I've never considered myself a hypochondriac, but having a bad back is really starting to wear on me. Any mysterious sign or symptom that could possibly occur to me in a day is always attributed to the idea that I've caused my spine irreparable damage and am soon going to be paralyzed, wheeling myself around in my electric wheelchair using one of those mouth-steering thingies.

Tuesday, during my roller-hockey game, my back started to tighten up again. It's done this during slow games before, but the first time I injured myself was directly after my back started being a whiny bitch during a game.

During every stoppage of play, I was doing my best to stretch it and wring it out by twisting and bracing on my net. My teammates, the other team, and especially the refs were all wondering why the faceoffs kept being delayed by the oafish, Fonda-esque, moves I was doing.

Ref, to The Captain: Hey man, I think there's something wrong with your goalie.

The Captain: Yeah, no shit. You oughta go out drinkin' with him sometime.

Ref: No, I mean, he keeps doing weird shit back there. Is he hurt or is he on something?

The Captain: Naw, he's always like that. Wait 'til he starts whispering and kissing his goalposts. Heh. Freak.

Despite the obvious lack of support, I made it through the game, but was experiencing some odd kinds of pain in an area previously unrelated to my injury. The anxiety this caused made me go straight home without staying for even ONE beer. THAT's how freaked out I was.

The entire drive home I was nervous and sweating as each time I shifted in my seat I could feel that new and different pain in the middle of my back. It felt better to lean forward, but then that hurt the previous injured spot, so I sort of moved back and forth. I imagine now that I must've looked like a little kid who is about to shit his pants the entire drive home, but I was seriously worried.

I got home and gingerly unloaded my equipment and joined the Girl on the back patio. When she asked how the game went, I told her about how my back was hurting and that I was certain that the muscles I've abused in the past were now reaping their vengeance upon me and my hapless spine.

She remained calm as I continued to sweat.

For Shit's sake, woman! Can't you see I'm one step away from Christopher-Reeving right here in front of you?!?

She asked me what didn't make it hurt.

I had to think, but I decided that it didn't hurt when nothing was touching that spot on my back.

She asked me to describe the pain.

"Well," I whimpered, "when I touch it, it's a sharp pain, and, when I stop touching it, it's kind of a dull throbbing. It's very sensitive."

"So, it feels almost external?" says the Girl, all medical-like.

"Yeah, yeah," I agree excitedly, thinking she's finally understanding that she may have to change my poopy diapers someday soon, "It's almost like when you have a really big ziiiiihhh-aaawwww, SHIT."

The Girl, grinning now but still calm, had me lift up my shirt so she could inspect me.

Sure as shitpickles, I've got a gimongous freakin' zit, right on my spine.

Relieved that I wasn't going to be shitting through my belly into a bag anytime soon, I proceeded to feel like a big goddam baby.

The Girl, still with her wonderful bedside manner, refrained from calling me a ridiculous jackass, and asked if she could "ease my terrible suffering."

At first, I thought this meant "Blow Job" but, when she started pinching the cause of my distress, I realized my mistake and nodded sheepishly.

"Ewww," she said, making a face (I'm sure) and wiping her fingers on my shirt, "that's fuckin' love, honey."

Ah, love indeed.

---

While the Girl was off shooting pool the other night, I decided to make dinner a la homage to Dr. Plopp. I hate going to the fucking grocery store, though, so I thought I'd just scavenge in our cupboards for the necessary outlandish, seemingly unrelated, ingredients for the night's feast.

The only things in the cupboard that weren't canned chili, pancake mix, Hamburger Helper, or large bottles of liquor, were some cans that had Oriental-style writing on them and some rice. The Mom, in her infinite cooking wisdom, decided last Christmas that our cupboard needed some spicing up ("spice" get it? You know, like, seasons and� fuck, nevermind), and coincidentally, her cupboards needed cleaning out, so I'm pretty sure she dumped everything she thought she could never possibly use into a box and presented it to me and the Girl. At the time, I was thinking, "when the hell am I EVER going to need to use coconut milk and bamboo shoots? I can barely use the fucking grill."

I've been getting better in the kitchen though, and lately I've been dying to try out the Wok that we got for our housewarming (about 3 years ago, so obviously not "dying" I guess), and this was surely a sign that I needed to try some stir-fry action.

I boiled up the rice, started opening all the cans of Oriental goodness, and dumping their sweet and spicy selves into the Wok. Bolstered by the courage of other bored kitchen-idiots I haphazardly started dumping the cans' contents into the Wok.

Water Chestnuts? Super, I've seen those in Chinese food. Sounds good.

Shrimp? Cool, gonna have me a "seafood" theme.

Coconut milk? They've got coconuts in the Orient, don't they? In it goes.

Baby Clams? Aweso� what? Sweet Cheezus, what the hell are they thinking selling Baby Clams in a can?

Despite the overwhelming guilt I felt at the idea that these vital young clams were cut down in the primes of their lives, I forged on, stirring them in.

I was feeling quite adventurous� until the smell hit me.

Oof. No matter, I'll just dump in enough Soy and Teriyaki to kill a Bengal Tiger.

And have a beer.

No good, still stinks like nasty clam. No doubt those little bastards released every ounce of juice in their stink-JuddHole-out-of-the-kitchen glands while nearing their untimely deaths.

More beer then. If that won't solve my life's problems, then nothing will. Except maybe more beer.

The food seems to be hot enough to kill any remnant of possible Clam's Infant Self-Defense Poison and I'm almost out of beer, so I sit down to eat.

Woof. Then the smell hits me again.

Honestly, for all the guys out there that have made jokes about a certain female body part and experiencing its odiferous similarities to clams, I have great sympathy for you.

I can safely say that had I ever, EVER, encountered a womanly part that smelled even remotely close to the pungent foulness that absorbed my dinner, I would've gotten outta there so fast I'd have left a vapor-trail.

I was able to eat the serving that I took, it just took a splash of Teriyaki with EVERY FUCKING BITE.

My upbringing almost forbids me to throw away food, though, so I threw the rest of my vile, slaughtered-clam muck in some Tupperware and stowed it in the fridge.

I know I'd have to be extremely desperate to actually eat that shit again, but I thought that I may, some day, need to fertilize the Girl's garden (provided that she eventually decides to plant one), or play a practical joke on someone involving the faux regurgitation of a pound and a half of decomposing-juvenile-invertebrate-sea-life (everyone knows that's pure comedy right there), or perhaps I've finally found a way to get the neighbor dogs to stop climbing on, and digging around, our back fence (this shit would kill a Rottweiller).

Oh, the possibilities.

There may be room for practical jocularity yet, though.

The Mom is going out of town tomorrow, so she gave me a truckload of the leftovers in her fridge. Before you wrinkle your nose at the idea of "leftovers," you should know the Mom is nothing short of a gourmet in the kitchen and her old food kicks the shit out of anything I can create (obviously).

The Girl, knowing of the existence of the Mom's leftovers, will usually grab a bagged and/or Tupperwared item from our fridge on her way to work without even checking its contents first.

If I can blend the container full of nasty-veal-style-crustacean goop in with the Mom's delectable leftovers, I may be able to trick the Girl into taking it with her to work, microwaving it, and assaulting the olfactory senses of all of her co-workers.

If I don't giggle too much, I think I'll be able to feign innocence as the Girl will undoubtedly ask the Mom what the hell that stinky shit was.

Hmm. Probably not.

The chances are slim that I'll fool her as the Girl will know there's no way that anything resembling the effects of a night of Vodka and jumbalaya, and smells like a fish market in Bangladesh could ever have possibly come from the Mom's kitchen.

It'd sure be fun to see her head snap back when she catches a whiff of it though.