Monday, October 15, 2012

this little piggy might have to get chemo...

I guess I just got tired of hearing people talk about all the great specials they were getting. I signed up for one of those email daily deal programs and I swear it just proves how bored people are. My first 'deal' had to do with a weekend on a mushroom farm and some horseback riding. Imagine. For only a few hundred dollars you can spend your precious time digging around some manure for tasteless little buttons that will make a wonderful tossed salad. The last time I was in a field hunting for mushrooms, there were no salads involved and I woke up behind a bowling alley with a half eaten hot dog in one hand and some woman's artificial limb in the other. (those of you who know me will now have the answer to that long haunting question: What is it with Robert and his fascination with prosthetics?" No thanks. And neither am I interested in the unwanted hair removal by laser treatment. I'm bald. And I have lost just about all the hair on my legs except for two furry tufts under my knees. I purposely wear long shorts to avoid my friends calling out my nickname: Kneebeard. (Yes, full on Tolkien nerd.) You know it was quite fashionable in the nineties to shave your entire body. I mean your ENTIRE body. Luckily Yoga was an up and coming trend as well or I would have never been quadra-dextrous enough to manage an even trim on certain areas that generally only get viewed by other people. But those days are gone (luckily) and I sort of pride myself on the little patches of hair that have sprung up across my body. Until they started spreading to places I never thought one would need hair. Take, for example, the underside of my biceps. Why hair? It's right against my body, not getting cold for I can pull it in close to my chest and keep that tender patch of ivory skin toasty and warm. But for some ungodly reason nature has seen fit to thrust a bit of neanderthalic trappings on my arms. I can't even talk about my back because it's no longer as pure as a baby's rosy cheek, but it's not like a gorilla either. A fine dusting of hair too thin to properly shave or tolerate a waxing I simply try to ignore it and tell myself every time I shudder that it's little angels landing on my shoulders. (And shitting hair on them!) But it's the Toe Fungus removal that has me all worked up. I don't have toe fungus, but I think I do. It's because my toenails grow all weird and I rarely look at them. There's no body part that is as mystifying as the toenail. Useless really. You could grow them for months and they would still not help you climb the nearest tree as you are attempting to flee whatever is chasing you. I spent several hours the other morning wondering if the little discoloration on my big toe was fungus and if I should spend the money on this wonderful deal, this miraculous cure which arrived with a picture of a smiling and relieved woman. She wore a blue band across her hair and I noticed her shoes were neatly placed on a mat on the floor. Kenneth Coles, I wondered? What color was toenail fungus supposed to be anyway? Was it the purplish hue that seemed to be draining all life from my left foot? Thoughts of cancer raced through my mind. Flesh eating zombies and viruses that would turn me into a ravenous orifice through which nothing would escape. I poured myself another glass of red wine and staggered onto the porch. I downed the glass and found the strenght to warp my skeleton in a twisted contortion reminiscent of the days when I had to meticulously maneuver my manhood around to get just the perfect trim. Face to face with the purple tumor I looked, then sniffed and finally took a lick. Chianti. I had splashed red wine on my foot as I danced around the living room drinking and vaccuming. Today I opened up my deal and found a buy one get one on High Colonics. I can't even begin to tell you the story about that one!

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