Shouldering the Burden

Other people have sports injuries, or God-forbid war injuries. I have drinking injuries.

When the weather turns colder, as it's apt to do in mid-December, my right shoulder always starts blazing with pain. We can thank a cat named Jason Smith for that. Actually, we can also thank a cat named Jim Beam for that.

The year was 2003. We were at the retirement party of a pilot/friend Pete, who at 60 had timed out and now had to sit on the sidelines with his Phillapina girlfriend, Ponga. Pete loved Ponga in ways that were uncomfortable and unsettling to most of us.

"I tell ya, last night Ponga and I were having sex, and I could just taste the garlic from dinner coming from her nipples."

Take a minute to think about that.

Okay, back to my drunken mishaps: I was in the cups, and Jason Smith had his back turned to me, so I did what anyone would have and got a running start to jump on his back, assuming he would catch me.

He did not.

I vaulted over him, flipped and landed on my back with a distinct "Ooof!"

(I am purposely ignoring the opening for an "on my back" joke here because I'm really not in the best light as it is, but feel free to come up with your own.)

Anyhoo, I got back up and punched Jason Smith in the tummy for missing me, because it was totally his fault. Totally.

And ever since, on cold, damp days, I wake up and start looking for the Bengay.

Damnit, I know there's a joke in there somewhere, too.

In the Comments section, tell me about your lingering injuries.