A clever, appropriate title for the filth this post represents.

“You’d be popular in prison. Just like the Tupac song, you’d get around.”

“Of applause? It’s a little hazy what you’re implying.”

“You’d get used like you had a tattoo of a naked woman on your back.”

“Yeeaaahhh…I hear your words but I’m not following you. I’d be a horrible lemming. Can’t tell if it’s my fault or yours.”

“A tattoo of a naked woman on your back would be enticing to imprisoned men that haven’t seen a woman in years. The image would facilitate the raping of your backside.”

“That just does not compute with me. I’ve decided your metaphors suck.”

“Are you f’ing with me? Talking with you is like trying to reason with a retarded fellow that is anxiously engaged in humping a doorknob.”

“Ooohh you just used the “R” word. Please show some respect to mentally challenged individuals.”

“Allow me to demonstrate my apologies and respect by ripping your arm off and beating you about the groin and face with it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re you.”

The little man just stood there, in near rigor mortis, nothing but his lips moving. “This is one of those times when I need a drink that's flavor is only eclipsed by its surgical grade anesthetic effect.”

“I do not give a shit. Let me see your arm.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I’d rather you do. Now relax and think about ponies, butterflies or whatever you like.”

“Will it hurt?”

“It won’t hurt me at all. Man, I slay myself! But seriously, this is going to hurt you like hell. Pay no attention to my laughing.”

“That is the gayest thing I’ve ever heard. How about a pain killer first?”

“Sir, I cordially invite you to check and see if perhaps your little boy vag isn’t bleeding all over the place.”

“Very well, let’s get this over with.”

I put a little tension on his arm and received an education. In hind sight, I probably should not have provoked this young man. The provocation lent itself to superhuman strength I never would have thought conceivable from his meager frame. I type my recounting of the event from a body composed of bruises, cuts, stitches, casts, screws, a halo and an assortment of metal rods that would make an erector set enthusiast inordinately jealous. Much like a quilt made from many pairs of Levis, I looked as though I had been sewn together from a collection of battered body parts. A poor man's version of Frankenstein, if you will. As a bonus, I got my own customized colostomy bag that I can accessorize with my catheter, respirator, casts and bandages.

I may have been sexy before but now I’m downright orgasm inducing. Cast and sling movement restrictions only enhance my ability to pose sexily. I simply exude sex. I’ve always been called a sex machine, now I resemble one too.

The little bastard most likely considers himself lucky I’m in a wheelchair and incapable of physical retribution. I can only assume he cheaply struck me instead of fought me straight up because he knew he’d lose in the most ignominious way possible if he were to fight me like a man. I can’t say for sure because the beating he gave me erased the recollection of how I’ve arrived at my present predicament. I don’t remember him driving a fully loaded Mack truck to the appointment and he certainly wasn’t behind the wheel when I gripped his arm. The only thing I remember is that I pissed everywhere. There was no place that was not covered in my piss. Point of fact, only a Mack truck containing two high yield nuclear bombs could inflict pain upon me. I wonder where he purchased such weapons. Clearly he had help.

To be continued? Probably not.