Saturday, April 23, 2005
Hair-e-guy Contemplates Name Change To Bleeding Sores Guy!
St. Paul. In a bout of wallowing in self pity, Hair-e-guy contemplated changing his name to Bleeding Sores Guy, Open Wounds Guy, Never Ever Pain Free Again Guy, the Hydradentitis Suprativa Diva, or Perpetually Cluster Fucked By Antibiotic Resistent Staphlococcus Aurius Guy.
Fortunately for our readers, all those names were taken so Hair-e-guy will remain Hair-e-guy, at least until the last line-of-defense super strength antibiotics finally quit working and he finally dies an agonizing but quick death from sepsis, blood poisoning, necrotized body tissue once the bacteria reaches the flesh eating stage or just plain old immune system failure. Contemplation of thse future outcomes made Hair-e-guy wax nostolgic for the good old days when all a fella had to worry about was leprosy, bubonic plague, end stage rectal rot, or Storlie's barking syndome: Chihuahua type.
Things are a little more complicated these days, what with the staph beginning to chip away at ye olde nether regions. The underarms have been savaged enough, but why not the man boobs or the hair-e-gut, why does it have to go right for the junk? Hair-e-guy lamented with woeful lamentations.
As Hair-e-guy prepares for yet another futile visit to yet another sympathetic but utterly ineffectual doctor, he contemplates a new "tough love" approach in an open letter to the bacteria that have afflicted him for over a decade, now made public and reprinted exclusively in the R.A.G. for the first time.
Dear Staphy,
we know each other well. We've been together for a long time, even longer than I've been going out with my girlfriend. By the way, she's not taking it well. She thinks its time for you to go. She knows how you treat me: I really cannot hide it anymore. Yes, yes I know you keep saying I'll come back to you but isn't it the other way around? You've been coming back to me for eleven years, maybe longer. In fact, you never left. Though you won't admit it, I think you are probably responsible for the cystic acne that made me a mutant in my tender adolescent years and kept me a virgin until age 19. No, that's not funny. Once that nightmare ended, I thought my debilitating skin problems were finally over. It was a short, sweet vacation that ended a year after the acne when you laid me out on a surgeon's table with a baseball sized cyst protruding from my left armpit. Don't apologize, it only took me about and hour to convince the doctors that an alien wasn't going to pop out of my pit and devour their children. Seriously, the pictures they took for the new addition of Mosby's Medical Dictionary of Bizarre, Grosteque and Incurable Medical Disorders in exchange for reduced cost treatment were very flattering. You know, come to think of it, getting picked to be in a medical dictionary is a real honor. It means you're a special case, a truly unique freak that might only come along once every twenty years or so. And, speaking of freaks, I still have offers on the table to join John Bartleby's Traveling Educational Exhibit of Oddities, Mutants, and Natural Perversions. Its kind of like Ripley's Believe It Or Not meets the Antiques Road Show meets the Elephant Man. They used to call these things freak shows, but now they are called educational exhibits. Thats why its banned in only 36 countries. If I want to audition, they tell me they'll pay my airfare down to Buenos Aires, no problem. They want to call me the He Has the Gross Swollen Lymph Nodes Man or Senior Infectionado de Muerto. I think the second name sounds more poetic, don't you? All these wonderfull opportunities, and I owe it all to you Staphy. But anyway, I'm rambling. Let me get to the point.
Basically what I am trying to say here is that, although our relationship has been a real treat, I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to vacate my groin. And I'm afraid there isn't any room for negotiation on this one. See, the stuff down there is what makes me a man. I hope you understand what I'm getting at. I hope I'm being clear enough. You already claim a lot of real estate in my lymph glands elsewhere. By now you have permanently damaged nerve endings, and given me deep, permanent scars that have irrevocably ended my dream of becoming an armpit model for Vogue magazine. Isn't that enough?! Really, what more do you need to feel important? You're the Donald Trump and Bill Gates of the bacteria on my body and that will never change.
Once you gave up your penthouse apartment on my nose, there was no going back. You sold that back to my sweat glands. Please Staphy, don't blame me that negotiations between you and Subcutaneous Oil Gland Prodctions Inc., came to a stand still. Thats one loss you just gotta take for the team, buddy. Besides, you've had plenty more victories then losses in your time, my friend. Like the way you did in the Tetracycline, that was almost supernatural. Boom, boom. Bullet to the back of the gelcap and game over. Even the doctors were impressed with how quickly you became resistent. Tetra's older brother Doxycycline wasn't much of a contender either. Two years later that heavyweight bit it in round 12. TKO. Nowadays, even Keflex, the 800 pound gorilla of antibiotics, weighing in at 500 mg's per cap, can barely fight for its own life when its up against you. So I'd appreciate it if you stop acting like a sorry loser. You're not and you know it. After you finally annihilate the Big K-man, then its on to hospital antibiotics and fast track to the internal organs.
Don't think I won't fight every step. Don't think that my organs are going to lay back like pantywaists and let you do them in. Listen muchacho, I gotta liver thats already been through way more than you can ever throw. Think you're a big cat? You'll be lapping up milk outta my hands before you can even utter the words "renal failure." Think you can go for my heart, hombre? I gotta take drugs just to slow that bad boy down, its so powerful. Listen puta, consider this your final notice: you drew the first blood, I'll draw the last. You're school ain't even chartered, and I got me a ten pin o' whoop ass in the back G thats vintage oldschool '92 and waiting to pop they tops and go to towwwwwwwwn-a! I'm TNT (Turner Network television). I'm a....okay, no more Pulp Fiction ripoffs. Just get on out of me, ya hear?
--Hair-e-Guy
Fortunately for our readers, all those names were taken so Hair-e-guy will remain Hair-e-guy, at least until the last line-of-defense super strength antibiotics finally quit working and he finally dies an agonizing but quick death from sepsis, blood poisoning, necrotized body tissue once the bacteria reaches the flesh eating stage or just plain old immune system failure. Contemplation of thse future outcomes made Hair-e-guy wax nostolgic for the good old days when all a fella had to worry about was leprosy, bubonic plague, end stage rectal rot, or Storlie's barking syndome: Chihuahua type.
Things are a little more complicated these days, what with the staph beginning to chip away at ye olde nether regions. The underarms have been savaged enough, but why not the man boobs or the hair-e-gut, why does it have to go right for the junk? Hair-e-guy lamented with woeful lamentations.
As Hair-e-guy prepares for yet another futile visit to yet another sympathetic but utterly ineffectual doctor, he contemplates a new "tough love" approach in an open letter to the bacteria that have afflicted him for over a decade, now made public and reprinted exclusively in the R.A.G. for the first time.
Dear Staphy,
we know each other well. We've been together for a long time, even longer than I've been going out with my girlfriend. By the way, she's not taking it well. She thinks its time for you to go. She knows how you treat me: I really cannot hide it anymore. Yes, yes I know you keep saying I'll come back to you but isn't it the other way around? You've been coming back to me for eleven years, maybe longer. In fact, you never left. Though you won't admit it, I think you are probably responsible for the cystic acne that made me a mutant in my tender adolescent years and kept me a virgin until age 19. No, that's not funny. Once that nightmare ended, I thought my debilitating skin problems were finally over. It was a short, sweet vacation that ended a year after the acne when you laid me out on a surgeon's table with a baseball sized cyst protruding from my left armpit. Don't apologize, it only took me about and hour to convince the doctors that an alien wasn't going to pop out of my pit and devour their children. Seriously, the pictures they took for the new addition of Mosby's Medical Dictionary of Bizarre, Grosteque and Incurable Medical Disorders in exchange for reduced cost treatment were very flattering. You know, come to think of it, getting picked to be in a medical dictionary is a real honor. It means you're a special case, a truly unique freak that might only come along once every twenty years or so. And, speaking of freaks, I still have offers on the table to join John Bartleby's Traveling Educational Exhibit of Oddities, Mutants, and Natural Perversions. Its kind of like Ripley's Believe It Or Not meets the Antiques Road Show meets the Elephant Man. They used to call these things freak shows, but now they are called educational exhibits. Thats why its banned in only 36 countries. If I want to audition, they tell me they'll pay my airfare down to Buenos Aires, no problem. They want to call me the He Has the Gross Swollen Lymph Nodes Man or Senior Infectionado de Muerto. I think the second name sounds more poetic, don't you? All these wonderfull opportunities, and I owe it all to you Staphy. But anyway, I'm rambling. Let me get to the point.
Basically what I am trying to say here is that, although our relationship has been a real treat, I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to vacate my groin. And I'm afraid there isn't any room for negotiation on this one. See, the stuff down there is what makes me a man. I hope you understand what I'm getting at. I hope I'm being clear enough. You already claim a lot of real estate in my lymph glands elsewhere. By now you have permanently damaged nerve endings, and given me deep, permanent scars that have irrevocably ended my dream of becoming an armpit model for Vogue magazine. Isn't that enough?! Really, what more do you need to feel important? You're the Donald Trump and Bill Gates of the bacteria on my body and that will never change.
Once you gave up your penthouse apartment on my nose, there was no going back. You sold that back to my sweat glands. Please Staphy, don't blame me that negotiations between you and Subcutaneous Oil Gland Prodctions Inc., came to a stand still. Thats one loss you just gotta take for the team, buddy. Besides, you've had plenty more victories then losses in your time, my friend. Like the way you did in the Tetracycline, that was almost supernatural. Boom, boom. Bullet to the back of the gelcap and game over. Even the doctors were impressed with how quickly you became resistent. Tetra's older brother Doxycycline wasn't much of a contender either. Two years later that heavyweight bit it in round 12. TKO. Nowadays, even Keflex, the 800 pound gorilla of antibiotics, weighing in at 500 mg's per cap, can barely fight for its own life when its up against you. So I'd appreciate it if you stop acting like a sorry loser. You're not and you know it. After you finally annihilate the Big K-man, then its on to hospital antibiotics and fast track to the internal organs.
Don't think I won't fight every step. Don't think that my organs are going to lay back like pantywaists and let you do them in. Listen muchacho, I gotta liver thats already been through way more than you can ever throw. Think you're a big cat? You'll be lapping up milk outta my hands before you can even utter the words "renal failure." Think you can go for my heart, hombre? I gotta take drugs just to slow that bad boy down, its so powerful. Listen puta, consider this your final notice: you drew the first blood, I'll draw the last. You're school ain't even chartered, and I got me a ten pin o' whoop ass in the back G thats vintage oldschool '92 and waiting to pop they tops and go to towwwwwwwwn-a! I'm TNT (Turner Network television). I'm a....okay, no more Pulp Fiction ripoffs. Just get on out of me, ya hear?
--Hair-e-Guy
