Velociworld

SPEAKING OF CRYING...

Georgia is beating LSU like rented mules tonight. Sent their much ballyhooed quarterback to the showers in the second half to change his tampon.

Meanwhile, locally, the first inaugural ACC Championship is knotted downtown 3-3. Florida State and Virginia Tech. But who gives a fuck about the ACC? I couldn't get a strumpet license to peddle any flesh down there, so I stayed home.

Speaking of pain, though, and the crying, I was edging my driveway today, in anticipation of Skeeter's birthday party, when the weed-whacker kicked up a sizeable rock. Right into my face. Felt like a 22-year-old Cassius Clay had divined the sweet spot, and went for the kill.

Take that, you cracker bastard!

I saw stars, and them tweetie birds that circle your head upon a knockout blow. It splayed my left nostril open in two places. Blood gushed (some blood pours, most times blood gushes. That is an obligatory verb). I look like, well, the last time I lost a bar fight. Mauled, I am.

Now that I'm clotted and cauterized I believe I'll go to church tomorrow. Maybe with a hip flask protruding from my coat pocket, so that I look like I went straight from the saloon parking lot brawl to eucharist. Unfortunately I was wearing my impact resistant riding glasses, which the rock skipped off. A shiner would look really swell.

Oh, yes. I almost forgot. I cried. Couldn't help it. A smack in the nose will make you cry whether you want to or not. Snot, the works.

That fucking hurt.