Pwnituri Te Salutant!

Something isn’t right if I’m not getting pwned somehow; each month simply isn’t complete without a random (and typically awkward) injury for me to sustain in the line of duty. Super Bowl XLV, besides offering a soul-searing rollercoaster ride of alternating euphoria and despondency, provided just that woe immediately following a general issue, joyful “Whoa!” After that second Packer touchdown in the first quarter, I leapt towards Shannon Brown for a testosterone-soaked triad of shouting incoherently, jumping up and down, and bear-hugging as per our (newly christened) custom.

It just can’t end there though, can it?

Feeling strangely unfulfilled from the usual hijinks and following the prompting of the Spirit (unfortunately for me it was Team Spirit and not the Holy Spirit), I thought it best to pick up Shannon and his son Evan and shake them as if they were a vending machine stubbornly clinging to the bunched-up corner of a Swiss roll’s wrapper I just paid forty cents for. Upon wrapping my arms around Shannon who was already holding Evan (two Browns with one stone!), I dug my feet into the carpet of his living room and issued forth a mighty, barbaric yawp and felt my heart fracture as the Laws of Nature morphed and amplified the Earth’s gravitational force to thwart my celebration attempts. My back curved hideously farther and farther until I looked more like the St. Louis Gateway Arch than an intern, seeking in vain to apply maximum force via inertial  kinetics to launch Shannon into the atmosphere.

Shannon remained at his would-be launch platform, firmly rooted to the ground, still cheering and whooping. And I, laid low by vicious fortune (in unholy alliance with the weakest of the four fundamental interactions*), choked down my anguish of heart and proceeded to freak out at the unveiling of the newest Transformers 3 trailer. Pain ain’t nothing but French bread when Optimus Prime is on offer, rocking Decepticons like a hurricane and wading through their ranks like a juggernaut. Sixty seconds of shimmering, cinematic grace showered down upon that gathering of football fans and lifted me out of the mire of my vertebral distress.

But after the majestic endorphin rush from Transformers crashed and burned, it was on; it was so on, as a matter of fact, that Donkey Kong rolled his eyes. And so, here I am recuperating at home, nursing my spine back to its former health and seeing to most of my textbook reading from bed, interspersed occasionally with a trip to the freezer to trade out a new icepack.

There may come a day far in the future when I stop getting pumped and performing spontaneous acts of exultation, but I think the day that Michael Bay stops by our apartment and admits that he has no idea what he’s doing and needs me to start from scratch and draft scripts for a new trilogy of Transformer films will come first.**

*Electromagnetism, strong nuclear force, weak nuclear force, and gravitation y’all!
**Oh, if only…


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