I was lounging in my backyard the other afternoon and noticed that Asshead was vigorously licking her paws in an unusual way. "Unusual" meaning that she was very tentative and gentle about it. Due to her aggressive demeanor (she's a mean bitch, "bitch" being linguistically correct) she tends to lick, bite, and chew on everything with a certain amount of zealousness, so when she's tender and tentative, I know something is wrong.

I check out her front paws (after she's done biting my hands in an attempt to fend me off) and find that she's covered, fucking COVERED, in ants.

Excellent. She needed to ratchet her bitchiness factor up just one more notch. Nothing like a hundred, stinging, crawling reasons for her to act like a complete shit.

After I pinned her down and got them off her, I vowed vengence upon those little colonious bastards. I looked and looked for any manner of poisons that may have been left in the garage from the previous owner. I know we hadn't bought any, and the only thing I could find, that I could pour down the little antholes and could possibly be toxic to them, was gasoline.

It worked like a charm on those that were unlucky enough to be around the actual hole but eventually the call went out and more of them swarmed out to claim the bodies of their fallen comrades (no doubt to give them heroic funeral services and not just to eat their martyred corpses).

This is when I realized I had to play a little dirty. I also realized that I hadn't partaken in the 4th of July celebration as every manly man should, by blowing shit up.

I love movies, but a lot of the shit that happens in movies doesn't ever work the same way in real life, like Spider-man-Jackie-Chan-wall-climbing, but I learned that gasoline does indeed go "WHOOOOMPF!" when a flame is touched to it, even on plain dirt. I know I did this kind of shit all the time on the ranch in Montana, but that was always with diesel, and I figured gasoline would be different. I'm not sure why. Sometimes I think I may be kind of dumb.

While the WHOOOMPFing took care of most of the ants, it also almost took care of most of my eyebrows as well. As dumb as I am, I still thought to pull my head out of the way before igniting. A smart move, for certain. A smarter move would've been to have the hose handy to extinguish the neighboring bushes and grass after the WHOOOMPFing, but I suppose an even smarter move would've been not to play with fucking matches at all.

I got the sprinkler off of the hose in time to douse the ever-growing flames, but not in time to avoid notice from some of my neighbors. They collectively had very, very concerned looks on their faces, but I suppose it could've been because of my frantic scrambling or the 5-foot wall of flame. Or both, I guess.

I did my best to calm their fears, as I sprayed water on the crispy ants and crispier shrub branches, by saluting the flame and shouting, "Happy Birthday America!"

I'm not sure it worked because they watched me like a bag-carrying muslim in an airport the whole rest of the day.

---

To further add to my increasing emasculation, the Girl and the Mom both beat me while golfing Saturday.

I had an excuse though. I broke myself.

I don't mean I'm broke with no cash, nor do I mean I broke my clubs or anything like that.

I mean I broke. My. Self.

My back to be specific.

It got stiffer and stiffer on the last couple holes (pausing here for uncontrollable-Junior-High-giggling fit) and it finally gave out on my last shot on the 9th hole. I went to flick my ball onto a tuft of grass to give myself a better leave, the world then went red, then black, and I opened my eyes to see that I was on one knee with my 9-iron bending almost in half.

I fully understand that this may have been God's way of punishing me for trying to "cheat" at golf, but it could've just as easily been for the time I flashed my kilt at that wedding (I went "regimental" at the time too).

I figured that God already got me for that one when my back did the same shit during a hockey game about 6 months ago.

We were playing a chump team so I didn't warm up much, and I didn't see hardly any shots during the game. Later in the game, I went to shoot the puck around behind the net, the world changed colors, and I woke up with both teams wondering if I was dead. I knew I wasn't but I was curious as to why I couldn't seem to move.

Bless those sweaty, stinky cementheads, though, as they got me up and to the lockerroom, dressed, and home where I spent the next 3 days flat on my back not moving even a little bit.

I learned lots of things from this experience.

I learned that peeing while someone else holds your fella is only fun if you're not worrying about screaming with pain the entire time.

I learned that the whole reason you feel five shades of fuckered up after 9 beers and two Vic0din is because getting up and moving around turns into kind of a fun game, and that, if you never get up and move around, you feel virtually nothing. I tried my best to have a Happy Fucking New Year, but all I got was bloated and bored.

I learned that there are few things funnier than two grown men arguing over who is going to strip their goalie down to his all-natural self. The game was over as the other team accused me of faking the injury and had gotten so pissed that they left the ice (they were getting an ass-kicking anyway), so my teammates were there to haul me into the lockerroom and start taking off all of my equipment so I could fit in a car. They'd gotten me down to my jock and then began bickering like 3rd graders at each other:

"Dude, just pull the strap and it'll come off."

"I'm not 'pullin his strap'! You do it."

"I'm not touchin' his fuckin' jock, you're going to have to do it."

"Shit man, I just got out of the shower, I'll have to go back in there if I touch that nasty thing. You do it."

"YOU do it!"

"NO, YOU do it!"

The fact that I was in the most intense pain of my entire life still couldn't keep me from giggling at that shit.

I apparently had paid for my kilt-lifting sins for the most part though, as this last back escapade wasn't as bad. I still spent the day on the couch feeling sorry for myself and not moving, but I'm better now and am again ready for the two women I love most to give me another round of getting my balls stepped on� uh� I mean golfing.

To pour a heaping spoonful of Morton's into the open wound, I checked the score card and I was losing by 5 stokes even before I received my smiting. Yeah, I know. I'm a pussy.

---

The reason I'm feeling better is because I have a kickasswickedcool chiropractor. I used to play hockey with this guy and he's the shit. His only downfall is that he's used to working on little old lady's necks and hips 'n shit, and not big, dumb, goalie's backs.

He knows his shit and he explains things very well while giving me my "adjustments" though. I say, "adjustments" as they tend to look more like a WWF match instead of him fixing my back.

I'm a big guy, and in order to get my back and neck to pop, he has to kind of situate me, brace me up on the table, and then jump on me.

If he was wearing purple tights and screaming, "YARRR!" we could sell tickets. Hell, just the fact that his quiet, scholarly demeanor is shattered by his mad jumping and grunting would be worth the price of admission.

I also occasionally scream like a little girl when he lands on me too. Just to keep him on his toes.

It's some funny, scary shit, but the Hulk-Hogan-Super-Flying-Elbow-Drop does the trick like nothing else, and he tells me I can not only play hockey this week, but participate in the Company Golf Tournament too.

For my back's sake, I'm going to try not to cheat. I figure I won't have to as long as I'm not playing with the Girl and the Mom as they seem to be the only ones intent on handing me a big plate of nutstompery while golfing.

Jeezus Fuck, I just got a notification email that Dusty just wrote an entry about back pain too.

Must be something in the diary-air.