Yesterday was my second session of physical therapy for my knee. The first installment can be read here.

I walked into the office and Ann was standing at the front desk with the receptionist talking to an older couple. The couple looked like they were in their early 70’s, and they were asking Ann and the receptionist if they knew where was the closest place to get a good hotdog. That’s not a conversation one stumbles upon often. I thought it was ironic that they were asking Ann, a suspected lesbian, where to find a good wiener. “She’s the last person who would know!” I pretended to say to the couple. I had a hearty chuckle to myself. Surprisingly, Ann seemed to be well informed on where good hotdogs can be found.

Ann took me back to the room, and she began the session with fifteen minutes of stimming. She asked me how my knee was feeling, and as I was responding I realized that a John Cougar song was playing on the radio. It wasn’t “Hurt So Good,” but “Ain’t Even Done With the Night” was enough to make me come within a hair of bursting out loud into laughter.

The physical therapy gods answered my prayers, and Big Pussy had the day off. Instead, a younger man who I shall call Ron came in and administered the magical ultrasound treatment. I could actually feel it when Ron did it this time, which confirmed my belief that Big Pussy was a boob who didn’t know what he was doing. When Big Pussy did it, it merely felt like someone rubbing a K-Y covered light bulb on my knee. Ron was pretty cool but a tad bit too chatty for my liking and a bit too enthusiastic about being a physical therapist. But again, I was thankful he wasn’t Big Pussy.

Ron asked me how I injured my knee and asked me if I was a runner. “A runner?” I said, “Do I look like a person who doesn’t have anything better to do with his time than aimlessly run through the streets, Jack? No, actually a few weeks ago, it seemed that every night when I turned on Comedy Central, Larry the Cable Guy was on. That guy ca-racks me up!” Then, doing my best Larry the Cable Guy impression, I said,” My neighbor said he wanted to get married and I told him he should go play the field so 3 weeks later he went out and knocked up a pig!” I continued in my normal voice, “After a week of watching Larry the Cable Guy, I slapped my knee so damned hard every night from laughing hysterically that I seemed to have injured myself.”

Ron then massaged my knee. I was disappointed that Ann didn’t do it. He didn’t seem to have the power in his hands that Ann did, but thankfully he didn’t go nearly as far up my thigh as Ann did because that would have been creepy, Wally. He did start talking about the Steelers. I’m not much of one to talk sports, but I didn’t mind this time given that I had another man’s hands all over my bare leg.

Sadly, Ann didn’t treat me anymore except for slapping an ankle weight on. Ron did the rest. He put the pin in the weight stack on the leg machine and adjusted the seat for me on the stationary bike, all while telling me everything I ever wanted to know about the human knee but was too afraid to ask. The highlight of that part of the therapy was when we shared a tender moment when he crouched down to listen to my knee click when I was on the weight machine.

Ron scheduled my next two appointments for next week. As I was leaving, Ron said, “It was a pleasure meeting you. I’ll see you next week.” I replied, “Well, it’s time to go home, and I ain’t even done with the night.”

[Cue music: John Cougar’s “Ain’t Even Done With the Night”]

[Fade to black]

One of my knees began hurting a few weeks ago. Since I didn’t do anything strenuous that would have injured my knee, I wrote off the pain as a sign that it was going to rain. After several days of clear, sunny skies and increased pain in my knee, I figured that there must be one hell of a storm brewing for my knee to be hurting so badly. I purchased canned goods, gallon jugs of water, and hard candy and magazines to entertain myself during the extended blackout that I anticipated would follow the impending severe storm. Much to my dismay, after about four weeks of increased pain and swelling and the absence of any significant amounts of rainfall, I decided to call my PCP. He referred me to an orthopedic doctor.

After a few X-rays, a brief examination and never telling me what was wrong with my knee, the orthopedic doctor told me that he wanted me to go to physical therapy and that he would see me in a month. I was relieved that he didn’t have to insert any painful irrigation devices into my knee and I was overjoyed that there would be no severe weather in the immediate future. Hobbling around like Walter Brennan and the extreme pain was bad enough; adding weeks of news coverage of another “tornado” like the one that hit Mt. Washington a few years ago (tornado, my ass!) would have been too much for me to bear.

Yesterday was my first physical therapy session. After filling out the requisite paperwork where I checked off that I never had the gout or piles, a physical therapist came out to get me. I’ll call her Ann. She was a mildly attractive woman, in her early 40’s, nicely dressed and I could tell she was physically fit. She had short dark hair, wore no make-up and my overactive mind deduced that her weathered complexion was the result of her running ten miles per day and biking or hiking with her dog on the weekends. As I sat on the examination table, she pulled and twisted my leg to determine what the problem was and the type of physical therapy she should employ. It was then that I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I put 2 and 2 together and determined that she was a lesbian. I pictured her driving a Suzuki Gran Vitara with a rainbow sticker on the window and her dog in the back seat. “Ahhh yes, of course,” I said to myself as I scratched my chin.

After having me lay down on the table and examining me further, she pinpointed the muscle causing me grief and said, “I think I’m going to stim that. I’ll be right back.” While she was gone I thought, “Stim? That sounds painful. I hope it doesn’t hurt. I’ve never been stimmed before.” She returned with some sort of electronic device and I soon learned that “stim” was physical therapy jargon for “stimulate.” She hooked me up and turned on the device. Ten seconds on, ten seconds off, for fifteen minutes. It didn’t hurt, but it felt like I had a small rodent wriggling under my skin for ten seconds at a time. She gave me a little bell to ring in case I needed anything, and then she turned out the lights and exited the room. So there I laid, holding a tiny bell on my chest while this contraption “stimmed” my leg. I felt like a doofus and I began to laugh uncontrollably.

After the fifteen minutes elapsed, the door opened and a male physical therapist walked in. “Shit, where’s Ann?” I thought to myself. This guy looked like a younger version of Big Pussy from the Sopranos. He was about 35 pounds overweight. “This load is a physical therapist? What kind of physical therapy could he possibly be qualified to treat—sore elbows from eating too many meatballs?” He squirted lubricant on my leg and proceeded to rub some sort of deep heating device on my knee. Well, it made sense that this fat ass would do this type of physical therapy which consisted of him making circles and swirls around my knee with the device, requiring about as much physical exertion as it does to stir a pot of tomato sauce. After he was done with performing this sorry excuse of justifying his paycheck, Ann returned.

Ann began to pull and yank at my leg again. Then she said, “I don’t know why this muscle is so tight. I’m going to dig in.” She squirted some K-Y on my leg and proceeded to massage the hell out the muscle. Ann has a strong set of hands. As she massaged from my knee up to my thigh, it hurt like a bastard. The only thing that made it tolerable was the realization that I had a lesbian’s K-Y covered hands massaging my upper thigh. The only thing that could have made it more perfect would have been if John Cougar had been there singing “Hurts So Good.”

After a few ineffective exercises with ankle weights, I rode the stationary bike and I was on my way home. I go back for my second session in a day or two. I hope Big Pussy has the day off.

A friend of mine lent me one of his Johnny Carson DVD’s, and it contained a John Byner appearance in which he told one of his classic jokes:

Pat Harrington and Joyce Bulifant are at a nudist colony. Pat turns to Joyce and says, “Hey Joyce, can I stick my finger in your belly button?” Joyce replies, “Sure, I guess so.” Pat proceeds to do so until Joyce exclaims, “Hey! That wasn’t my belly button!” To which Pat replies, “Well, that wasn’t my finger!”

Whatever happened to giving someone the bum’s rush? You never hear of anyone giving or receiving the bum’s rush anymore. Giving someone the bum’s rush was a commonplace happening when I was growing up on the mean streets of Bloomfield. It kept people in line.

Pound for pound, Brian Setzer is the greatest living guitarist.

Tom Waits is suing mad at General Motors’ European division for allegedly using a sound-alike to mimic his distinctive boozy rasp for spots advertising GM’s Opel car line in Scandivania. “Commercials are an unnatural use of my work,” Waits said. “It’s like having a cow’s udder sewn to the side of my face. Painful and humiliating.” Coincidentally, that is why Bea Arthur always has a scarf tied around her neck, to hide a cow udder.

Matt Lauer reported on the Today show this morning New Jersey state representatives are considering naming Bruce Springsteen’s “Born To Run” the official state song. Since the state of Pennsylvania is unwavering in it’s support of “Yellow Rose of Texas” the city of Pittsburgh has decided to run it’s own campaign to name “West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys as the official song of Pittsburgh.

I know the Steelers first round draft pick has all of the tools to be a great tight end but to already name a candy bar the “Heath Bar” is going a bit too fast. Remember Mario Lemieux had to at least score a few goals before the ” Mario Bunn” came out.

I was amazed that People magazine decided to put Paula Abdul on the cover the same week Pope Benedict XVI was elected.

I realize she’s from the Pittsburgh area and I’m happy for the extension of her fifteen minutes of fame but Amber Brkich must have some serious incriminating evidence on “Survivor” and every other reality based T.V. show creator Mark Burnett. Seriously folks , there is no other reason to keep putting “Rob and Amber” on television.

Do yourself a favor and check out the Gratis en Espanol section of Comcast on Demand. The free movies or “Cine”, as the Spanish would have you believe, are hilarious . The gratuitous nudity is tres magnifique as well .

I noticed the french photograph called “The Kiss” fetched $250,000. I have a video filmed by a drywaller as I banged his wife that should fetch at least half that.

I noticed the police sketch of the man wanted for shooting a police officer in Forest Hills. Not to make light of this because I do feel for the police officer who was shot and anybody who comes into contact with the suspect but I do have a solution for stopping these perps before they even get started . Arrest on the spot anybody who buys a black knit cap!

Enjoy your day! Support Local Business! Nic Armstrong and The Thieves!

This past week The Detroit Free Press punished sports columnist Mitch Albom for writing an article about the NCAA Final Four basketball games two days in advance of the actual games. What tipped off the editors of the Free Press was the statement that two former Michigan State basketball players , Mateen Cleaves and Jason Richardson, were in attendance rooting on the Spartans. The fact is Cleaves and Richardson were originally going to go to the game but had a change of plans the day of the game. There were other inconsistencies in the story as well. Albom referred to the teams as “the team that won” and “the team that lost”. He stated that “the team that won” scored more baskets than “the team that lost”. He also claimed “the team that lost” made more mistakes than “the team that won”. He also proclaimed how happy the coach of “the team that won” was and how unhappy the coach of “the team that lost” was. The punishment for the act was not released but the editor for the Free Press stated that it would be harsh but he would take into account Mitch Albom’s 22 years of exemplary service to the Free Press.

While investigating the column, researches also found some inconsistencies in other Mitch Albom writings. The researchers found out that one of the people in Mitch Albom’s “Five People You Will Meet in Heaven” hasn’t even died yet. When Pat Summerall was informed of this oversight he roared “that no good motherless whore.” “Tell, Albom to stop by, I’ll show him just how alive I really am,” challenged Summerall.

The researchers also found scraps of roughdrafts from Albom’s award winning “Tuesdays with Morrie”. It seems that Albom wanted to call his book “Tuesday March 2,2006 with Morrie” but decided against it. It seems Mitch Albom was also preparing a column about this year’s Stanley Cup final. “I would have loved to have read that column,” said Don Cherry former NHL Coach and broadcaster for Hockey Night in Canada. “If anybody could have wrote a compelling column about a game that never happened it’s Mitch Albom.” continued Cherry.

When asked what prompted his phony story on the NCAA Final Four, Mitch Albom replied “Did you see the knockers on that Louisville cheerleader?” “What would you do?!!!”