God. He is like crazy and shit. Is he (not to genderize the thing, but I am using this pronoun as purely a linguistic measure, not misogynistic device) there? Why does he do the things he does?
For the sake of this blog, let's assume God exists and is paying attention to ME right now. That's right. Not you. Not North Korea. Not even Adam Lambert. Me. Does God pay attention to things other than "The Axis of Evil" or "Might-Be-Gay-American-Idol-Runner-Ups-But-Now-Is-Gay-And-Has-Been-Gay-All-Along-Pop-Culture-Icons-Of-The-Moments?" Again...for the sake of this blog...I shall presume YES.
To take this a step further...would this God care about my broken collarbone and how much emotional turmoil this injury has put me through? Not to say that I can't handle it or am I being a "pussy" about it (and yes, I am going for a record with the quotation marks this blog. I believe the previous record is 25...not sure how it is an odd number.)...because does God help pussies? I will presume no...so hence I can't be a pussy otherwise the entire premise of this blog would be blown.
So...if nothing else...I have established that God cares about me...is watching me...knows about my broken collarbone...and, most importantly...I am not a pussy.
Now I can proceed:
God is testing me!
Test Number One -- The Dog
I came home and had to take my dog for a walk three days ago. You see, she is now too much of a princess to use her pad anymore. She's a small dog, and much like a cat, has a little place to "do her business" inside the house. Somewhere along the line, Little Miss Thang decided that her pee/poop "was gross" and she will only go outside. While outside, she does what I can only say is close to a handstand so that no body part of hers is near her now dreaded excrement.
So...I take her out, and have not held her leash in my left hand for two months just in case she decides to tug. You see, with a broken collarbone, a tugged leash would be like a kick in the balls. NO THANK YOU!
We walk, we walk, we walk...and she has not tugged one time. I forget about my arm. I forget about the dog. I switch hands for one second. Literally. One. Just so that I could scratch my leg. And...as soon as that leash is in my left hand...she must have seen God himself because she pulled on my arm with tractor-trailer power. TUG!
Seventeen pound dog leash tugs are not usually accompanied with grown men screaming. This one was.
Test number one complete, though...There was no stabbing pain. There was no kick to the balls. There was only a grown man who envisioned shoving his dog's face in poo.
My arm must be getting better!
Test Number Two-- Derek Fisher
Those of you who read this and actually know who I am (yes, there is more to me than hating Mylie Cyrus), know that I am somewhat of a sports fan. Just kind of. To many, the love of sports, sports teams, and sports players...is somewhat a religious experience. You pray. You hope. There are icons. There is good. There is evil. Yes, yes...it is all very Biblical (again...just linguistics here...I could have just as easily used "Koranical," but I don't even know if that is a word...it did give me a chance to use more quotation marks...so close to 25).
A few nights ago...I was at my church...which is to say my couch...I was praying for a Lakers victory. There is no way God would let Orlando win. None. Not if there were really a God, right?
Done by 5 with only about 30 seconds to go...the Lakers make a dramatic comeback...capped by Derek Fisher nailing a three to send the game to overtime with just seconds to play.
I jump to my feet...off of my pew, (yes, I realize I changed metaphors here...wasn't the couch just my church, not a pew? Don't pay attention to stuff like that. This is just a blog and I can take liberties like that because...well...just because. I am the God of this blog, anyway...and in my world, changing a metaphor mid-story is just fine.) raise my hands to the ceiling...YES. YES. JESUS. YES.
Arms flailing. Feet jumping. Fists pumping.
Yeah...NOT a good idea with a still healing collarbone. But I was alive. And so were the Lakers more importantly.
I MUST be getting better.
Test Number Three-- Ball Attacking Bug
If you can imagine how traumatizing it is to have a bug attack your balls, you are a better man than I. I had no idea. But I don't have to try and figure it out anymore because it happened to me last night.
Now, it is true, we are all God's creatures...but some of these creatures buzz...and fly...and are just icky. Do we have to count these things...do we need to love them? I don't think so. Especially if I am sitting on my couch minding my own business....in my boxers. I honestly believe that once a man is on the couch...and the pants come off...if that time becomes disturbed for any reason...we should have the right to kill.
So there I am...relaxed, reading about the Del Mar Fair on my laptop. I was on the food section...and just saw that this year they will have chocolate covered bacon. That's right...chocolate covered bacon.
About five feet in front of me...my sliding glass door is open. We get a nice breeze at night...so we often leave it open...door and screen.
I think to myself, Wow...chocolate covered bacon. Why didn't I think of that?...when
Something slams into my upper thigh...right between my left leg and my balls....and somehow under my boxers.
I turn to Tauni, who is on the other side of the room nowhere near me, the couch, or thoughts of chocolate covered bacon...and am about to question her:
Tauni, why did you throw something at my balls. You know, normal evening discussion.
When I turn to look at her, she is frozen in mid-movement. It looked like she was playing a game of freeze tag...and the thing that had tagged her was a twelve foot tall cockroach. She looked scared and disgusted.
Before I could ask my question and before I could ask her why she looked so creeped out...I felt a little tickle. On my balls.
That's weird. I don't usually feel a...what the..
And I reach down, with my left arm...the bad one..and am jamming my hand onto my balls because there is something new down there...AND IT IS MOVING.
I grab it (the bug) throw it on the couch, jump up, and do what I figure is the only thing I could do while my girlfriend is still frozen in time and I have just been attacked by a bug...UNDER my boxers:
Oh my GOD...oh my GOD...IT ATTACKED MY BALLS. IT ATTACKED MY BALLS.
And I am tap dancing on the floor...and Tauni is oddly not frozen anymore...but laughing. And laughing. She is in a fit...and I can't even find the room to be mad because all I can say is Oh my GOD...oh my GOD...IT ATTACKED MY BALLS. IT ATTACKED MY BALLS.
We eventually corner the beast with a glass cup on top, and a paper plate on the bottom. God's little creature didn't like this. So it hissed. Loudly and repeatedly.
Something that could hiss had been on my balls. Is there no grosser thing in the history of time?!?!?!?!?
But...my arm was ok. I had jerked, and grabbed, and thrown...with the bad arm. And I wouldn't have known I was ready to do that...without this ball attacker letting me know.
(For more information about the bug who attacked my balls, please visit Ball Attacker and scroll half way down the page. Look for: An adult ten-lined june beetle--Polyphylla decemlineata.)
My Dog. Derek Fisher. A Ball Attacking Bug. All part of the healing process. Not physically. Mentally.
Thanks, God....I really could have done without the "bug" on the "balls" though...