Cancer. I probably have cancer. I haven’t been to a doctor in five years. I haven’t been to a dentist in ten years. I smoke; I drink; I do drugs; I have unprotected sex. I stay up late smoking and drinking acidic red wine and pass out without brushing my teeth. I eat fibrous meats and then don’t floss for several days until I notice that the meat chunks wedged between my molars have decayed enough so that they are no longer snugly jammed into my gums but are slipping around on a slime coating of rot. Then I floss, and when I spit it’s red as a cherry slurpee, my gums lacerated to let more rotting flesh bacteria into my bloodstream. I go out in the sun. I go out in the sun and I fake tan and there are swarms of new moles on my back, all of which have variegated color and irregular borders. What mole does not have irregular borders? Are other people’s moles, like, smooth Euclidian triangles and squares? They’re all fleshy tumorous-looking masses, and there’s a van parked outside my office run by a medical charity where I could go have them looked at easily and for free. But I don’t. I do nothing, and then at night I have fantasies about the cancerous moles growing and eating my brain and pancreas.
and now it completely kicks ass in comparison.
For instance: geopolitical affairs. Yes, we got wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Paul Kony going all crazy witch doctor and giving a bunch of kids guns that they don’t know which end the bullet comes out. Well, when I was a kid, there was a place called the fucking USSR that had thousands upon thousands of multimegaton nuclear warheads pointed at your house and the entire world lived under the threat of total annihilation via thermonuclear war. It wasn’t gonna be a clean death, either. You would get directly incinerated by a nuclear blast if you were lucky, otherwise you would just have half your face blistered off and then suffer from accelerated cancer that turned you into a bubonic mutant. And your very genes would be mangled, so that you had no hope of repopulating the earth. Your children and your children’s children would be hideous flipper-limbed sentient tumors, and the water would be poisoned for ten thousand years and the sky would be full of lethal clouds fifteen miles thick and every food crop would wither and die and if they didn’t you wouldn’t want to eat them anyway because they would be full of cancerous poison. And you would have dreams about it, as a kid– about once a week you would dream that there was global thermonuclear holocaust and you survived somehow but your parents were dead and the water was poisoned. Because you’d turn on the TV and Ronald Reagan would be talking some hardass smack about how dangerous Russia was and we were gonna fight ‘em and not roll over and that would sink into your head and all your dreams were about the end of the world, when you were eight years old. What do kids have nightmares about now, 9/11? Maybe kids in New York can get away with that shit, but we all know nothing is going to happen to you in Indiana. 9/11 isn’t shit. Your real nightmare should be that no one even cares enough about you to bomb you. What are we afraid of now– Israel vs. Iran? Who cares. Continue reading
Once you get desensitized to constant STD hysteria, there’s a new one. This time a girl wouldn’t fuck me because she was scared of Hepatitis C. Another silent killer that you don’t know you have, except Steven Tyler has it and look at him now. Pamela Anderson has it and look at her now. Well shit dude—I don’t want to look like Steven Tyler, but if I spent two decades smoking freebase rocks the size of basketballs and my dick hadn’t spent more than ten minutes outside of some MTV watching slag since the 70′s, I would count myself LUCKY to look like Steven Tyler, i.e. ambulatory and breathing. But this Hep C is the new one; the new silent killer. Can’t scare ‘em with AIDS anymore so we better tell the kids they’ll look like Steven Tyler. Or worse, they’ll write songs like Steven Tyler.
Or they trot out syphilis, like it’s 1532 and we’ve been fucking cave bears. Or they point out that Chlamydia sneaks up on you and goes untreated and ravages your ovaries and you’ll die alone a childless spinster. These things have been around, you know—these are things that a 1942 sailor would laugh off after a quick shot of penicillin. These are things they made funny posters about in World War 2—she may LOOK clean, private, but Rosie’s got a surprise. And dudes fucked Rosie anyway and then their dick hurt and they got a shot and it was over. And they laughed about it. Which is what you SHOULD do about STD’s. Continue reading