I tell you guys, I must have one hell of a "kick me" sign on my back these days. Well, these months, really. It is never ending. Seriously... am I some kind of shit magnet? Because the fecal matter just keeps flying my way. Here I am -- I'm feeling better, I'm up and around gimping my way through the world, and then guess what happens? Boom! My brother-in-law has a "senior moment" and gets us into a car accident. Yep, that's right... add "car wreck" to my list of "bullshit I have had to endure this year." Amazeballs.

Come on God, it's like shooting fish in a barrel at this point. Where's the challenge, big guy? You can't tell me there isn't some tremendous douche biscuit out there just cruising for a bruising at the hands of ol' fickle fate. I mean, kicking the crippled guy while he's down? That's just lazy.

So I've got one of those neck braces now. I feel like filing a frivolous lawsuit. It's humorous at this point. I'm sitting here like some jackhole, in my bad dog collar... being punished. I don't know why. I'm a pretty good guy. I haven't gotten up to too much trouble these days. Shit, it's just me and my minerals, not hurting anyone.

Yeah, I'm working a case, but this whipping boy crap has nothing to do with that. Guess I'm just the unluckiest sonofabitch out there right now. Maybe it'll turn around soon, and I'll be hit with some major good luck. I should probably start buying lottery tickets. Course, the way things have been going these days, I'd probably have some allergic reaction to the ink on the tickets and swell up like an elephant... start bleeding out the eyes. Maybe catch a little flesh-eating bacteria from the petri dish of a men's room door handle. I would not be surprised at this point. Hell, I'm surprised I haven't come down with rectal cancer or some shit. That is how shitball bizarre my luck is lately. Still kicking though. Just call me the Black Knight. It's just a flesh wound!

My brother-in-law feels like hell over this, obviously. I'm inclined to forgive him. The guy was doing me a favor at the time anyway. But I will say, this was the last straw for sure in my whole having to rely on other people to get anywhere or do anything schtick. That's right -- I'm getting myself a fancy ass gimp-mobile. The wife hates it when I call it that, but why sugarcoat it? All I need's a leather hood and a ball gag. Nah, she might like that too much.

Whatever... I've got pride, but you gotta weigh the options. It's the lesser of two evils. Now I'll be able to drive myself around, rather than being chauffeured like Schmucky LeDouche. I'll be able to work this case a little better. Marie's motherhenning me half to death, but what can you do? I'm on the job. I refuse to let insignificant shit like gunshot wounds, paralysis, or car wrecks bring me down. Child's play.