Plaxico Burress had shot himself in the leg, and the pain from it was killing him.
The irony of this was lost on Plaxico, for in this moment, when he was on the ground bleeding vast amounts of blood, and all those around him were screaming and yelling, Plaxico Burress was thinking about other things, and not the pain in his leg.
The leg he had shot.
Plaxico Burress was a professional football player of some note, and on his best days, he knew he was one of the best professional football players in the National Football League.
It was for that reason, and because of his status as a Super Bowl Champion, that Plaxico Burress could walk into any trendy dancing club, in any city, in any country, and demand the best table in the establishment.
Plaxico had thought long and hard that morning, as he ate an expensive name brand cereal in his breakfast nook, about which of the many clubs – any of which he could demand the best table at – he would go to that night.
It was a Saturday, and so Plaxico Burress knew that many of the clubs would be “hoppin”, as his hamstring liked to phrase it. Of course, Plaxico again missed the irony of his hamstring talking to him, for in this moment, Plaxico Burress’s hamstring was injured, and he knew it didn’t want to go to the hoppin, trendy dance clubs at all.
Hamstrings, he also knew, couldn’t talk.
“Unless it’s a metaphor,” he said quietly to himself, and out loud. Plaxico was tall, and he was good with metaphors. He also liked fast cars and loud movies, and loud movies about fast cars.
And so, as Plaxico Burress ate his expensive name brand cereal, and bickered metaphorically with his hamstring, he used the online internet to determine which of the many hoppin clubs he knew of – the ones at which he could demand tables – that he would go to.
Thus, and furthermore, and etc, back in the present, as he lie on the ground bleeding, and everyone around him was screaming and yelling, Plaxico Burress was having mixed feelings about not listening to his hamstring’s clever metaphors that morning, in his breakfast nook.
For minutes ago – four, to be exact – Plaxico Burress’s hamstring was again complaining via metaphor about being out at the hoppin club, despite the nice table Plaxico had acquired for them.
It was for this reason that Plaxico Burress had shot himself in the leg, and he knew before he did it that he would lose his contract with his National Football League team, and that he would go to jail, and worst of all, Plaxico knew that the online internet sports blogs would say mean things about him.
What none of the online internet sports blogs knew, however, was that as he lay on the floor of the hoppin, trendy dance club, Plaxico Burress’s hamstring was at last quiet.
It was not making him listen to its metaphors, and Plaxico Burress could concentrate only on the pain, which was killing him.
Plaxico was a complex man, who liked expensive name brand cereals, and loud movies about fast cars, but in this moment, despite the vast amounts of blood he was losing, Plaxico Burress was at peace.
(If you liked this, you’re gonna love what I’ve been working on – the creative explosion I’ve alluded to.)
Go put this in like other places:
Big love to the big big precious that is Savor Chat.
