Karma... she is a bitch

So I'm putting on my socks this morning, as I am wont to do each day. During the first sock, I feel a minor pain in my lower back. This is not all that unusual because I'm not very flexible and I think lifting with the legs is for pussies. So I ignore the pain and go for sock number two, the money sock as it is known in my household. That's when everything went to shit.

My back felt as if god were wringing me out like a sponge. I then found every movement excruciating. I also found the lack of movement equally excruciating.

After all of my years of mocking my friends with bad backs and ruptured discs and horse-kicked spines, I'm finally getting my just desserts. (Eating dessert also hurts right now.)

I somehow got in my car and went my doctor's office to see if I could get something to expedite the healing process. Something like morphine. And that's when the real humiliation started. First, I got on the scales and found that my weight has increased exponentially since the last time I weighed, which I wouldn't have thought humanly possible. Second, I had to admit to being an old man who gets injured by dressing himself. And third, the cute nurse gave me a shot in my ass. No reach-around.

Anyway... I'm at work. Each word I type is more painful than the last. The doc loaded me up on anti this and anti that, plus some Darvocet. But I'm going to treat myself the way my ancestors did: with a bottle of Jack and a two-dollar whore.
Well... a bottle of Jack.