Life is like a casino. You gamblers know what I mean. You win some, you lose some. But you lose A LOT! And you win just enough to keep going.
Good day. Okay day. Bad day. Bad day. Good day. Bad day. Bad daybaddaybaddaybadday. Bad day.
At this point you want to take yourself out, but before you do make that jump…
MY GOD I FOUND A QUARTER! GOOD DAY!!!
And then your cat dies. So, bad day again. Then you find out your upstairs neighbor is running a brothel. Another bad day. You’re wondering if it’s possible to knock yourself out with a bat. But wait…
TACO BELL’S COMING OUT WITH A NEW WAY TO EAT A TACO! So you decide to keep going until you try that taco.
All the while the goons upstairs are laughing at us like, “He bought it! He thought his life was actually going to turn around!”
We’re like those horses following carrots on a stick. We keep walking for just one more tiny little nip…
I took a walk with my family yesterday. My 3 year old daughter and I found a tree and we climbed it. (She climbed it, I hauled myself up then got stuck.) Well, it turns out climbing a tree was the dumbest thing I could have done. Midnight rolls around and I have to pee. I go to climb out of bed and I cursed loud enough for my wife to shoot up. She thought it was finally TIME. You know, THE heart attack or THE stroke we’re all just waiting for.
She wasn’t so fortunate.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Mie buck huts.”
“My bake horts.” (I can’t very well point to my back because, you know, your back gives and takes away movement.)
“What?” she asks again.
“Well now my freaking throat hurts because I’ve been straining to tell you that my back hurts!!!!”
I almost beg her to just stick a tube up my ding-a-ling so I don’t have to move. We have one of those Nosefrida’s for the baby, and I was wondering how to make that work…
Anyway. I settle for just the heating pad because when I go number one at home, I sit down so I don’t run the risk of making a mess. I never got the hang of Say It, Don’t Spray It.
ANYway. My wife gets the heating pad. She’s tying all these pulleys to me and hoisting me up and maneuvering me and rolls me on top of the heating pad. As soon as she gets back in bed I grab that controller and crank it all the way up like I’m Trump set loose in the room with the Red Button.
I woke up this morning feeling a thousand times worse. I almost called in sick for the year. Like, I felt like Han Solo frozen in carbonite. I couldn’t move a muscle.
So we get an IcyHot patch. My wife lifts my shirt to stick it on, and when she does, she screams.
Which, of course, makes me scream, because immediately I’m thinking I’ve been gashed or something and she’s staring at my intestines.
So we’re both screaming. And that makes the kids scream.
“What’s wrong! What’s wrong!” I scream.
“Your back! It has… It has… lines!”
An image of me turning into a zebra crosses my mind. Like, Pinocchio smoked and turned into a jack-ass. I thought I might turn into a zebra because I snuck a milkshake without sharing with anyone two nights ago (this falls under No. 3 in the 7 Deadliest Father Sins).
She grabs my phone and takes a picture. (How cool is it that our phones can work as mirrors?)
And she shows me this:
Yes. Those are 2nd degree burn marks from the heating pad I had cranked up all night. (I knew I was dreaming about barbecue!
So what does this have to do with casinos and life and good days/bad days?
You can avoid a bad day if you don’t gamble on your body doing more than you’re capable. Let your kid climb the damn tree, don’t try it yourself.