December 16, 2004
Get OUT!!!
I'm in a lot of pain right now, and it's all Morn's fault.
I'm no stranger to women hitting me. I've been slapped more than Charlie Sheen on a tequila bender. I've been slugged more than a Chicago Cub pitcher's "fast"ball. I've been beaten in the head with a mallet more than a Whack-A-Mole approaching mandatory retirement age.
It all started simply enough. We were sitting at the computer playing movie trivia games on filmwise.com. Incidentally, this was all a ploy to prevent her from seeing the truly copious amounts of - ahem - "adult" material I have on my hard drive. I'm not sure if she would have beaten me, or been "into" it, but either way I'd be looking at being confined to a wheelchair.
So anyway, we come across a question that she KNEW…but…just…wasn't…oh crap, it was on the tip of her tongue…hold on…wait…she KNOWS this, goddamn it.
Then, evidently, the answer hit her…and she passed the savings on to ME.
"OH!" she bellowed, slapping me as hard as a 5'3" Quebecois woman is capable of slapping someone. If you've never been on the receiving end of a 5'3" Quebecois woman's haymaker…well then, you've never been knocked out cold, have you? Making it that much worse is the fact that Hockey is on strike, so she has a LOT of pent-up aggression.
Remember Seinfeld? Remember how Elaine would scream "Get OUT!!!" and knock the guys flying? Picture that, with the power and rage of a drunken Mr. T behind it. And a steamroller behind him. And pretend this happened at Mt. St. Helens in 1980. Okay…now DOUBLE that.
She's insisting that I mention now that of my 215 pounds, 210 of them are in my belly and ass. The rest of me is a spindly, Mary-Kate Olsen-esque waif.
So I finally regained consciousness, vaguely aware of what it must feel like to be Eric Lindros. I picked up my sorry ass off the floor, dusted myself off and proceeded to give her a look that screamed " What the hell was that for?!?!?!"
"THE NAKED GUN!" she screamed, the answer to the trivia question finally having come to her.
The moral of the story? The next time someone tells you that Leslie Nielsen movies never hurt anyone, you tell them from me that they're full of shit.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm very tired. I've had to have been woken up every hour on the hour. And there's an icepack and a "Price Club" sized bottle of Advil with my name on them.
