Remember how in the "Aftermath" part of Monday’s post, which described the bachelor party I attended over the weekend, I complained that I had bruises all over my body?  Specifically all over my arms and the right side of my body and chest?  And that I had no idea how those bruises got there?

Well, some news.  I went to the doctor’s this morning for something unrelated (c’mon STD test – Uncle Jason’s made some questionable decisions lately and he really needs a big fat "negative" here), and it turns out that I have fractured ribs.

Winner.

Well, some news.  I went to the doctor’s this morning for something unrelated (c’mon STD test – Uncle Jason’s made some questionable decisions lately and he really needs a big fat "negative" here), and it turns out that Winner.

Fractured fucking ribs, which I got while drunk, which I have no recollection of getting. 

My family must be so, so proud.   

Prior to this, my biggest unknown drunken injury was that I broke or sprained my second metatarsal bone in my toe and had to wear a booty to work for two weeks (no idea how I did that either).  But fractured ribs?  I mean, fractured fucking ribs?  That’s a winner right there, folks.

I have to admit, I feel kinda justified here.  Since I got back from the bachelor party, I’ve been complaining to everyone within earshot that my ribs seriously hurt and that I haven’t been able to sleep.  Every time I yawn, stretch, sneeze, cough, sigh, or make a sudden movement, I’ve felt as though someone is squeezing the right side of my body from the inside. 

Not only that, but every time I poop or pee at work, I use the bathroom four floors up and take the stairs (this and this alone is how I managed to keep my weight loss off after seven months).  Four floors is perfect; it leaves me winded, but not so much that I’m either sweating through my work clothes or panting at the urinal while someone is peeing next to me and terrified.  But since I’ve gotten back from the bachelor party, I’ve noticed that I’ve gotten winded around the second flight of stairs, which is earlier than usual.  It’s also been difficult and painful to catch my breath.  And now I know why: according to my doctor, who went to Duke Medical School and is 100% Jewish, I fractured my ribs.  Because I’m a drunk. 

(In the interest of full disclosure, I admit that my doctor is a bit…interesting.  Last time he gave me an STD test, which was the White Lightening, he started by asking, "So, you have anything weird on your dick or your balls?"  He used the same line this time, but no White Lightening, thank god.  Also, he didn’t take an X-ray on my ribs but rather felt me up and said that I "likely" had a fractured rib(s).  But that’s all semantics.  Because you know what fractured ribs mean?  Codeine!)

(Yes, I now will have a medicine cabinet that contains (legal, proscribed) Xanax and (legal, proscribed) codeine.  We are all in big, big trouble.)   

(Yes, I now will have a medicine cabinet that contains (legal, proscribed) Xanax and (legal, proscribed) codeine.  We are all in big, big trouble.)   

I know it says a lot about me as a person – all negative – that I am very, very proud of myself right now, but I can’t help it.  I mean, I don’t have a lot going for me in terms of achievements – I barely graduated college (for disciplinary reasons), I don’t have a lot of friends and routinely betray the friends I do have, the strongest relationship I’ve had with a woman in the past six years has been with Elisha Cuthbert (and her 2004 Maxim cover), and I am more than like going to get a D- on my latest STD test – but I almost broke my ribs while drunk and I have no idea how it happened.

And this is not an exaggeration here; I really don’t know how it happened.  We played some football over the weekend, and there was some general roughhousing going on (you know how it happens at bachelor parties - some beers lead to some fighting, which leads to some wrestling, which leads to someone’s dick falling out, and before you know it the guy who does your website for you is crying because he’s not sure what he’s going to tell his girlfriend ,and you’re all like, "Dude, a mouth is a mouth – just get over it," etc).  But there wasn’t any major fight that went down, I don’t think.  My only explanation would be if someone slept walk and attacked me in my sleep.  I joked about that earlier, but I don’t see any other way, unless I forget getting hit by a car.  

What’s more shocking is how this happened physiologically (not the right word, but bear with me).  Not that my ribs are padded by a layer of muscle by any means, but that my diet consists of so much dairy – and subsequently so much calcium – that my bones should be able to break down most small dams. I can’t recall the last vegetable I had that didn’t have "cream" before it or the last meal I ate that didn’t have a significant amount of dairy (milk, ice cream, extra cheese, milkshake, etc).   

Of course, none of that matters now.  All I have to do is limit my physical exertion (not a problem) and take some codeine for pain (also not a problem) and they’ll heal eventually.  I just wanted to share the good news with you, but must recommend that you not try this at home.  God did not bless me with much, but he did give me a tremendous capacity to break myself when I’m drunk.  Sure, now that I’m really thinking about it, maybe that’s not such a good thing, but it’s something I have to live with – and something I choose to celebrate.     

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go take some codeine, lie on my couch, and think of the best way to tell my friends that we shouldn’t share drinks anymore, due to my herpes/chlamydia/"we don’t even know what it is, but we know it’s not good."