It's not about the house.

Friday, August 29, 2008

If I Could Give Him One of Mine...

Yesterday, I -- your intrepid traveling navel-gazer -- posted from my brother's house about my tennis elbow, and some of you (okay, one of you) asked where Johnny was in this whole thing. Why couldn't he scratch my back? Why couldn't he pass the salt? Why couldn't he etcetera and so on?

Well, I'll tell you:

Johnny has a couple broken ribs. Again.

It's actually a pretty funny story, see---

Oh, gosh, look at the time. I have to drop this niece-creature off at day care, and then I'm shooting down highway 91 to visit Dr. One Friend for the weekend. So I guess I'll have to tell you the rib story next week.

For now, let it suffice to say:

• I didn't do it.
• He is well-stocked with oxycodone.
• And, when I call him to check in, he sounds quite happy to have the cursed AssVac to himself.

I'm not positive, but I think those last two bullet-points may be related


Ladyscot said...

Aaww geez, the suspense is killing me!
Poor Johnny, feel better soon. 'Though by the sound of it he's feeling pretty good right now!

Janice said...

no, no, that's not the way it goes... he gives you one of his doesn't he? And where are you anyway? we need *daily* dispatches!