I suspect about ninety percent of the population of the world experiences, at one time or another in their lives, what is called lower back pain. It's a bitch. Actually, it's more than a bitch. Sometimes, when you get it bad -- really bad -- you conclude that you've probably got incurable cancer of the hip or spine or kidney(s). Then, after popping a few anti-inflamatories, the pain eases a bit, and you're kind of reassured that it's probably just lower back pain ... regardless of how dramatic the whispers from that little voice in your head happen to be.
My lower back pain began as pain in my left hip two days ago when I crawled out of bed and immediately plopped down on the floor -- as I always do, hooking my feet under the bed -- to do my sit-ups. Fuck! I said to myself, as I knew, I just fucking knew ! that the pain in my left hip was going to become lower back pain and that it was going to rule my life for probably the next week or so. So, I didn't run my daily mile-and-a-half two days ago (hoping that I could preclude the exacerbation of the insidiousness of this stupid little glitch in my life), nor did I run it yesterday.
Today, I crawled out of bed, hooked my feet under the bedframe and, nope, wouldn't you fucking know it, I couldn't even complete one sit-up. Fuck!
And, those of you who've had lower back pain and have visited your friendly physician to report your malaise, will recall that your friendly physician has suggested Tylenol or Aspirin or some other anti-inflammatory, pain-easing pill. No x-rays, no CAT scans, no MRIs to determine if you're in the throws of a life-grabbing cancer of the spine or the hip or the kidney. Nope. Take a pill. You'll be fine in a week or so.
Those of you who run every day will know the fucking disgusting frustration I am currently feeling.
I like that word, fuck.
Now, the Denver Post provided an article on the Red Lake killings, which provided some insight into what it was that led Jeff Weise to kill nine people and himself there in Red Lake, there on the Chippewa reservation. But, of course, we don't have Jerry Weise around anymore to explain to us what it was, what the real pain of life was that led him to do what he did, there on the reservation there where: "... local residents sorted out raw feelings, they also broached some tough issues: too many guns, not enough parenting, persistent alcohol and drug use and not nearly enough for kids to do on a reservation 32 miles from even sleepy, small-town Bemidji."
Interestingly, the story in the Post notes that they, the Chippewa, once had a roller rink where the children of the tribe could work out their adolescent energy. And now... Well the roller rink has been turned into a casino.
Of course one must wonder where Dubya was on this one. Oh, yes, Dubya was able to cut short his little vacation on the ranch to come back to Washington to sign the disgustingly hypocritical and blatantly political Schiavo bill, placing jurisdiction of the case in the federal courts. But, for the Chippewa, for the pain and suffering of the Chippewa, Dubya was nowhere to be found. Just no fucking political hay to be had with the Chippewa in Red Lake.
The Schiavo case is a sad one. The politicalization of this sad, sad situation is embarrassing. The party of Lincoln has become the party of the born again theocracy. Fuck State's Rights! Fuck the familial responsibility!
Finally, Robert Novak's column today -- I'm not even going to provide the link -- provides that the Schiavo case is not about politics but about the deep-felt passions of the politicians advocating the reinsertion of Schiavo's feeding tube. He ends his op-ed piece by suggesting that it is a crime to starve a dog to death but, apparently, not a crime to do the same thing to Terri Schiavo.
Step back a bit, folks, 'cause this hits a nerve with me and my vitriol may cause unintended consequences (spit in the face of the innocent!).
I am a dog lover. I love dogs in the way that many people find really weird. Dogs are my children. They enrich my life immensely. I have had to make the decision to put down more than a few of my children because it was not only the humane thing to do, but it was the right thing to do; it was the right thing to do because it preserved the dignity of my children's existence; it assured that their death would preclude the unnecessary suffering that would, naturally, accompany their continued painful, hurtful suffering in this world.
Fuck Novak, who, incidentally, ought to hang it up, 'cause he's become just a wee bit irrelevant in today's world.
I do like that word, fuck!
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