Throwing Poo

At the risk of turning this blog into the chronicles of my descent into total medical failure (or, as it may turn out, hypochondria), I want to talk about a recent visit to the dermatologist.

Like any red-haired, fair-skinned Irishman –ginger sods, as I like to call us - the sun is my mortal enemy.  Its white hot rays are veritable laser beams against my thin, pasty skin.  While some people see Jacob’s Ladder as a sign of a benevolent God who is welcoming us to Heaven, I see it as the sweeping search lights of the melanoma prison from which I am trying to escape, and I cower in my nakedness from their presence. 

Basically, I’m a vampire without the erotic bloodlust, immortality and kick-ass wardrobe.

Suffice to say, I don’t tan.  My skin pigment has a total of three tones; pink, baboon’s ass and baboon’s ass covered in bubble-wrap. However, it was not until I was in my mid-twenties that I finally accepted my crimson fate.  Throughout my adolescence and young adult years I basked in the sun in a moronic and feeble attempt to “train” my skin to tan.  This was the late 70’s, a time when protecting against sunburn meant wearing Coppertone SPF 4 (not surprising, I guess, from the same decade that believed protecting against venereal disease by wearing leisure suits).  In any case, I got sunburned.  A lot.

In an attempt to compensate to the merciless gods of cancer for my blistered childhood, I have spent most of my adult life avoiding the sun as the searing mass-murderer it truly is.   I also get an annual screening by a dermatologist in hopes of identifying and removing the inevitable freckle of death before it gets a chance to unpack its bags and settle in.

Yesterday I went to such a screening and the doctor found and removed a patch of skin above my left eyebrow for biopsy.   Now, I am in no way concerned that this patch is cancerous.  What I am concerned about is large, unavoidable and embarrassing Band-Aid they placed over the subsequent wound.  

As an adult, you simply cannot wear a Band-Aid without looking stupid.  Bandages are fine. Gauze with medical tape is even better.  Both signify something serious that required the attention of a medical profession and were “applied.”  But Band-Aids are something you put on yourself.  They are something you “wear” to draw attention to your hypochondria and germophobia.

That said, a Band-Aid on your head is simply ludicrous.  Place a bandage on your head, and you can grab a fife, a drum, two close friends and start a fucking parade.   But, as an adult, you cannot, CAN NOT walk around with a Band-Aid on your head.  It requires explanation. Otherwise people are just going to think you are trying to cover up a pulsating zit, a minor episode of spousal abuse, or you’re the type of idiot that wanders around in front of dart boards.  

(To paraphrase an analogy by the late, great George Carlin, if you “don’t feel good,” everyone will roll their eyes and think you’re just a pain in the ass.  But if you’re sick – “Excuse me, I’m sick!” - people will get out of your way in a big goddamn hurry.)

So here I am with a stupid Band-Aid on my head, a social event at Nerdy Squirrels’ office tonight and a business trip tomorrow.   What kind of first impression can I possibly make? 

“Hi, my name’s Crunchy.  Nice to meet you.  You’re probably wondering what this Band-Aid is on my head.  Well, I can assure you it is not a zit.  Ha ha.  Seriously, I might have cancer.  So, do you like baseball?” 

I always knew my skin would take its revenge on me, I just never thought it would be such a dick about it.  And when I do finally die, you better believe I will stop to load up on sunscreen before walking into the light.
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

The other day I was scouring a security-free office building for items that might make fine additions to my eBay seller’s inventory.  I call it “prospecting,” though some facist authorities who are sticklers for the truth might argue my choice of words.  As I was weighing the resale value of a slightly-used standing ashtray versus the likelihood that I could fit a beige loveseat with a few sinister –looking stains into my Saturn, I felt nature calling.  The night before I had tried a Diet Coke and Mentos experiment with my digestive system using Taco Bell and Pabst Blue Ribbon and achieved surprisingly similar results, but with a bit more linger. 

Anyway, as I occupied a stall and stuffed the extra toilet paper rolls into my gym bag – doing business as I was doing my business, one might say – the bathroom door swung open.  I froze, certain that a hidden camera had filmed my prospecting, and began to consider the implications of my imminent Youtube infamy.  Just then a man’s voice rang out with words that stiffened my back and I immediately kicked a foot out to brace the stall door and protect my vulnerable condition. 

"I’m want to take it to the next level and am not afraid to get my hands dirty"

"Do you have an open-door policy?"

"I like to think outside the box"

"I’m a peep-hole person"  

Clearly upon re-examination this two-bit hack was reciting some last minute clichés for an upcoming and probably unsuccessful interview.  While I have certainly heard these phrases before during the numerous interviews in which I have conducted, sitting in the context of a men’s public restroom had a shockingly new and dare I say dramatic affect on my immediate interpretation.

At first I thought that I had become far more homophobic than I had ever realized.  But that’s not it.  Thanks to the likes of George Michael, Larry Craig, Tim McGreevy and the Wiggles (you know it’s only a matter of time), public men’s restrooms now share the same reputation as a Turkish prison and a cast afterparty of the traveling production of Rent. 

The good thing is that it is typically not an issue when there are three or more guys in the can, but when there are just two, it’s a Code Rainbow Alert.  Defense walls fly up, gaydars kick into full spin, and smart soldiers wear their war faces.  This is no time for chit-chat or friendly gestures.  Chances are if the other guy isn’t trolling for treats, he’s an undercover reporter looking for a quick story, and you better believe his editor can and will splice your,

“How’s it going, pal? See the game last night?  Yep, they lost again. I’m getting tired of watching them play eight innings of solid baseball just to see their closer come in and blow it in the bottom of the ninth,” 

into

“I’m going to blow your solid eight again and come in your bottom,”

without the slightest blip.

At least that is what I’ll be spending the next month trying to convince Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. to believe.

(POSTED FROM THE SUNNY, SANDY BEACHES OF COROLLA, BITCHES!)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

My face is shrinking.  Seriously.  I’m not joking around. My face.  My charming, boyish façade.  My suspicious-mother neutralizer and lifelong host to my pie & pancake hole.  My.  Fucking.  Face.  Is.  Shrinking.

For some unknown reason – unknown not only to me but my orthodontist (the new braces being my first suspicion), family doctor, ENT (ears, nose and throat) specialist, and CT scan technician so far – my temples, cheeks and eyes are sucking into my skull.  It is as if Linda Lovelace got left behind in my cranium by the Fantastic Voyage crew and fell into old habit. 

The weird thing is that I’m not losing weight anywhere else on my body.  From the neck up I’m beginning to look like an albino Ethiopian with a fancy grill, but from the shoulders down it is blubbery business as usual. 

And it is driving me insane.

Over the past three weeks I have wasted a colossal amount of time and energy trying to figure out what the hell is going on.  Google and Lexis-Nexis (go, Nerdy!) searches have turned up nothing.  I poured over every option, from a brain tumor to a jilted ex-girlfriend with a newfound interest in voodoo, and have come up empty.  Did I accidentally peek when the Ark of the Covenant was opened?  Did I choose poorly and drink from the wrong chalice?  Did the horribly-disappointing new Indiana Jones movie destroy my brain’s will to live?  (Seriously, Mr. Spielberg, giant CGI ants and a CGI-enhanced swordfight with a gratuitous procession of nut shots?  You own me $8.)  I simply can’t figure it out.

I’ve got an appointment with a neurologist in a few weeks.  In the mean time I’ll try to post some photos so you can have fun diagnosing my likely life-threatening affliction. 

Oh, and I’m also going to Corolla next week to pickle my liver, provoke looming melanoma and pack my belly.  If my body thinks it can kill me before I do, then it has one final lesson to learn.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

With the success of Dirty Jobs and Deadliest Catch, it appears that the Discovery and History Channels are upping the ante in the new disturbing and dangerous jobs genre with the shows like Ax Men, Storm Chasers and (I kid you not) Ice Road Truckers. 

Here are some of the increasingly treacherous offerings in pre-production over the next three seasons:

2009
Thin Ice Fishermen
Aging Knife Throwers’ Lovely Assistants
Roofers with Vertigo

2010
Base-Jumping Procrastinators
Homeless Window-Washers on Highway 101
Lindsey Lohan’s Laundress

2011
Caucasian Harlem Bus Drivers with Rampant, Racially-Inclined Tourette Syndrome
Solo Thailand Vacationers with Latex Allergies
The Road to the BME Olympics

(Editor's note: Do not Google "BME Olympics" unless you have an iron stomach and black, lifeless soul.)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

An elementary school teacher and her class are on a field trip to a local research lab to marvel at the wonders of modern science:

“Look, children.  See the cute little monkey with its new robotic arms?  Look at how he peels his banana.  Monkeys like bananas, don’t they?  Yes, William, even monkeys with robotic arms.  No, Bobby, his arm will never rust.  It’s made of titanium.  In fact, his robotic arms will last his whole life and longer, and they’re super strong.  Oh look, kids! The monkey wants to give the scientist a great big hug to say thanks for his new robotic arms.   How cute!  Wait, what’s that trickling out of the scientist’s eyes…dear God, no!  Run!  Run, children! Run for your lives!!!”

And so begins the end of the world as we know it with the headline in last week’s New York Times, “Monkeys Control a Robot Arm With Their Thoughts.”

Have we learned nothing?  Apparently these arrogant scientists were too busy with their fancy book-learnin’ and self-experimentation (you know what I’m talking about) to learn the epic Hollywood lessons of the 70’s and 80’s. 

So let me spell it out for those pencil-necked sons-of bitches.

You don’t teach monkeys to act like humans, you don’t build artificially-intelligent supercomputers that have access to the Pentagon’s weapons systems, and you don’t buy your daughter a bunny rabbit and then screw some crazy broad when your wife is out of town!  Period!  End of discussion!

(Also, don’t have a toga party when you’re on double-secret probation, don’t forget to attach the electrodes to the Barbie doll when trying to re-create another perfect woman to impress your so-called bra-headed friends, and don’t drink an experimental weight-loss formula unless you want to spend the rest of your film career “acting” in a fat suit.)

Talk about the perfect storm of catastrophic scenarios.  Seriously, why didn’t these idiot scientists just attach chainsaws to the monkeys’ robotic arms, dip them in Ebola and call it a day?

And what about me?  Between mowing the grass and plucking the wild hairs out of my ears, who has time to stockpile food, weapons and cerebrally-uploadable martial arts software?  I mean, I understand the seriousness of the impending apocalypse and all, but it just doesn’t fit into my busy schedule right now. 

We have only one option that I can see; one hope that we no longer deserve. 

Save us, Tom Cruise.  Forgive us, and save us with your magical Scientology powers.  We’re sorry we made so much fun. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)