YOU BROKE IT HOW???
So about a week and a half ago I broke my big toe, due to my own stupidity(as usual). So instead of fessing up about the real mundane story, my twin wrote the story below(it was actually for my little sister's broken foot-but it is so damn good I stole it!). Currently my little sister has a broken foot, my brother in law has a broken hand and I have a broken toe. We have decided to wrap the apartment in bubble wrap.
Here is Shonna's story:
I got it.... You were driving your rental car because (like Matt Bowers) your Porsche is in the shop. As you are unfamiliar with this new car you miss your off ramp while trying to figure out how to turn on the air. When you glance up again, you find yourself on some lonely, dirt road in Mexico. You know the one. The same one you always end up on when you're on half empty and running from the law or just happen to miss your exit on the freeway. That's the one. You pull over to figure out just where on that old familiar road you are. You look East and then West. This is gonna be harder than you thought. The last time you navigated this road was back in '73. You were wanted by a dozen different law enforcement agencies, nursing a wicked hangover with enough dead prostitutes and high grade cocaine in the trunk to make sure no judge would ever let you see the light of day again. You look East and West again, or Christ, was it North and South? Things were all starting to look the same. The sun beats down and the smell of the bodies in the trunk clings to your clothes and makes your throat tight. Yeah, it had been a long time since things had gotten this out of hand. You take a swig from the brown paper bag and enjoy the feel of the liquid as it burns its way down to your stomach. The sun beating down on you, the smell of booze and dead hookers, all such familiar scents, soothe away the doubt and anxiety. You squint down the road (it's like a fucked up face) and in the distance see something else familiar. The faint wink of a neon cross beckoned you home.
You pull the rental car up in front of Jesus' House of Worship, Wine and Wings and take in a deep fried breath of sin and chicken. Good old Jesus, always there when you need him. You give a wink and a nod to the small icon on the dashboard and head inside. You are led back to your booth, the one always reserved for you and your associates. Jesus is glad to see you as always but there is something about the way he brings your wine that lets you know something is up. He gives you the signal that the place isn't safe. You ask how many with your eyes. Jesus never loses his poker face (mainly because he's Jesus) and casually gestures two in the front one in the back and that, on Tuesdays, fat chicks ride for free. You ask Jesus for a distraction and he nods his head. The front doors burst and the reanimated corpses of the dead hookers shuffle through. You give Jesus a high five as you make your way for the secret back entrance. Before you can reach the door, a gun jams into your ribs. You freeze. "Not so fast, Shannan. You and your dead hookers won't be going anywhere today." You know that voice; it was the same voice that had been breathing down your neck the last 15 years. Agent Riley slowly turns you to face him. You open your mouth, insult ready when Jesus descends from nowhere and grabs Agent Riley's gun. There is a struggle and the gun goes off. You feel a sharp pain in your foot and stagger to the door. Jesus was more than capable of handling Riley. If things got too hot, he could always call in his dad for help. Your Dad, however, is not nearly as powerful.
The door closes behind you, muffling the sounds of screams and gunshots. You chuckle and mumble, "Never a dull moment at the house of Worship, Wine and Wings." You look down at the injured foot that has started to ache. Shit, it looked broken. Once you were back over the border, you were going to have to get that looked at. So that's your story. Jesus shot you by accident in a gun fight with the FBI and dead hookers. Happens every day.
So about a week and a half ago I broke my big toe, due to my own stupidity(as usual). So instead of fessing up about the real mundane story, my twin wrote the story below(it was actually for my little sister's broken foot-but it is so damn good I stole it!). Currently my little sister has a broken foot, my brother in law has a broken hand and I have a broken toe. We have decided to wrap the apartment in bubble wrap.
Here is Shonna's story:
I got it.... You were driving your rental car because (like Matt Bowers) your Porsche is in the shop. As you are unfamiliar with this new car you miss your off ramp while trying to figure out how to turn on the air. When you glance up again, you find yourself on some lonely, dirt road in Mexico. You know the one. The same one you always end up on when you're on half empty and running from the law or just happen to miss your exit on the freeway. That's the one. You pull over to figure out just where on that old familiar road you are. You look East and then West. This is gonna be harder than you thought. The last time you navigated this road was back in '73. You were wanted by a dozen different law enforcement agencies, nursing a wicked hangover with enough dead prostitutes and high grade cocaine in the trunk to make sure no judge would ever let you see the light of day again. You look East and West again, or Christ, was it North and South? Things were all starting to look the same. The sun beats down and the smell of the bodies in the trunk clings to your clothes and makes your throat tight. Yeah, it had been a long time since things had gotten this out of hand. You take a swig from the brown paper bag and enjoy the feel of the liquid as it burns its way down to your stomach. The sun beating down on you, the smell of booze and dead hookers, all such familiar scents, soothe away the doubt and anxiety. You squint down the road (it's like a fucked up face) and in the distance see something else familiar. The faint wink of a neon cross beckoned you home.
You pull the rental car up in front of Jesus' House of Worship, Wine and Wings and take in a deep fried breath of sin and chicken. Good old Jesus, always there when you need him. You give a wink and a nod to the small icon on the dashboard and head inside. You are led back to your booth, the one always reserved for you and your associates. Jesus is glad to see you as always but there is something about the way he brings your wine that lets you know something is up. He gives you the signal that the place isn't safe. You ask how many with your eyes. Jesus never loses his poker face (mainly because he's Jesus) and casually gestures two in the front one in the back and that, on Tuesdays, fat chicks ride for free. You ask Jesus for a distraction and he nods his head. The front doors burst and the reanimated corpses of the dead hookers shuffle through. You give Jesus a high five as you make your way for the secret back entrance. Before you can reach the door, a gun jams into your ribs. You freeze. "Not so fast, Shannan. You and your dead hookers won't be going anywhere today." You know that voice; it was the same voice that had been breathing down your neck the last 15 years. Agent Riley slowly turns you to face him. You open your mouth, insult ready when Jesus descends from nowhere and grabs Agent Riley's gun. There is a struggle and the gun goes off. You feel a sharp pain in your foot and stagger to the door. Jesus was more than capable of handling Riley. If things got too hot, he could always call in his dad for help. Your Dad, however, is not nearly as powerful.
The door closes behind you, muffling the sounds of screams and gunshots. You chuckle and mumble, "Never a dull moment at the house of Worship, Wine and Wings." You look down at the injured foot that has started to ache. Shit, it looked broken. Once you were back over the border, you were going to have to get that looked at. So that's your story. Jesus shot you by accident in a gun fight with the FBI and dead hookers. Happens every day.