Canker Wanker

And so it passes that I gather enough courage to agree to a game of squash one fine evening not too long ago. It was a day when the air was dischargeheavy with energypopping contagion. Something was up but the squishnumb activity around me knocked the questionmark right out. And it seems it jarred all sense out of my feeble mind in a nimble doublewhammy applausebuttoned number.

SQUASH! Was I out of my ageblistered mind? Has banging around in a lockedempty vault affected my brain so?

It is always a surprise I guess. Only yesterday it seems I was taking the best on with ease. It came easy to me although the game itself never held any lasting attraction. I was everywhere and nowhere. I was in and out, left and right , forward and back all at the same time. I had one over elan and dexterity. I was the multilimbed muchhrevered god of SQUASH.

But I was set to figure things out the difficult way. The only way. FInd out about the canker that sets in after twoscores years of bodily toll. At one stage during the ordeal, my right shoulder was playing buggers with my game. It felt like the damn thing had come to its senses and was trying to flee its cankerous abode. It gave up trying to stretch my shoulder and started working its way out through my arse. Such was the nature of the screechviolent pain that distended through my body.

At this time I was reduced to a whimpering shadow of myself hurdled in a corner of the court, steering foul words from four different languages into new dashing combinations. The knees and ankles had long dropped off. Something was sticking a hot poker between the third and fourth lumber in my lower back.

Bugger this!