LOBO -Predator Press
While ruling out a torn cruciate ligament via MRI, Doctor Gudenstont found a bullet my ankle. Getting it non-surgically reduced requires a series of injections, so I'll be home for a few weeks.
Of the hundreds of screeners I haven't watched, I picked "Terminator:Genysis." Why I could not tell you. But an hour in, I found myself seething in a blind rage. I wanted to burn down the theater. The fact I couldn't because I live here only redoubled my frustration. After a ceremony to appease various gods, now I have to watch this steaming crap at a friends house, and then burn that place down.
Gina pulled up as I was returning the can of gasoline to the shed.
"If the bad terminators only need to kill Reece or Sarah Connor," I bark, "why do they spent the whole damn movie fighting with Arnold Schwarzenegger?"
"What? "asks Gina, still getting out of the car. "Is that gasoline?"
"Give me a hand with this," I says, wobbling clumsily on my cane. "I have a bullet in my leg."
"You have a cyst in your ankle," she corrects.
"Everyone knows 'cyst' is a medical euphemism for 'bullet.'" I argue. "They do that for insurance reasons."
"The oil change guy wanted to charge me forty dollars for windshield wipers," she says. "Can you imagine? This car isn't even a year old."
I hesitate. "I've been meaning to mention that. Your windshield wipers are an eyesore. The neighbors are talking. This can't go on."
"That's ridiculous," she says.
"Is it?" I says. "Every day you pull up with those droll windshield wipers, I have to go into damage control. It's fine that you are making some hippie statement. But don't think I don't suffer the consequences."
For some reason, I'm not allowed to have a shed key anymore.