Death on the Stairs

There are two things in the world I hate: the food at T.G.I. Friday's and the sustaining of any sort of trauma to my scrotal area. I endured both Friday night.

We were at T.G.I. Friday's because every other restaurant in the Bay Area closes at eleven. My ball bag was injured because I tried to do something fancy on a tiny little motorcycle in the parking lot of T.G.I. Friday's.

My chicken sandwich tasted like what I imagine human meat must taste like, and the fries were flaccid and soggy. My nutsack, meanwhile, has taken on a dark purplish hue, in addition to being tender and alarmingly swollen. The aching dissipated after Saturday, though.

The batteries in my camera are dead. Your loss.