My butt, unfortunately, is dead.
“Dead butt syndrome,” the sports medicine doctor said to me after making me go through a series of circus-act contortions that involved swiveling my hip in all directions. His voice was very serious, his tone stern. I wondered if I should start making funeral arrangements for my rear, maybe a New Orleans-style blowout parade?
Hold the tuba. My butt’s not really dead. It can’t be revived with defibrillator paddles, but it can be fixed.