Football caused me to smell a cat's ass
I played football on Monday. That means four days have since passed and still I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Literally every single part of my anatomy is hurting. Muscles I never knew I had have decided that it’s time they got in touch with good old Mr Brain up there. And so my grey matter has been inundated with messages including one from that muscle situated in the outpost on the underside of my fourth toe which simply read “Ow”.
It is utterly impossible to walk around without looking like a prick. As I stumbled to the toilet the other day, someone asked me in a hushed, sinister voice, “Are you on DRUGS?” I replied in the negative as best I could and then careened through the toilet door like a quarterback, no doubt confirming her suspicions.
My initial plan for the week was to jog on Wednesday. However, considering that most of my muscle mass now consisted of mango pudding, I decided to just think about it vigorously, which is more tiring than most of you might imagine. Last night, however, in a moment of complete lunacy, I attempted to do pushups. As I got down on all fours, my body did its best to remind me of my fragile state. My joints creaked like rusty swings and the mango pudding wobbled all over the place. Still, I persevered and with vein-popping effort, lowered myself to the ground whereupon everything gave way and, for a moment, I found my body supported solely by my face.
“No biggie,” I thought after detaching my cheek from the wood panelling, “Just a matter of trying again.” Which I did… to much the same effect. The only benefit that came out of all this were the assertions that (a) my floor needed cleaning, (b) that I could achieve this simply by rolling around and that (c) I had not the strength to do so.
And so I lay there in a heap of dust looking as spent as a horny donkey during which time the cat came to check if I was dead and, upon discovering that I wasn’t, decided that I would like to smell his ass. And then after that, things just got too ugly to describe.
It is utterly impossible to walk around without looking like a prick. As I stumbled to the toilet the other day, someone asked me in a hushed, sinister voice, “Are you on DRUGS?” I replied in the negative as best I could and then careened through the toilet door like a quarterback, no doubt confirming her suspicions.
My initial plan for the week was to jog on Wednesday. However, considering that most of my muscle mass now consisted of mango pudding, I decided to just think about it vigorously, which is more tiring than most of you might imagine. Last night, however, in a moment of complete lunacy, I attempted to do pushups. As I got down on all fours, my body did its best to remind me of my fragile state. My joints creaked like rusty swings and the mango pudding wobbled all over the place. Still, I persevered and with vein-popping effort, lowered myself to the ground whereupon everything gave way and, for a moment, I found my body supported solely by my face.
“No biggie,” I thought after detaching my cheek from the wood panelling, “Just a matter of trying again.” Which I did… to much the same effect. The only benefit that came out of all this were the assertions that (a) my floor needed cleaning, (b) that I could achieve this simply by rolling around and that (c) I had not the strength to do so.
And so I lay there in a heap of dust looking as spent as a horny donkey during which time the cat came to check if I was dead and, upon discovering that I wasn’t, decided that I would like to smell his ass. And then after that, things just got too ugly to describe.
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