Los Straight Jackets, the real kind

Here I go, faced with the prospect of surgery in a foreign country which should alarm anyone in these United States, the land of the medical casino. Last night I dragged my gimp ass into Dodger Stadium because Pedro was pitching for the villain Mets so I had to learn to navigate the crutches very fast and what better place for that than a tiered stadium and seats in the middle of the aisle with a sellout crowd in place to witness the mighty clash of Titans. It was a mighty struggle for me but I thought it would make a good story to go out to voice my vote against Pedro. It was my first live encounter with the clash of the polar metropolises that keep North America pinned to the globe where the sides don't curl up. Talkin' about L.A. and NYC, of course, and the animosity was fresh and got fresher as the beer went down. I was dry myself as I didn't want to risk a trip to the bathroom so now I know how some disabled folk feel (Timmy!) and I felt my courage was all the greater and what a great example I set for the kids as they buried their greedy, ravenous, little faces into little mounds of pure spun sugar while their swarthy parents poured gasoline in the form of Coca Cola to wash it down and percolate like liquid magma headed straight to the acivity zone and I've really lost where this was going. Going to the game was the right thing to do.