Super Size Me

I just saw Super Size Me. Then, five minutes later, I read this news story. My, how things have changed.

Down the Drain in the Shower

Every weight-loss advertisement has a few, rail-thin people gushing about the amazing results of the product. "I lost 14 pounds in one week!" Then, on the crawl in small print: "Results may vary."

You think they can go out on a limb and say, "Results will vary"? Or, "If our product actually has this effect on you, please see medical attention. You are about to die." I want to see the weight-loss ad that has a woman saying, "I lost 14 pounds in one week!" and a team of EMTs storming in and strapping her to a gurney. "Dear God! Get this woman into the ICU. Move move move!"

Tonight on The History Channel: Top Ten Plagues

Do you know what's great about the bubonic plague? It's the perfect comedy disease. One, it sounds funny. Two, no one has it anymore, so you don't offend anyone by referencing it. You don't offend someone's mother, or grandfather, or great-grandfather. If you make a bubonic plague joke, no one is going to write you a letter saying:

"You sick bastard. My-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather's uncle's niece's sister, who was raised by baboons and was shunned by the town for her enflamed buttocks during sexual heat, died of the bubonic plague. Or a broken heart. The historical record is fuzzy.

But the point it, she was like a great-great-great-great-great nephew to me. And the pain you caused by rhyming this blight on humanity with 'Da Chronic' can never be repaired.

Shame, shame. Also, Philharmonic Plague would make a great name for a band.

Sincerely,

Phineus P. Fitzgerald"

Scene in a Doctor's Office

DOCTOR: I have some bad news.
PATIENT: What? What is it?
DOCTOR: There...there can only be one Highlander.
PATIENT: No. No! You're joking. You have to be.
DOCTOR: I'm sorry. It is difficult news for any man.
PATIENT: Two enters, one leaves. Is that how it is?
DOCTOR: It is the law.
PATIENT: How much time do I have before...
DOCTOR: We should operate as soon as possible.
PATIENT: Dr. Dealgood, is there anything I could have done?
DOCTOR: I don't know. Maybe a regular prostate exam. Maybe healthier eating. But sometimes these things just happen.
PATIENT: Will I feel any pain?
DOCTOR:
Pain is a gauze stretched and twisted around our bodies /
like ribbon and wrap over a last birthday present.
Steel skin and ice, a moon in the shape of a scythe.
Is your heart open? Will you feel pain?
PATIENT: Easy questions for a reaper.
DOCTOR: I prefer surgeon.
PATIENT: A poet would.

Somebody Get Me a Beer. I'm Having Hot Flashes.

NPR had a story on male menopause today. Shouldn't male menopause be called menopause, and female menopause called womenopause?

Three Things About Levitra

1. It's no longer erectile dysfunction. It's "ED." Or, on the tube, a football being thrown again and again through a tire. "Have a problem with ED?" "You can get help for ED." (Tip for guys: ladies love having their vaginas compared to an old tire.)

2. Levitra does not prevent against sexually transmitted diseases. This is not my bold declaration. That's one of the disclaimers for Levitra. In fact, by its function, Levitra greatly enhances your risk of getting a sexual disease. It also increases your risk of poking someone's eye out and allows you to play horseshoes anywhere. Like with ED.

3. Erectile dysfunction occurs when the heart is unable to pump enough blood into the penis. In these cases, the heart is also not pumping enough blood into the brain, arms, legs, and every other area of the body. Erectile dysfunction is an early warning sign of a heart disease. But don't worry about that. Take the Levitra Challenge.

You'll Never Look At Him The Same Way Again

I love this article on why Wesley Clark rarely blinks. It takes a odd but small detail and views it through different disciplines to give an interesting look at his habit.

Photo Caption

This probably wasn't worth the time to create, but here it is.

How To Fireproof Your Baby

How did that get in there?

I Thought it Would be Different in Canada

Can't government do anything right?

Demons, I Exfoliate Thee!

Inspired by "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy", I bought my first face product to exfoliate my skin. An exfolitaor, I learned, and this may also come as a surprise to some of you, is a giant jar of salt. Scratch that. Lavender-scented salt. While it made for one of the tastier products applied to my skin (the others being "Mountain-Scented Irish Spring" and "Avalanche-Scented Afta After Shave"), I did feel silly rubbing greasy salt on my face.

The directions didn't help. "Gently exfoliate dry, dull skin from the surface revealing the radiant, healthy skin beneath." That's not a direction. That's marketing copy. It's like if this were on the back of a DiGornio's pizza: "Step 2: Mouthwatering pizza will leave you warm and satisfied." Product directions are usually insipid ("Put pizza in oven? Now I get it.") but when it comes to borderline alien lifeforms like giant jars of sea salt, I want to know where to stick it, where not to stick it, and how long to let it stick for. Because my skin is definitely not radiant, and considering the salt pellets stuck to my pimples, forming larger, lavender-scented pimples, calling my skin healthy is also a stretch.

Monkeys Framed Again

Move over SARS. Here comes monkeypox, the made-for-comedy disease that's sweeping the nation.

A quote from a Washington Post article:
"Prairie dogs are believed to be the source of an outbreak of the monkeypox virus in the Midwest, health officials said."

Which brings me to this question: WHO'S THE SICK BASTARD TRYING TO PASS THIS ON THE MONKEYS? If prairie dogs are the source, then let's call the virus by its true name, FilthyRatfacedPrariedogPox. Or if we're going to be irrational, let's go all the way. Cause of the increased deficit, faltering economy, and restrictions on constitutional freedoms? Monkey did it.

How's It Hanging?

If I ever get testicular cancer, I hope I get it in both balls so they look evenly big. I don't want one of them getting jealous of the other.

(Saying this is the equivalent of mooning God and taunting him to smack me with some poetic justice. "What'cha gonna do, Goddy-Woddy? Give me testicular--OW! You jerk! They're the size of melons.)

Pronunatin'

A few years ago my stuttering therapist suggested that in addition to stuttering, I may also have a speech disorder called cluttering. Among other signs, people who clutter tend to talk fast (check), revise sentences more than normal when talking or writing (check), and leave out syllables in words (chk).

I was happy to know that I am probably a clutterer because it rhymes with stutterer. It has a kind of cosmic logic to it. I think all disorders, diseases, and quirks should have a buddy:

DOCTOR: "Mr. Jenfry, I have some bad news and some good news. The tests show that you have cancer. But they also show you have a strong genetic disposition to being a dancer. Here are 200 mg of Taxol and a top hat."
MR. JENFRY: "Showtime!"

I mention this because recently, I have become aware that I have been leaving the 'ta' out of 'comfortable'. I'm not sure this is related to cluttering. I just thought that 'comforble' was the correct way to pronounce the word, and everyone else was being a pretentious ass.

To combat this, I have been practicing pro-nun-ci-at-ing the word by bringing it up casually in conversation, like when I was talking to my friend Sean ("Shawn") today.

ME: "My chair is very COM-FOR-TA-BLE."
SEAN: "That's nice."
ME: "Yup, I sure am COM-FOR-TA-BLE right now."
SEAN: "Okay..."
ME: "Hey, let's play a game. I'm thinking for a word that starts with C and means 'relaxed'."
SEAN: "Is it--"
ME: "Give up? It's COM-FOR-TA-BLE."

I'm looking to expand my practicing beyond my circle of friends, as I don't want to annoy them and end up with a dot of friends. That's why I'm trying to get a job as a spokesman for a furniture store.

"Come for the tables! Stay for the sofas."

10:17 P.M.

A shirtless jogger at night is one step away from being a crazy person running away from the cops.

Dad vs. Mom

I have these wrist guards that, on my more imaginative days, turn me into a cyborg killing machine. (If you want to be anal, replace “killing” with “typing” and “cyborg” with “dweeb”.) I lost the left wrist guard a month ago, which is why I’ve been typing fewer letter unitz with a, s, d, and f in them.

Yesterday, I found my left wrist guard…covered with leaves at the bottom of my hiking backpack. (Don’t ask). I cannot prove this, but I am convinced that this is the exact moment that, as my left wrist quivered in anticipation of the pain-free days ahead, my right wrist guard, either out of jealousy or fear of working with his ex-lover, curled up into a ball and disappeared.

I emptied my laundry basket, shook my bedsheets, and lifted the floorboards. He’s gone. My memories of him, the words we typed, the buttons we clicked, are already fading.

My right wrist guard’s sudden absence, coupled with my left wrist guard’s ability to be flipped inside out, left me with a difficult decision.

Dad vs. Mom, grab vs. pull, see vs. look, Steve Case vs. Polly + Pippin, secret vs. ploy, gas vs. pony milk, cabbage vs. yummy, beets vs. moon. Icicle torn apart, nose split in two.

In the end, Mom won. Sorry Dad. You’re a deadbeat.

"Scalpel! Oops. Um...second scalpel!"

A Yahoo story states that surgery tools are left in 1,500 people a year.

A quote: “In two cases, 11-inch retractors--metal strips used to hold back tissue--were forgotten inside patients. In another operation, four sponges were left inside someone.”

Let’s not mince words. Four sponges weren’t left inside someone. Four sponges were stuffed inside someone. Getting four pieces of dead sea animal to gracefully arrange themselves in a chest cavity is like trying to squeeze four balls in a nutsack. It can be done, but you’re going to have to do a lot of stretching and jiggling. Furthermore, any surgeon forgetful enough to lose four sponges would have lost his car keys, his backup keys, his pants, and his ability to dial a phone and get help. He would have never made it to work.

I’m not saying the surgeon was malicious. My theory is that the surgeon operated on a plump patient the day before Thanksgiving and got ahead of himself. It’s easy to see how he could get confused. The patient is on her back, she has the equivalent of a gravy bag hooked in her arm, and strange people you don’t spend a lot of time with are clamoring for you to finish. We should be grateful that blood doesn’t smell like cranberry sauce and her wishbone is still intact.