Bless her little heart
I just looked at my X-rays, and when my doctor gets the results from the radiologist, I’m going to be so fucked. In fact, I’m going to be so fucked that Tom d G is going to have to push me around in a wheelchair.
That’s it – I’m going to keep weight off of my foot – starting now.
I realize that I’m not going to be able to do this alone. That’s why I’m grateful to have the help of my good buddy, Jimmy Beam. He packs a lot of love inside that pint size bottle of his. And he travels real nice inside the front pocket of my backpack.
A good thing about being on crutches is how nice complete strangers treat me. They open doors, get out of the way when I walk by, and driving that little scooter at the grocery store is so sweet. I prefer the ones with a tall orange flag and horn because you show people who’s in charge real fast.
I almost got into a fight with a group of thugs tonight, though. They were walking out of the gas station in front of me, and the last one just let the door slam.
“Thanks for the help, Boyz II Men,” I said.
“What the fuck you say, mutha fucka?” one of them responded.
At this moment, I was prepared for either (a) an ass-whooping, or (b) a self-defense move using my crutches as a weapon of mass destruction.
Fortunately (for them), a big Harley-looking dude walked up to intervene. He saw what went down, and when he gave them a look, they walked away.Â
But I know they went home feeling lucky I hadn’t turned their asses into a boy band piñata.
No offense, Doug Wetback.
In my mind and in my car, we can’t rewind we’ve gone to far.
Conceal Carry.