I've been traveling interstate Amurka this week, but I made it home in time to make my doctor's appointment today. I've been having knee pain. Turns out I have the same thing that Mark McGwire had. Patellar tendonosis (or some such thing). I guess my career as a home run hitter is over.

On Tuesday I was somewhere in the heartland when I felt a great disturbance in the dark side of The Force. It was as if the voice of millions of haters had suddenly gone silent. It wasn't until Wednesday morning that I learned from my complimentary hotel copy of USA Today that Jerry Falwell had died. I'm sure there's already another intolerant, gay-bashing snake-oil salesman stepping into his shoes, but I couldn't help thinking that way out there past the decimal point, the percentage of goodness in the world took a little bump upward.

Dammit! I had a whole Falwell spiel wrapped up with a pink bow and burning hotly on my brain when my keyboard batteries suddenly followed him into the light. I immediately checked the old green Tupperware container where we store such things in this household, and I was actually able to find the required 4 AA batteries for my keyboard. The problem is that they were three different kinds of AA batteries and I just could not force myself to use them. It's one of those weird little personality quirks I inherited from my father; it's the If-A-Job-Is-Worth-Doing-It-Not-Only-Must-Be-Done-Right-It-Must-Be-Done-In-A-Completely-Anal-Retentive-Manner Disorder. It flares up sometimes, leaving me spitefully filleting my own nose while my face looks on in embarrassment. Not only can I not mix battery brands within any one device, I can't put 2 different kinds of motor oil in my vehicles. I also can't mix water with whiskey or buy cheap tools.

So then it's off the store to buy batteries. Feeling a little chagrined at my inability to use the batteries I have, I decided to swallow my pride and punish myself by patronizing the local, recently super-sized Wal-Mart (It's also nearby and I was in a hurry to write my Falwell screed). I held my head high and tried to look disdainful as I strolled to the electronics department in the back of the store. My disdainful look needs work though. I caught my reflection in the door of a microwave and I looked more constipated than anything. Anyway, when I finally found the batteries I found quite a large selection, including some very expensive ones that were supposed to last up to 7 times longer (7X LONGER!!). My disorder was still in mid flare-up when I decided these were definitely the batteries for me. Reasoning that my kids don't need to eat every day, I grabbed a pack and headed for the checkout. But the batteries wouldn't come off the peg! They were on these special pegs that don't allow the customer to pull them off. I guess you have to get help from one of their associates to buy the high-dollar batteries. I don't know because I didn't buy them. Anger clears my head and nothing pisses me off like a business blatantly passing on their security responsibility to the customer. Gas stations that make you pay before pumping are at the top of that particular shit list for me.

So not only did I not buy the expensive batteries, I didn't buy the cheap ones either. At least not there. Instead I left there mumbling about fricking, fracking Wal-Mart and made a 20 mile trip to buy the same cheap ones at the Not-Wal-Mart store two towns over. And of course my wise and wonderful Jerry Falwell beat-down is long gone. It's no wonder people sometimes look at me funny, I often don't understand myself and I work at it. Sigh. I think I'll go see how well I can hold down a bar stool.