiff, so to speak, who maybe threw out his fucking back doing nothing? I’m ready to win the Powerball. I have bankrupted myself of the Imaginary Winnings of Powerball so many times that I will be completely prepared if I ever win for reals, you’ll see, I will be ready with a sound fiscal policy. For instance, there will be no lending of money or otherwise investing in your Business Idea to make money because I am Powerballz Millionaire! What do I need with risking all my hard-earned lottery winnings on you and your fakakta Get Rich Quick scheme? You wanna get rich, buy a Powerball like me, and then relax, it’s good for your back.

So, sure, I have all this Powerball money, maybe (if I win) but I’m just like everybody else, I put my pants on one leg at a time, just like you, goddammit, until I get The Misery in my back, and then I have to put my pants on in a gradual process involving two legs at a time lying down on the floor, keeping my legs even, otherwise my misaligned back bones will electrocute me with Nerve Pain, so now I got the pants ready for entry, down on the floor, and I got my feet into ’em, but I can’t grab the waist of the pants because that would involve bending from my own waist, so I’m flat on my back, gradually skoonching along the floor, bit by bit, trying not to move the pants-hole away from me, sneaking into my trousers and moaning. Because I forgot to put on my underpants. Arrghhh. Now I have to reverse-skoonch without getting any slivers. Ouch.

This week, when I win this Powerball and I still have The Misery in my back, I will hire a team of engineers to fabricate a device so I can, in my debilitated but highly wealthy state, deliver my legs into my pants in an efficient fashion, spinewise. No socks or laceup shoes until I can bend from the waist in a standing position without collapsing into a puddle of pain. Really just no shoes either, man, I’m going flip-flops until I can bend my neck enough to look down at my shoes without seeing lightning bolts. Ow. I can’t even fucking cough or sneeze hard, man, for fear I will disturb the precarious balance of spine and discs and nerves, but if I have to stifle another sneeze I think I might pop out an eardrum. Maybe I should go to a doctor though, and get some of those “muscle relaxers”? Do they still have those? I’m not well! Look, if you are a Doctor reading this, please to mail me some pills, OK? I am a Future Powerballs Millionaire, man, c’mon, you gotta have some testers lying around your surgery, just a few goofballs to get me over the hump in my back, I won’t tell anybody.

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