I get hurt. A lot. I’m decrepit considering my age, with bum joints, scars aplenty and numb skin from errors long past and recent.
I also work in a kitchen. Thus, as one can imagine, I’m slapping on a bandage and a finger condom more often than I’d like. What’s interesting, or perhaps just fucking strange, is that I never cut myself with a knife. I think it’s my body’s supreme desire to be esoteric in all ways: if i’m going to get injured, It’s going to be interesting. The major culprit? the Dishwasher. no, I’m not getting repeatedly attacked by a slightly slow, fould tempered, mullet sporting 80s throwback named Billy Jim (not at this job, at least), I’m losing knuckles to sharp edges on our Jackson. Right now I have matching wounds on each of my thumbs. all 5 of them. Mirror images. phooey.
Anyway, I’m also sick with rage about the Tim Donaghy scandal–I mean, I knew it was fixed, but I dind’t think it’d be the mob. Ithought it was Stern making like Vince McMahon and giving the people what he thought they wanted. But no, it’s some fuck-wad from west Philly making sure my suns don’t get the championship they so richly deserved. Fuck me, I’m so fucking done with the NBA.
Like Vandusen said:
“This has to be the biggest scandal done unto the citizens of Phoenix since they discovered Baja Fresh was using food coloring on its guacamole.”








