I know you don’t really visit this site so you can read about my back and how it hurts, and all that crap. I know you come for entertaining stories and because you’re still hoping that I’ll eventually post some nude pictures of myself so that you can ruin my chances at a future in politics.
But I’ve got to tell you about my back again, mostly to justify my lack of posts. To tell you the truth, I’m in pain as I type this. Not horrible, I-have-a-shard-of-rusty-metal-stuck- in-my-left-testicle pain, but still pretty painful. The whiskey doesn’t alleviate it, just sort of dulls it to a low rumble of hurt that growls constantly in my lower back.
I actually considered buying one of those ergonomic, kneeling chairs you sometimes see.
See the short-haired lesbian sitting on that chair? Looks like that chair is doing her back all kinds of good, doesn’t it? It also looks like she’s pissed about her lack of back pain. Or maybe she’s pissed about something else, entirely. If there was a police commissioner’s desk in front of her, I would be expecting her to slam down her badge and her gun at any moment and tell the chief that she doesn’t play by anyone’s rules, and she’ll be damned if she lets the crooked politicians get away with this shit this time.
But there’s not a desk, so I can only assume she’s mad about her sexuality. I mean, if you’re a chick, that’s like a get-out-of-jail-free card. You get to see tits, and use them to get stuff, and on top of that, you don’t have to put up with all the emotional, neurotic, lunatic bullshit of dating a chick. Unless, of course, you’re a lesbian. I see why she’s mad.
I used to think that being a lesbian would be the best thing ever. Twice the boobies, twice the vagina, and twice the smell-good softness that is woman. Your girlfriend’s out of town? No sweat, man—you’ve got all the assets to make it through the weekend.
On the other hand, I thought that gay men were the most pathetic creatures in the world. Guys are hairy, they’re sweaty, they’re gross. I ever had to kiss someone with a mustache, I would probably throw up. Or like, if I was running my hand up a thigh, and there’s all kinds of grody leg hair? Disgusting.
That’s how I used to think. Now, I think that being a lesbian would be worse. Because not only do you not get to pull your neurotic chick-shit, but you now also have to contend with the other person in the relationship doing it.
Like you want to cry because you’re on your period and the kitchen is messy? Too bad, lady—your lifemate’s already in there bawling because the milk expired yesterday. You need someone to open the door for you or pay for your meal? So does she. You go to scream about irrational nonsense, it’s already being done. You try to use guilt as a weapon, tool, and credit card, but you suddenly realize that you’re the one who has to pay.
On the other hand, all gay guys have to do is suck a little dick now and then. In return, they get to hang out with the guys…forever.
But back on task:
I think it would be nice to look as comfortable as the lesbian on the kneeling chair does. That’s something I would definitely be giving up if I went gay—sitting comfortably. Suddenly, you’re dealing with not only back pain and lower back pain, but lower, lower back pain.
Of course, I think it would be nice to look as manly as the lesbian, too, but we don’t always get what we wish for.
In the end, I settled for some Icy Hot and Advil.
The Icy Hot felt nice for a second, then felt distressingly like a chemical burn, then felt nice again. The Advil did jack shit.
And that’s about as far as I can get, because I really have to get out of this chair now. The point of this post, summed up: sorry I haven’t been posting, but my back hurts; being gay sucks, I bet—but for none of the regular reasons such as discrimination, hate-crimes, or lack of rights.
McDonalds drive-thru is open 24 hours a day. That last part wasn’t part of the post, but I just remembered it, so I’m going to get some fries.