Dream control is of the utmost importance.  I often have nightmares about swatting flies while directing traffic as an orchestra leader signaling to start the clock in my referee outfit.  I went to the doctor’s about this malady and was diagnosed with Armus Gesticulitis which should not be confused with the late tennis pro. With this much arm action going on, I could severely injure my wife while slumbering.  Even before my cast she had to protect herself by wearing a catcher’s mask to bed at night.  For enhanced safety she now sports the chest protector, cup, and shin guards.  She counts balls and strikes to help her get to sleep. She dreams about throwing Ricky Henderson out stealing second base. She talks like Yogi Berra while snoozing.

          Generally speaking, my overall quality of life has diminished since the manmade rigormortis set in.  I gave myself whiplash when trying to put on my seat belt.  Becoming impatient with my inability to cut a piece of steak, I wolfed down a rather large sinewy morsel.  The burley waiter, while administering the Heimlich Maneuver, cracked my ribs and collapsed my left lung while dislodging the filet from my airway.  I inflicted a rather impressive gash on my right hand while opening a can of cat food.  I badly shanked a wedge shot while chipping one handed  in my back yard. I watched in horror as the 432 dimpled,  90 compression,  xxxxx’d out,  Max-fli  golf ball caromed off my neighbor’s forehead as he installed a small yet powerful satellite dish near a second story family room window. I am no longer invited to watch Pay-per-view events for free while guzzling beer with the guys.