Hola, amigos. I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I've been getting the shit end of the stick lately. It's not like I had much going on as far as work. Since I busted my leg on the roofing job, I've been getting paid for staying home. It was pretty sweet for a while, watching the checks roll in while I caught up on my tube-watching and video-game-playing. But then I started to go a little stir crazy. I couldn't drive, because I couldn't bend that leg, and it took forever to walk anywhere on crutches.

Finally, last weekend, I had to go out, because I couldn't get anyone to come drop me off provisions. Can you believe that? I'm suffering with a broken leg, with a whole week left before my cast comes off, and no one will help a pal out. Wes was out of town on vacation, so he gets a pass. But that douchebag Ron wasn't returning any of my phone calls, on account of he's still pissed that I walked out on that carbonics-plant job he got me.

Well, I held out as long as I could, but finally, you know, I was out of food and beer. I decided I was going to have to be like a pioneer and bravely go out into the wild. I dug my old high-school backpack out of the clothes closet, picked up my crutches, and hobbled out the front door, down the porch steps, and up the street to the store. After the first block, I was this close to turning back. But I thought of that empty fridge, and I knew I had to just do it.

When I finally got to the store, I bought a 12-pack of Miller Genuine Draft and jammed it into the main pouch of the backpack. Then I crammed as many microwave burritos as I could into the side pockets and headed back home.

It was harder than I thought, using crutches with a backpack on my shoulders. Halfway home, I had to stop a while and rest. I guess sitting around waiting for a broken leg to heal takes a lot out of you. When I was just about a block away from home, the zipper on my backpack broke. The 12-pack hit the ground, and cans went rolling everywhere. One of them busted and took off like a racecar, spraying beer all over the damn place.

I had a hell of a time bending over to pick up the cans while balanced on my crutches. I had an even harder time trying to hold the bag shut with one hand while I crutched home. Just when I was finally going up the stairs of my place, I lost my grip on my bag, and the cans fell out again, along with a couple burritos. I decided to get what I could into the house and hurry back for the rest of the beer before someone made a play for it. I thought I was making good time, but sure enough, when I came back outside, some of the neighborhood kids were grabbing cans. They took off when I hollered at them, but they took three beers and a couple burritos with them. So that was four MGDs that I paid for that I wasn't going to get to drink.

It took me a couple more minutes to get the cans into the apartment. You better believe that the first thing I did was kick back and crack open one of those beers. Well, guess what? It exploded on me. Beer went everywhere except for in my mouth. All that was left of the beer was about half a can of foam, but I downed it as fast as I could.

I was pretty sweaty from my workout, and I was soaked in beer. I realized that I hadn't hosed off in a couple of days. It's a real pain in the ass to put a plastic bag over your leg just to shower, but I decided that there was no better time than the present.

I'm supposed to use a garbage bag to cover my cast, but I was all out. But I got the great idea of using the worthless backpack. I put my foot in it and duct-taped up the opening. Man, that was a good shower. After I dried off, I had a few more beers, shot some zombies, and went to bed.

But then, the next day, my leg started itching. And not like it had been the past couple weeks, but bad, like the time I got poison ivy. My scratching stick wasn't doing any good. Then, the stick broke off in there, leaving like a three-inch chunk in my cast. I couldn't reach it for anything. That's when the itching really started to drive me crazy.

I called my doctor, but it was the weekend, so he was probably out golfing or something. I couldn't wait until Monday, and even if I could, there was no way I was going to take three buses to the hospital. Since there was only a week left before the cast could come off, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I went over to my tool drawer and gathered supplies. I got out some pliers, a screwdriver, and a steak knife I took from a restaurant while I was a dishwasher. I also found a hacksaw—not like I was going to use it right off the bat, but I wanted to have it as a backup in case everything else failed. Then I went to town. I cut and sawed and pulled off as much of the bitch as I could. After an hour, I had three playing-card-sized chunks of fiberglass off of the cast and an ambulance on the way.

They needed to take off the cast in order to get at the stab wound. I guess that was the good part. But they had to bandage up the leg to make sure my stitches didn't get infected. They also gave me an antibiotic to take for the skin infection I had. That fucking cut was deep. They said I was lucky I didn't bleed to death.

Well, that hospital trip is probably gonna use up all of my cash, so I'm gonna have to get back to work as soon as I heal up. As soon as I can, I'm gonna tell Ron that if he hadn't been such a dick about giving me a ride, none of this would have happened. I hope he feels bad enough to give me that carbonics job again.