Andrew Luck dropped by to visit with the Indy media yesterday, and he was filled with his usual upbeat non-specifics. It's kind of his schtick now, the way raving paranoia and goofy conspiracy theories are Our Only Available President's schtick.
And so, here was Andrew ...
The shoulder? Coming along fine, he said. Again.
Thanks for asking, he said. Again.
No, he hasn't started throwing a football yet, he said, again, just like he hadn't started throwing a football way back last summer, when people first started asking him about it.
But he will, he said. Soon. Really.
This is good news, maybe. Or not. As always with Luck and his shoulder, "soon" is an elastic concept.
"Soon" could mean next week. It could mean next month. It could mean 2027.
In any case, this whole business has taken on echoes of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, as most things eventually do here at the Blob. Luck, of course, has become the injury-denying Black Knight. The media, and to some degree the public, has become an increasingly incredulous King Arthur.
MEDIA/PUBLIC (pointing at Luck): Your arm's off!
LUCK (arterial blood gushing from his right shoulder): No it isn't!
MEDIA/PUBLIC (pointing at Luck's detached arm): What's that, then?
LUCK: 'Tis but a scratch!
Further non-updates on said scratch to follow.
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