Just when I thought I couldn't sink any lower. Just when I thought I was escaping the cesspool of self pity, I found a way to sink deeper into the mire. I have already reported that I fell off the vegetarian wagon and, gasp, ate flesh. But, not just any flesh. No, liverwurst, braunschweiger, a paté of such exquisite stinkiness and taste that it defies description (beyond the superlatives already stated). I have not admited it yet, but in the delerium caused by eating said food stuff, I injured myself. How embarassing, especially when the truth came out to our Safety Manager at work. I was leaving the *ahem* facilities and opened the door to depart. I caught my profile in the sink mirror and noticed how the mirror enhanced the middle portion of my torso. I stopped in facinated horror (like a witness to a particulary gruesome accident) and stared at the protruding stomach area pushing the belt line slightly down. Of course, the Jimmy Buffet parrot shirt did not help the effect. As I stared the self closing door slammed against the middle finger of my already small hand. Oh, the humanity!!!! What makes it worse is that each time I inspect the injury, I give myself the finger. Salt upon the proverbial wound. Fortunately , the Stone Brewery bottle of Old Guardian does help soothe the pain. Barely....... I just wish I could come up with a better story.
In other news, after Keir kicked my butt on the bicycle from here to Sunday...um, on Sunday (it had to be the liverwurst or the planets were aligned in such a way...) Afterwards, he bought himself Rockband for his upcoming Tuesday b-day. I discovered a few things from said purchase. My son, Frank Jr. (a true rock god) is a Guitar Hero marvel, Keir has not lost his drumming chops, Micah is a musician in making, and daughter Jess can still belt it out. What did they find out 'bout me? Whether on bass, guitar, or *gasp* drums, I can turn any song into a polka. Gimme Shelter by the Stones?...polka. Paranoid by Black Sabbath?....polka. Beastie Boys? Polka city, baby!!!! (BTW, I cannot turn any song by Pat Benetar into polka. I'd rather slam my head in a bathroom door. ) Liverwurst and Lederhosen. What more does one need? Besides the sense to move one's hand from a closing door? Come to think of it, my cry of pain sounded just like a yodel.
Pass the Tofu, please. Back to normal dietary practice, to kicking Keir's ass in cycling, and figuring out how to polkarize Incubus.