skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Friday, 03 February
Touch Me, They're Sick
Health issues have been on my mind lately. Now, some of you may be sick of hearing about my recently removed tooth.
What's that? You want to hear about my jaw-hole? WELL, ALL RIGHT THEN!
Ah, it's fine. It's kind of boring now, really. There's still some cold sensitivity issues going on, but the major repercussions of that have simply led me to reduce my beer intake in favor of scotch. And the empty spot--which I must say is really very thrilling to worry at with my tongue pretty much all day long-- still insists on throbbing in an interesting way when I take a particularly enthusiastic drag on a cigarette, but on the whole, you'll be happy to know that my regular regimen of unhealthy vices continues more or less unobstructed.
Now, close members of the family, however, are moving in to fill the gap, as it were.
My father, for example, who a year or so ago kicked a practically lifelong smoking habit. I think was birthed in a Lucky Strike factory. Anyway, after a couple of alarming months where he experienced certain . . . eating problems . . . oh, let's get it over with. For a while, during meals, he would occasionally experience problems swallowing, and would exhibit signs of choking. The immediate remedy was, well, garfing up chewed food from his throat. Mmmm!
As in, "Mmm! Mmm! Worrisome!" When the problem started to increase in frequency, he went to the docs, who told him that it wasn't uncommon for long-time smokers to experience a "stricture" in the esophagus. This was actually great news in a couple of ways. For one, it wasn't some ghastly tumor lurking in his throat blocking up his neck plumbing. For another, it allowed me to imagine a tiny nun in his esophagus, enforcing solemn foodish strictures as punishment for years of sinful smoking. "Back the way you came, Sonny Jim!" she'd scream, and hit the food on its food-wrist with a tiny ruler. GARF!
The nun has been banished by the docs, who presumable drowned her with some terrible regimen of holy water and rigorously chewed hosts. Except we're not Catholic. It's kind of confusing, but he's okay now. (I'm sure he told me exactly how they eased the "stricture," but at the time I was still stuck on the throat-nun, so it didn't make it into my brain. I'm a great kid.)
Then we found out that the wife's good mother is scheduled for surgery on Valentine's Day. That'll be a fun card to try to find. "It cuts me up thinking of you!" Ah, but this is elective surgery: she is having gastric bypass surgery done, as a combination of weight gain and a simply astonishing bout of osteoporosis have led her to say, "Hi, hello, fuck all this!" The wife has told me many times that it was apparently all her fault for some of this, as her incubation basically drained her mother of nourishing elements. And for this I call her the Calcium Vampire, so if one day my desiccated, brittled bones are found in a bar or something, you know who to look at.
AND THEN, the wife talked to her father, who at the same time evidently discovered some alarming mass around his testicles. Okay, this must be every daughter's dream: Pa! Tell me about your lumpy nuts! Groovy. He thought for a bit he had testicular cancer, but declined to tell anybody about it, as he didn't want to alarm anyone while wife's mom was gearing up for her surgery.
Jesus God. Well, he does not have testicular cancer, as what I'm sure was a really entertaining biopsy proved ("We'll be taking this needle and . . . doctor, he's fainted")--it's some damn harmless cyst or something. Oh, and did I mention that this conversation took place during a phone call when the wife buzzed to wish him a happy birthday? Although I am as happy as anyone that he is still healthy. And simultaneously not that happy that one of his gifts was something like a fine needle aspiration of a growth on his nuts. Again, I'm glad I didn't have to shop for a card. "Have a nutty birthday!"
Really what it comes down to is, I need the people I care about to not fucking get sick. If they can't do it for themselves, I need them to do it for me. Because I am weak, both constitutionally--there's a hole in my jaw that's, uh, healing well!--and mentally--I complain about the illnesses of close ones! You see my problem. Jesus fuckbitin' Christ, people. I can't take this. Stop having things go wrong! Is that so hard?
So I'm declaring a moratorium on ill health for a while. Not for you, understand--look, you're swell, but let's remember what's important here, which is me--you can get lupus or something if you really must. I'm not encouraging it, but I won't stop you. Hell, I might even send you a card, one of those hard-to-find ones, like, "I would never attack you like your own immune system is right now" or "You're hysterical! And so is your histological breakdown, so sorry about that." And maybe with a picture of a dog.
I mean, I'm not a total asshole. Which reminds me. I'm of a certain age. I should start eating Total. It's got all kinds of vitamins and fiber. Which is, I assume, good for my asshole.
Find a card for that.
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
I smell a new business venture.......
Man, you're lucky your tooth went gently. I had a molar that was but a shell of its former self, so I told the sad(ent)ist to rip the f*cker out. It took two hours, five shots of novoc@ine, nitrous oxide, white knuckles on the chair, and the or@l surgeon with a goddamned H@MMER to get the thing out of my mouth. If that wasn't bad enough, I was picking tooth/bone splinters out of the socket for a month. Just when I'd get comfortable, I'd notice something sharp and painful in the destruction area, and have to go excavating for some ancient bone-needle artifact.
N@sty, huh? Bet you wanted to know.
"I'm of a certain age. I should start eating Total. It's got all kinds of vitamins and fiber. Which is, I assume, good for my asshole."
I think you should send that in to Total, and demand money for an amazing marketing scheme. Brilliant!
"Total is a healthy and nutritious part of this delicious breakfast.
"Dear Total Eater...
I prostrate to your prostate.
Forget about your asshole. How about them Seahawks, hunh? Oh, wait. We're back to your asshole again.
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