We have returned from our weekend at Tablerock with the Martins, slightly worse for the wear.  But more on that later.

Martin and I headed out for Tablerock on Thursday afternoon, with the S.S. Schmartin in tow.  With a full tank of gas in the boat, we averaged roughly 45 MPH all the way to Branson;  Munkirs would have been proud.  We arrived to find the cabin we rented would provide more than adequate accommodations, and settled in to smoke a cigar and wait for the girls.  They arrived shortly thereafter, and that pretty much wrapped up Thursday.  Long drives wear me out.

Friday started out kind of rough.  We weren’t getting a lot of weather cooperation.  It was freaking pouring, so the girls bailed out for the outlet malls.  Martin and I settled in to smoke a cigar and wait for them to return.  Sort of a trend there.  After a while the rain burned off and the chicks ran out of money,  so we hooked up the boat and headed for the lake.  We got in a good two hours of boating;  Kind of checked out the lay of the lake, swam around a bit, and enjoyed the sun.  Around 7:00 Martin had to head back in to take a conference call though;  One of the penalties of being an extremely important resource at his job.  While he feigned responsibility, the girls and I grilled up some fajitas, and then they cooked a few more “practice desserts” in preparaton for the American Royal.  I was “for” the grilled peaches with fancy cheese topping, and “against” the other dish.  I was so offended by it I can’t even really remember what it was.  I do remember it had “cardamom” in it, which I can assure you is the single worst-tasting thing that anyone has ever intentionally put in a recipe.  I almost called 911, as initially I was certain that Donette had finally fed me a rat-poisen cocktail, which is something of an ongoing concern at our house.  I smoked two more cigars and ate the leaves off a nearby tree to get the taste out of my mouth, and went to bed.

Saturday started off strong.  We laid down a base of Martin’s semi-famous breakfast casserole at the crack of 11:00, and then got the boat out on the water to enjoy what turned out to be a fine, sunny day.  Things were good until we tried to throw physical exertion into the mix.  We broke out the tube and drug Kelly and Donette around for a while, which went all well and good.  Then I had the bright idea to take a turn on the devil-donut on our way back to the dock.  It was fun, sure, but inevitably I crashed and felt a solid “pop” in my arm.  It rated an “uncomfortable” on the pain scale initially.  After I got back in the boat and felt the nice smooth slope where my shoulder previously was, the nausea and extreme pain set in.  By the time we got back to the dock, my head was spinning around and I was uttering vulgarities I didn’t even know were in my vocabulary.  Donette summoned a nice Ranger over, but all he did was give me a sling, despite my insistance I needed a quick round through the skull.  Donette ended up having to drive me to the emergency room, where they confirmed a dislocated shoulder.  I was still cursing like a demented sailer, begging for a sharp rap on the head, or a teaspoon of cardamom, or anything to take my mind off the shoulder.  I don’t think the poor doctor knew whether to give me anesthesia or an exorcism.  Eventually he opted for putting me under and snapping everything back in place.

That’s all the tale I am going to relate.  Things are still quite sore and I am deathly afraid of this thing popping out again.  It was pretty much a weekend-stopper at any rate;  What a drag.  If it weren’t for bad luck…