Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies: On Myths, Morons, Free Speech, Football, and Assorted Absurdities (23 page)

P
laying sports all my life has made me quite familiar with the multiple flavors of pain a body can experience. Some hurt worse than others! Here is a tasting guide to all the wonderful sensations I’ve been lucky enough to feel, most of which lasted an entire game or longer (some of them much, much longer).

Strained Groin has a spicy yet long-lasting bouquet filled with aromas of Grimacing and Wince. It starts out with a small gremlin perched right above the hip dancing around on needle-tip claws that gently sink into the tendon with every motion. When the muscles are engaged to punt a ball, the gremlin pulls out a white-hot sword and plunges it into the inner thigh, producing a sharp jolt of burning stabbityness. Thankfully, this lasts only for a brief
second; unthankfully, it’s replaced by him spinning the sword around like a high-rpm drill bit when foot hits ball. Then he leaves the sword there, still whirling away. The next time punting is required, he grabs another sword (I have no idea where he keeps all of them) and repeats the process. I recommend Strained Groin for those wishing to experience the joys of castration without the permanency.

This wonderful selection has a deep, harsher taste—reminiscent of a piston hammering down on an exposed nerve—that ends with a grinding twist, similar to popping a chicken drumstick away from the thigh. Exploded ACL (Nonkicking Leg) is immediately recognizable to observers by its beautifully rich color of Writhing and Clutch, complemented by a brief flash of Scream. The subsequent six months (postsurgery) are a harmonious medley of dull lead-swollen aching, bright nails-on-chalkboard pain spikes, and absolute-zero icicles spearing under the kneecap when too much pressure is applied. I recommend this vintage for those not wanting to walk for an extended period of time.

Similar to Exploded ACL (Nonkicking Leg), Exploded ACL (Kicking Leg) starts off with a buckling wrench, much like stepping down on a surface that is no longer there. Warm stiffness immediately envelops the senses; it’s initially misleading due to its remarkable similarity to Strain or Tweak but recognizable by a true connoisseur as the piquant bursts of weakness and instability
creep through. Attempting to kick a football is much like swinging your leg through a cloud of marshmallow—much energy is expended, but the resulting punt is generally slow and less than ideal. Exploded ACL (Kicking Leg) is a longer-lasting vintage, potentially anywhere from three to six weeks, depending on willpower and pertinent information shared by doctors, but it eventually gives way to the familiar taste of Exploded ACL (Nonkicking Leg) (postsurgery). I recommend Exploded ACL (Kicking Leg) for the experienced professional only, as too much exposure can lead to deleterious side effects, including Permanent Dragfoot.

Sprained Ankles come in multiple flavors, but they all share the common theme of sick nausea creeping up the leg intermingled with piercing lightning bolts whenever weight is borne on the affected area. This is a more subtle flavor than the previously mentioned injuries, and one that can sneak up on the palate most surprisingly, oftentimes catching the subject quite unaware and leaving him breathless. Trying to punt with Sprained Ankle is particularly unique when the sprain is located on the kicking foot. The appendage in question tends to flop around like a gasping fish stranded on the deck of a boat, and the ball acts as a gaff hook that dashes its brains into oblivion, leaving it limp and lifeless. A delicate filigree of acid etches its way up the nervous system and slowly settles in, pulsing gently in time with the rhythm of one’s heartbeat. I recommend Sprained Ankle to novices and experts alike, as it never really loses its initial surge of vivacity, no matter how many times you experience it.

This is one of my personal favorites, as it provides the tight, winding constriction of a barbed-wire boa constrictor along with a passive helplessness infused into its entire core. Trying to accomplish even the simplest of tasks can lead to an overwhelming flurry of sensations coursing throughout the entire body—dominant strains of Gasp and Sob overriding the more earthy tones of Gritted Teeth and Indrawn Breath, with Withered Hunch underlying them all. Wrenched Back can be enhanced by the application of an epidural, which feels like a drainpipe being shoved into your spinal cord. This will quickly drown out and numb the other flavors, though, so beware of using it before you’ve experienced the full suite of Wrenched Back. I recommend this one to anyone wondering what utter frailty feels like.

I’ve had the joy of encountering this delightful mélange of sensations multiple times, and it always delivers a zesty punch. The first taste concentrates all the senses into a tightly packed knot of jagged steel edges trapped halfway along the back of the leg, like a small caltrop buried tightly within the flesh. Any sort of strenuous motion sets the barbs in deeper and deeper, radiating concentric tremors of spastic fire into the surrounding muscle fibers until a dull flame has engulfed the entire backside. Kicking with Pulled Hamstring is breathtakingly invigorating, and I cannot stress the
breathtakingly
part enough. I urge anyone who wants to feel the physical snapping of a rubber band within his body to try Pulled Hamstring, but set aside several weeks of quality time to recover from the riotous sense explosion.

Trick Knee is perhaps the most intense of the flavors, not due to its initial impact, but because of its sustained presence. It starts out fairly strong—the kneecap slides over to the side while the meniscus folds itself underneath, producing a sudden contraction of the entire body due to the feeling of dislocation welling up. A surge of tight restriction emanates from the locale as tense muscles quiver like overtuned violin strings, and the feeling of shifting the kneecap back in place is very similar to cracking a knuckle (and in fact can produce an audible
pop,
adding a delightful aural component to the mix). The brief absence of pain gives a delicious juxtaposition to the grinding of bone on bone when the knee is bent and used once again, much like two pumice stones rubbing against each other. Short, shooting stars of stabbing light randomly flash through the joint for days thereafter, giving the overall sensation a long, dry finish. I recommend Trick Knee for anyone searching for ways to entertain children and horrify medical professionals when they test for ACL stability.

These are but a few of the countless items in my personal reserve. Some vintages are longer lasting than others, some are yet to be discovered, but all of them are unique in their devilish complexity. I recommend pairing any of them with large amounts of morphine.

To all the writers of all the books I’ve read, and
to all the writers of all the books I haven’t read:
thank you

W
hat do we put forth on the page when we write? Thoughts? Feelings? Concepts, ideas—anger, justice, pain, love, loss, words we make up to define what we but dimly understand? Is it even possible to tell the same story twice?

Think of a single word. We’ll use
soul
as our example. How do you define
soul
? Is it the same definition I use? Can it ever be? My
soul
is not your
soul
. Our
souls
, our definitions, are shaped by the singular and cumulative experiences in our lives, the emotional weight we attach to a concept forever locked in the space behind our own eyes.

It will not always be this way. Think of a book, one composed
not of black letters on a white page but of emotions, memories, mind states placed in dis/ordered arrays such that we can actually
know
another person’s soul. Instead of reading words on a page, we dive into a cloud of sensation, fractal-pathing hyperlinks branching out in endless information. Brain patterns are constantly uploaded, shared, sampled, tasted; technology finally allows us to talk with each other.

Imagine actually
knowing
another person. Imagine sharing that solitary space, the one that each of us is currently imprisoned in, gray walls of mono thought (that once seemed so vivid and real) dissolving outward into riotous-colored community. Does she/he love what did you think about the play outside together we dance faster than photons.

Would you like a singularity? One waits around the corner, all encompassing, cheerfully communicating, biding time until
I
turns to
we.

A poet once said, “I contain multitudes.” He was more right than he ever knew.

M
y wife asked me to write this; I think she may be eyeing the life-insurance payout. Regardless, here is a eulogy for myself, written by myself, about myself.

W
e are gathered here today to remember the life of Christopher James Kluwe, son of Ronald and Sandra, husband of Isabel, father of Olivia and Remy. He probably died while doing something stupid, but that’s the way life goes. C’est la vie.

Remember Chris not as an athlete, or an activist, or a father or brother or husband. Remember him as an ordinary human being, full of carbon and hydrogen and oxygen (and some trace elements), just like everyone else. He put his pants on one leg at a time (he tried doing two once and fell on his face); he pissed and crapped and had sex in all the usual messy ways; and he lived his life faithful to what he believed in.

Justice. Empathy. Honesty.

Treating others the way he wanted to be treated. Noticing if an action was fair to everyone involved and speaking out against it if it was not. Hiding as little as possible (we all need a piece of the id for ourselves) and telling the truth, but to inform, not to wound.

Remember him as a liar (a quality all good writers possess), but one cognizant of the damage lies can do. Remember him as selfish and needy, spending time on himself before others, a habit we all need to break. Remember him for all the petty slights and paltry insults an unthinking mind can dispense.

Above all, remember him as human. Complex, varied, tangled. Remember his irreverent sense of humor, because goddamn if this speech isn’t getting stuffy. Seriously, what is wrong with all you people, why aren’t you in the back eating ice cream cake? I mean, there is ice cream cake here, right? It’s my funeral, there better be some friggin’ ice cream cake (I’ll try to keep the language toned down for all the little ones present).

You want to know how you should remember me? Search your own memories! How did I act to you, how did I influence your life, what dreams did I inspire you to pursue, THAT’S how you should remember me. I know how I lived my life; only you know how you’ll live yours.

Now go! Go dance, celebrate, eat, drink, and be merry! Funerals can be such ridiculously boring occasions, and that’s not what I was about. I want you to laugh at the priest, thumb your nose at any sort of authority or structure, and take advantage of every second you have left—we never know when it’ll end.

I want you to have a party, damn it, and it better be good, because that’s what I always wanted out of life—the chance to
laugh and enjoy the ride. To that end, the following rules shall be imposed:

—Whenever someone says, “Do you remember that time when…?” he shall have to take one large gulp of his drink (which better be alcoholic) (kids, you can use root beer; your parents will thank me later).

—If at any point a person references an old Internet meme (it’s over nine thousand, oh really, cool story, bro, it’s a trap, all your base are belong to us, etc.), he shall have to take two gulps of his drink and then sing the nyan cat song for five seconds.

—If at any time a person successfully rickrolls someone else, he may force the other person to finish his or her drink.

—I’m never gonna give you up.

—I’m never gonna let you down.

—If none of those previous four entries made any sense to the people listening, then I weep for our future.

—If they all made sense, you know what you have to do.

—If anyone confuses Star Wars with Star Trek, or vice versa, he shall have to finish the remainder of his drink while being subjected to the good-natured mockery of those around him.

—Funeral attendees who show up in cosplay will be allowed to perform the appropriate death rites of whatever universes they are representing (subject, of course, to their
not actually burning the place down around everyone or something just as terrifyingly absurd—have some common sense, people).

—If the Westboro Baptist Church is picketing for some reason, invite them in for drinks and food. They really seem like they could use a lot more friends in their lives.

—If people aren’t smiling or laughing or having a good time, they have to drink until they are.

Above all, enjoy one another’s company. We never know when we’ll never be able to tell someone “I love you” again—say it often. Also, try to avoid using the word
never
multiple times in a sentence; it’s confusing.

I lived my life, people, and I expect you to live yours. So long, and thanks for all the fish!

This funeral eulogy brought to you by Chris Kluwe, all rights reserved, trademark copyright LLC CBS TNT R2 D2 oh my God stop reading this stupid thing already the show’s over there’s not going to be any food left for you

C
HRIS
K
LUWE
is a punter in the National Football League. He played college football at UCLA. A musician, gamer, and radio host, he lives with his wife and two children in Minnesota and California. ERMAGERD SPIDERS.