Falala Banana

LOBO -Predator Press

A little research unearthed all I needed to know about my regional manager, Falala Banana.  Miss Banana is feared company-wide, and mostly because she can rip Capri pants with her calves Hulk-style at will.  She is reputed to have killed underperforming employees with her toes.

But it turns out we have history.

Back in 2006, I met Mohamed "Chainsaw" Miller, a twenty-seven year old a six foot six behemoth, and a rabid football fan.

"Why aren't you in the NFL?" I asked.

He stared down at me for a second, thinking carefully.

"I never ate me no human pancreas before," he replied.

Glad to see we were on the same page, I instructed him to shave everything, and went on to forge his new birth certificate and enroll him into a junior high school to pursue a football scholarship.

Chainsaw Miller led the Ottawa Otters to five consecutive championships (yes, five -I recommended he flunk twice).  But what I didn't know was that he was secretly being scouted by the Oakland Raiders.  Chainsaw Miller wasn't ready for the "Big Leagues."  For one, he couldn't read: he promptly screwed up a play and was blown up rushing center by Tyvon Branch, LaMarr Woodley, three cheerleaders embroiled in paternity lawsuits with him, and Julio Fernandez.

Julio Fernandez isn't even a Raider -he was just getting gas at a nearby convenience store.

Thus, Falala Banana was born.

Dead Air

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My return to our Lord and Savior has nothing to do with natural disasters.

-If you look back over time, I do this every year when there's only four weeks left of fantasy football "regular season."  And this year when that collection plate comes around I got five bucks, and a two-for-one coupon on Crocs™.

It's crunch time, Jesus!

Letter to Inmate H*****

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Hey Buuuuddy!
 

Still really stuffy, but gradually feeling better. Sorry I didn't write this week: all the coughing and sneezing has me sleeping like shit, so besides work that's pretty much all I do. You should see my place … it looks like I've been testing hand grenades on a Kleenex factory. All the hacking up glop and sleep dep has me edgy too: I opened a shoe box and a moth flew out, which almost gave me a heart attack. I have a tacit and tenuous non-aggression pact with the spider in my bathtub. This is as close as I've come to camping in thirty years.

The fact that it's Halloween kinda snuck up under my radar, and I don't have any candy for the little moochy bastards. I would probably call Child Protective Services on any parent that let there kids trick or treat in this neighborhood anyway. Still, I'm in a lights-out stealth mode for now, and the stubborn pricks interrupting my football will be rewarded with canned vegetables and fistfuls of oyster crackers.

I listen to a great ESPN/NFL podcast at work, and it was just nominated for an award. Unfortunately, it is competing with the other nominee, “Taylor Swift Talk.” Taylor Swift -in case you don't know- is an apparently successful teeny-bopper country chick that made her career writing angry and soppy songs about ex boyfriends. “Taylor Swift Talk,” in fact, isn't even directly affiliated with Taylor Swift -it's two guys and a girl waxing enthusiastic about the pre-pubescent lil blonde starlet. It's not even sanctioned by Taylor Swift. It's totally rogue and weird fan crap.

Smash-Cut to today: hundreds of thousands of NFL meatheads have launched a Twitter and Facebook war on “The Taylor Swift Podcast” -which isn't even the right fucking podcast. Somewhere there are three poor little teenage girls who have no idea why the full behemoth wrath of NFL fans have come crushing down upon “The Taylor Swift Podcast,” which was virtually unknown until yesterday.

Sometimes I love this planet.

Be safe, be smart. I love you Bro! See you soon!

 

 

Could Jesus Take Mike Tyson?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again, at no small expense to you, we here at Predator Press have set out to settle an age-old question burning in everyone’s mind: Could Jesus take Mike Tyson?





Records:

“Iron” Mike Tyson: First heavyweight boxer to simultaneously hold (and only Heavyweight to individually unify) the WBA, WBC and IBF titles.





Jesus Christ: Messiah, King of Kings, Lamb of God.




Advantage: Jesus

Weight:

We’re going to make the assumption that both competitors are in their prime. This means that Tyson, a heavyweight at 220 pounds, might have an edge on our rock-ribbed Messiah who is oft depicted as being on the lighter end of the weight class spectrum and could walk on water. Minus definitive height information, we’re going to call JC a welterweight.

But larger size comes at the expense of energy and speed. JC’s leaner build makes him more efficient. If JC could avoid any serious blows in the first few rounds, Tyson would likely have expended himself physically fairly early on. Couple this strategy with JC consistently working the body, and over a long enough timeline Tyson’s condition would diminish, making him vulnerable in later rounds.

Advantage: Jesus


Speed:

There’s no real need to mince about on this one. Tyson won his first 19 fights by knockout, and 14 of those were knockouts in the first round. However according to the Bible, Jesus moonlights from his Messiah gig as a prophet; thus, no matter how fast Tyson is, JC is going to be way ahead, anticipating where and when to block, dodge, and counterpunch.

Advantage: Jesus

Intangibles:

While there’s technically nothing in official boxing rules regarding torrents of frogs and plagues of locusts, one must factor in potential supernatural activities including interference by JC’s Dad.  God, while often taking a “hands off” approach to parenting, has also historically demonstrated Himself to be ill-tempered [see Sodom, Gomorrah]. In fact if the fight is to occur in Las Vegas, I am simply going to watch it on Pay-Per-View.

Other troublesome considerations are JC’s pacifist nature and tendency to “turn the other cheek,” something Tyson would most certainly exploit. Countering this, however, is JC’s ability to heal: JC was often cited for curing disease, blindness, et cetera.  But it is unclear whether he could use this ability on himself.  Would boxing gloves create an insulation rendering the “Laying on Hands” impossible? Or worse, what if Tyson is being healed by every blow, or sheer or proximity?

Advantage: Jesus

Detroit Lions to Place Calvin “Megatron” Johnson on Waivers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“This is not a reflection on Calvin’s football skills,” insists Offensive Coordinator Scott Linehan. “He’s just too big.”

Complaints about Johnson –an unabashed armrest hog- aren’t limited to airline travel.

“He farts a lot," says Matthew Stafford, quarterback. "And every time he sees a Volkswagen, he punches me and giggles ‘Slugbug.’ Don’t ask me what a ‘PT Bruiser’ is. It’s just ugly all-around.”

“I should be worried about football,” remarks Lions Defensive Coordinator Gunther Cunningham. “But most of the season I’m completely preoccupied with making sure Calvin and Rex Ryan aren’t at the same continental breakfast.”

The 2013 "Knock it Off!" Rebirth

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"I mean who really cares if we call it 'Christmas?' Now we call it 'Winter Holiday.' Or if the Ten Commandments are on display someplace in public?" A migraine almost certainly looming, I rub my temples. "At some point America lost the ability to call an asshole an asshole. And as a consequence, we lost the ability to tell assholes to knock it off."

"Man you think about this stuff too much," replies Barbarossa. "You need to relax more. Why don't you try golf?"

"I love golf," I point out. "I play it on X-Box all the time."

"No," he replies. "I mean for real. You meet a different breed of people. Last week I met a guy who is sooooo rich," he pauses for a second, "His name was Rich, and-"

"You met a rich guy named Rich?"

"Yeah. He's got a horse-"

"Is the horse's name 'horse?'"

Barbarossa ponders this for a moment, rubbing his beard. "I don't know. But he's got this wicked Corvette, too ..."

"What the hell would a horse do with a Corvette?"

"You're telling me to knock it off, aren't you?"

Go Fighty!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's a fact: people never give Predator Press any credit for the huge socio-economic and medical advances we have provided Humanity.

And how about the Science and Engineering?

Hm?

When we presented the alternative to 'Doggie Stairs' with our 160 horsepowered Doggie Centrifuge, did this fantastical technological advancement get mentioned in a Scientific American, Popular Mechanics, or maybe even a lousy Readers Digest?

No. We got "-but the dogs land in random places at crazy speeds!" blah blah.

So now where is Sports Illustrated on our groundbreaking 'Mag-Cat' Research and Development? My theory that cats -cunning natural predators equipped with lightning-fast reflexes, guile, and grace- are ideally suited for intense Air Hockey competition is gonna make us millions.

Just kiss my ass, Forbes.


***

First and foremost, the Air Hockey table -pointedly designed for humans- would have to undergo some minor modifications to provide for a suitable and level playing field for serious Feline Competition. So at great expense to you, our own Predator Press Scienticians magnetically reversed an Air Hockey table surface.

Unfortunately, cats are naturally highly-resistant to magnetism, and tiny little magnetically-repellant boots needed to be developed to respond to the magnetic fields. This realistically replicates the 120-decibel gravity-free Air Hockey environment for cats exactly as it would occur in nature.

We should have a good “regulation” set of these boots available commercially by Christmas. And while coming in at a hefty $850, you must remember that there are four ... plus we throw in our patented "This Side Up" polarity collar and a Buell helmet totally for free. Further, we think $850 is a small price to pay for any serious Air Hockey or cat safety enthusiast: once augmented with the $800 fire extinguisher mandated by California State, your cat will be howling past you on the freeway.

Four of our cats can get to Madison Square Garden from here in eight minutes.

-Theoretically. They cannot read maps, and are complete suckers for every Stuckey's they see along the way.

But truthfully I do not consider an insatiable Pecan Roll dependency a side effect of our regimented and complex training: for several months now, one of Phil's kittens (due to her inexplicable and irritable disposition I call her "Fighty") has undergone 1,074 hours of observation actually wearing the boots, and she finally acclimated well to her vastly improved mobility -even with the chainsaw attachments.

And let me tell you buddy, she hates Pecan Rolls.

Fighty -already a Mag-Cat first season veteran- is ready for some healthy competition. And she's virtually undefeated! Her 27-1 record was most unfairly despoiled by Barbarossa rubbing her fur backwards during the Winter Halftime Show last February; this triggered a static discharge resulting in one hell of bang, four molten transformers, subsequent rolling blackouts, two crashed satellites, an irrepressible odor of burning hair permeating everything in the Lab, and me spilling my coffee.

Now, the fire department gets cats out of trees all the time, right? When's the last time you saw a cat skeleton in a tree? But you call those jerks and tell them about your smoldering and pissed steroid-jazzed chainsaw-wielding cat magnetically attached to the side of a water tower and see what happens.

I swear those fire department guys are totally worthless.

Nonetheless, lil' Fighty today is an Air Hockey Champion nose-to-tail; just show her that plastic puck or a Pecan Roll, and she yowls, spits and hisses ...

(I should probably get her spayed.)

Correction Fluid

Predator Press

[LOBO]

If you Google "Zorb Shoots Off Russian Mountain," you can watch a man die.

I'm not linking it directly because I saw it on the news at eight in the morning today; while not graphic (you don't see the actual "death"), I found it a little disturbing to watch.

At eight o'clock in the morning.

Examine the stolen supplied photo left to get the idea: two men in a big inflatable ball ride down a grooved path down a mountain.  The video will show the ball go wildly off course, and the men going over a cliff.

Based on this, I have concluded that the greatest danger to the white man is:

• Too much time,
• too much money, and
• too many white friends.

You can have any two of these, but not all three.

-All three is certain death.

When is the last time a Mexican said to you, "Hey.  Let's deliberately drive up to where snow is on a whole bunch of jagged rocks and trees.  And then strap two sticks to our feet and slide down it?"  Or a black person ever said enthusiastically, "You know man?  We should be bungee jumping right now!"  Or an Asian ever went, "I need to unload my old shark cage so I can make my hang glider payment?"

-And can you even get a hang glider on payments, Whitey?

Hm?

How Would OJ Fare at Shark Boxing?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Our hometown Pianosa now has an exit off of I-80, and is starting to take shape. It's the only town in Illinois that has both ski resorts and tropical beaches, and located smack between a Denny's and a Shell Station. It has further been statistically proven that on Saturday nights 14% of the people at the Shell station know the directions to Pianosa (the other 86% are only looking for directions to the Denny's).

I intend to change all this: I intend to make Pianosa the host of the first registered global exhibition match of a chum-soaked man in boxing gloves being pitted against a pissed-off 47' hungry Great White shark.

Shark Boxing promises to be the largest Man-Boxes-Shark Pay-Per-View event ever broadcast on network television.

We've named our Champion "Daisy."

And once again, Predator Press scienticians have stepped up: this time to answer that age-old burning question on everyone's mind, How would OJ Simpson fare at Shark Boxing?

At great expense to you, 'o Loyal Reader, we built a supercomputer that ran simulations of what would happen should OJ accept our challenge to take the $100 prize money.

See, because she weighs in at around 3 bone-crushing school busses, you immediately think the reigning champion Daisy has the advantage, right? Well, you forget that aside for being an all-around good guy, OJ Simpson is famous for only one thing: his athleticism. He's a Heisman Trophy winner. Sure that was a few years ago, but I'll bet he can still play basketball just as good.

Shockingly, after 17 kajillion separate identical simulations it turns out OJ wins the bout 98% of the time.

We showed Daisy the statistics, and she seemed unimpressed. In fact, one of our techs captured Daisy muttering something about OJ being a "stinky-faced poo-poo head."

I can't believe OJ is letting her get away with talking trash like that.

Anchor Management

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"You're not going to drown in the river," says Alex, in another attempt to coax me into the boat. "It's only five feet deep."

"I know that," I says. "But I'm only ten inches thick."

There Are Too Many Of You People

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I wonder why there are so many hockey players in general.  For instance I don't personally know anyone that ice skates, therefore I'm led to the observation that ice skaters are pretty rare.

But then you need one that says, "Gee, I sure like ice skating. Too bad it's not violent."

The Jawbone of an Ass

Predator Press


[LOBO]

Monday Night Football -opening night- is something I've been looking forward to for six months. But staring up at the large television screen, I suddenly realize I have no idea who is playing.

And like a ship coming in from a midnight horizon, I slowly realize Barbarossa is talking to me.

"... I mean it's your third divorce right?" he shrugs in a saccharin optimism. "It's just like riding a bike."

We are regulars here. I even have a drink named after me.  But from somewhere deep behind the warm, invisible shield provided by my third or fourth "el LOBO" (a Fuzzy Navel with a miniature umbrella), I concede that there are far too many witnesses present to kill Barbarossa; despite the chemically-exaggerated comfort level and nigh irresistible appeal to irony, "Happy Hour" lacks the sadistic discretion required for murder.

-And it's hard to kill a man with a jukebox, napkins, and neon beer signs frankly ... it would be a lot easier, for instance, if we were at Sears in the Craftsman tools section.

Tall and lanky, Barbarossa's skinny arm lands across my back, grabs my opposite tricep and pulls me in for a sympathetic hug. Balancing haphazardly on the barstool, my eyes bulge in sobering panic.

"Stop walking around so ... so wounded," he slurs in sincere sympathy. "Don't think of them as marriages.  Think of them as leases. You know, serial monogamies."

"For some of us maybe," I says, peeling his spider-like arm off. Scowling thoughtfully, the urge to drive ample fistfuls of spent miniature umbrellas repeatedly through his eyes and deeply into his brain melts away; instead I find myself reeling in Barbarossa's unprecedented nugget of dark philosophical wisdom -an observation so devoid and pure of subjectivity, it borderlined math.

Barbarossa wobbles visibly. "That's the spirit," he agrees apropos of nothing I can readily discern. Then, after perhaps suffering a fleeting glimpse of self-awareness, he sits more upright, raising his drink in an courage-inspiring toast to me.

"So what are you going to do first?"

Absently, halfheartedly colliding my drink into his beer mug, I weigh this murky prospect carefully too.

"Everything," I decide.

"Seriously?" he says in disbelief. "Man, it's already like nine thirty. How about pinball?"

Punch-Drunk Drunk

Predator Press

[LOBO]

ADAM Sandler will doubtlessly be suing me after this post.

No, I’m serious. I spent all of Saturday and Sunday poring over dizzyingly-long subpoenas, and it turns out he is among the proud and few not suing me yet. And I can't counter-sue until Adam Sandler sues me first.

What does this all mean? This means Adam Sandler has completely lazy and worthless lawyers: they are overpaid and pasty gelatinous SLOBS swishin’ around in lil skirts.  Soon we will hear half-full Chinese take-out boxes, chicken bones, and small unfortunate animals tumbling through air pockets trapped in mountainous, groaning layers of Adam Sandler lawyer flab as it lunges in desperate pursuit of that one last cheerleader to roll over before the fire department hoists their STD-riddled, flea-infested fat asses out of pricey condominiums via numerous helicopters and cranes while dead, rotting hookers flop lifeless out from under ample bedsore-covered acres of greasy cellulite and acne once-rumored to be human Adam Sandler lawyer flesh.

-The universe has no place for idle, dawdling lawyers!

See, I am losing huge in all my countersuits on average too … and I figure Adam Sandler is easily worth $1,000,000 in fat countersuit greenbacks: that is exactly what it will cost to burn the memory of Eight Crazy Nights out of my brain.

But what do Sylvester Stallone, Hillary Swank, Mark Wahlburg, and Adam Carolla have on the mighty Adam Sandler?

Hm?

Boxing movies.

I want Mister Sandler -Adam, if I may be so bold- to read my script Punch-Drunk Drunk. It’s a sequel to Punch-Drunk Love -a stoic follow-up that finds Barry Egan succumbing to his seven evil sisters, thus being forced to eek out a meager existence boxing grizzly bears.

But boxing grizzly bears is a terrible way to eek out a meager existence, especially when you just got promoted to astronaut!  In the final match, the Emperor Grizzly Bear cheats and punctures Barry's pressure suit in the third round and is disqualitied.  (I think Rob Schneider is a shoe-in for ‘Best Supporting Actor,’ particularly because he doesn’t appear in this movie.)

So Barry is now Boxing Champion of the World and Emperor of the Grizzly Bears.  But the controversy surrounding the victory yields only mockery and taunting from sports fans of virtually every species. Tormented, Barry gets hooked on 5-Hour Energy Drinks. He doesn't know what he needs energy for -let alone 5 hours worth- but suddenly he’s a quarterback in the NFL too. Eventually Sarah Palin shoots the evil Former Bear Emperor, and -thusly befriended- the grizzly bears team up with Barry, and together they go and defeat the vampires.  And the Raiders.

(I still have to write Acts II and III.)

Man, You People Sure Like Guns

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Why the hell would you drive my Mercedes G-SUV out here in the woods?"  Aaron cried, motioning to the splintered and gnarled front grill with his rifle.

"The manual says it is an off road vehicle," I says, flipping through the pages as evidence.  "I checked.  Why should we lug all this crap around?"

"That car cost over a hundred thousand dollars!"

"And it runs like a dream.  You can't even feel the rocks and trees once you get over 50 miles an hour."

"I had the biggest buck I've ever seen in my crosshairs," he scowls, throwing his cap to the ground.  "And you drive up, blaring the horn-"

"I didn't want to accidentally run one of you over," I point out.  "You guys take camping to a whole new level.  It's hard to see you in all that camouflage stuff."

"This is a hunting trip!"

"Well even hunters have to take a break for lunch."  Pulling the whistle from my neck I bleet out three sharp whistles and call loudly into the forest, "Guys, I win!  I got a dozen Whoppers with cheese in the car!"

One Billion Brain-Eating Amoebas Can't be Wrong

Predator Press

[LOBO]



-Follow ongoing sports humor HERE.

The Concrete Ceiling

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Three weeks ago I requisitioned 100 Q-Tips and this morning I received, on official and spiff Predator Press stationary, the rejection letter.  Evidently a minimum of three contract bids are required.

So I either need to triple the money I make, or reduce bills below the excruciating level I live at now.  And with the American economy obviously flagging -and apparently dragging the LOBOnian down as well- I'm probably being more realistic addressing the latter at the moment.  But what am I supposed to do?  Cut High Definition out of my cable bill and watch football like poor people?

Why in America is it so hard to find an affordable modest, clean, crime-free apartment adjacent to an Emergency Room with a helicopter pad?

LOBO is Officially Sick of Being a Mom (Day I)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Fond of some local companies, I figured I would start a Softball League.

But because it’s negative five degrees outside, it turns out I’m the only commissioner, coach, manager, and player so far.

Today is the first LBL World Series.

And my statistics are amazing.

Origami as Self Defense

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I know it’s hard to believe with a physique such as mine that I was once picked on by bullies.

-But believe me, no one knows the anguish of going to the beach and having a zombie kick sand in your face and steal your girl better!

I hate getting sand kicked in my face. And zombies! And since I've selflessly dedicated my life to helping people, I can't just ignore you pipsqueaks and puny wimps: that's why I came up with Origami: the Art of Self Defense.

Why let all those useless and boring Geometry classes go to waste? With this 56 DVD set I’ll teach you step-by-step how after MONTHS of being brutally terrorized, I folded my high school bully into a teeny swan and then torched the evil hostile with hair spray and some matches.

-Her wheelchair melted instanly.

It was awesome.

The Barnside of Abroad

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Apparently I’m not enough of an Obama-hater to be “hip.”

In my defense, I’m pretty ambivalent as far as presidents go. I can’t think of any, for instance, I just fawn over. Presidents are like those lame-assed books from the rack in jail: sure, maybe you’ll find a halfway decent one … but rest assured, some asshole stuck a big green booger in it somewhere.

Still I like that Obama staunchly refused to reschedule today's speech to avoid conflicting with the republican debate, but later promised it wouldn't be so long as to interrupt the NFL season opener.

See? This man’s not unreasonable.

And what are the republicans debating anyway?

Republican 1: I hate Obama more than any of you.

Republican 2: No you don’t. I hate Obama more.

Republican 3: My hate for Obama is so huge, NASA will have to be funded again so we can land on it and explore.

Republican 1: You’re a closet Obama lover, and I’ve got pictures to prove it.

Republican 2: I'll bet you’ve got pictures, you Obasexual.

Mediator: Gentlemen, this is all very confusing. Can we please have a show of hands of all republican candidates who don't like Obama again? Just to be clear ...

Republicans have been around for several years now, and they still haven't figured out who hates Obama more.  So what assurances do we have they will ever figure it out?  Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Mark Levin, and Glenn Beck are some dedicated motherfuckers in pursuit of this title: never a late pizza, never a surprise birthday party, never a stubbed toe, never getting a puppy, never sleeping in, never a great meal, never stood up by a cable guy, never stuck in traffic, never new ideas, never something fresh, never anything but 24/7 Obama, Obama, Obama, Obama.  Frankly, the republican competition for Obama Loathing Champion of the World only seems more intense than ever.  And at some point, shouldn't these guys owe Obama some royalties?

Politically unaffiliated, I occasionally like to hear a conservative opinion -but "I hate Obama" has run it's course, and teeters on the brink of cliché. Now -just as a republican gets rolling- I'll interrupt suddenly and ask, "But do you like Obama?" This forces them to 'shoot their wad,' and reduces an hour of pontification to, "Well, no."

Economic woes are ideal distractions from the research
and development of my fantasy football secret weapon.

Done. You might think Republican's would thank me for accommodating such brevity, but what follows is usually a lot of frustrated stuttering and furious, monosyllabic profanity.

Conversely, what the hell is Obama giving a speech for? Nobody likes giving speeches. You mean to tell me the United States' freakin president can't get out of giving speeches? Then what is the point of getting to be president?

There's always the possibility it'll be important I suppose. I mean maybe Obama will be sitting there drinking beer in boxer shorts and an untied bathrobe, articulating an ardent case of why the Green Bay Packers are probably going to the Finals again, and that the New Orleans Saints are just an overblown 2009 fluke. Or maybe he's a Saints fan, and points out Green Bay averaged only 3.5 yards per carry in four preseason games, tying the team for fifth-lowest in the league.

Presidential decisions are tough.

Quack Attack

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Staring at the doc staring at my bare foot, it occurred to me how seldom it is I'm not wearing shoes, socks -something- on my feet in public.

-The last time I remember trying that was two months ago, hobbling around on crutches in a splint for a short walk: all that came of it was learning my Early Warning System's calculation of how much broken glass lay about was a woefully underinflated quantity.

Maybe I contracted hepatitis.

The doc twists my aching ankle at impossible angles, and I try not to squirm. C’mon LOBO, I’m thinking. This is minor. Be a man. It’s not like you’re Joe Theismann-

The doctor, momentarily satisfied with the knot tying on my lower leg, sits back on his heel and adopts a thoughtful expression.

“Nyarlathotep?” he asks.

I scowl. “What team does he play for?”

“No,” he corrects. “I mean Doctor Nyarlathotep gave you the referral to see me?”

“Oh,” I says. “Yes. Sorry. I was thinking about sports medicine, football-”

He smiles as he stands, and peers deeply into backlit x-rays of my Adonis-like ankle. “You’re a football fan too, eh?”

“Yeah,” I says blandly, experimentally wiggling my toes. “I used to live around the corner from the Chicago Bears’ training camp.”

“Well you have a lot of ligament damage,” he says. Clicking his pen, he grabs my chart and scrawls some notes. “But I can correct that with a very simple outpatient surgery.”

“Huh,” I says. “So doc, who is your team?”

Don’t say Packers. Don’t say Packers …

“The Rams.”

I don’t remember anything after that.

-But I’m pretty sure I screamed.