Thursday, May 19, 2005
Staphy Gets Last Laugh
St. Paul. My recent letter to the bacteria that has infected me prompted it to respond in kind, but not kindly. Below is a summary of our recent correspondance.
Dear Hair-e-Guy,
It was with deep sadness that I read your previous letter. Your bitter tone suggests to me that humans do not find it flattering to join a traveling circus freak show, as I would. However, while I'm sorry the incurible medical dictionary photographs may have been a source of shame for you, I have to admit that they fill me with pride. Come now, I'm not really incurable, am I? Gosh I had no idea. With regard to your concern about drug resistence, I can assure you that I am not the vicious fighter you take me for. Buddy, the main thing us bacteria like to do is divide. For us dividing is more fun than barn dances, crocheting, watching Will and Grace, karoke or snorting meth. No, for us cell division is the bee's knees. After dividing ten million times, I get kind of tired. Breathing is harder; I'm not anaerobic, you know kiddo. Then, as I try to sit down and rest for a second and wipe the sweat from my furroughed brow, I get a knock at the door of my cell. Who is it? A sexy platelet for a hot date? A pissed off white blood cell who just wants to yell at me a bit for kicking his ass? The pizza guy? Nope. All I hear is bang, bang, bang, "open the door, this is Keflex! We have a prescription!" Before I can even roll off of my nice new bacteria ed the door gets kicked in and these...these foreigners just come right in and start hassling me. It was such bullshit. Next thing you know they're kicking me around, demanding to know what I'm doing here, asking me for ID, saying they're gonna culture my wives and children, and take my DNA. Worst of all, they said they would kill me. Well, I thought it was just a bad dream but the next day there were a hundred more at the door, then a thousand, then ten thousand, a freaking army man.
Dear Hair-e-Guy,
It was with deep sadness that I read your previous letter. Your bitter tone suggests to me that humans do not find it flattering to join a traveling circus freak show, as I would. However, while I'm sorry the incurible medical dictionary photographs may have been a source of shame for you, I have to admit that they fill me with pride. Come now, I'm not really incurable, am I? Gosh I had no idea. With regard to your concern about drug resistence, I can assure you that I am not the vicious fighter you take me for. Buddy, the main thing us bacteria like to do is divide. For us dividing is more fun than barn dances, crocheting, watching Will and Grace, karoke or snorting meth. No, for us cell division is the bee's knees. After dividing ten million times, I get kind of tired. Breathing is harder; I'm not anaerobic, you know kiddo. Then, as I try to sit down and rest for a second and wipe the sweat from my furroughed brow, I get a knock at the door of my cell. Who is it? A sexy platelet for a hot date? A pissed off white blood cell who just wants to yell at me a bit for kicking his ass? The pizza guy? Nope. All I hear is bang, bang, bang, "open the door, this is Keflex! We have a prescription!" Before I can even roll off of my nice new bacteria ed the door gets kicked in and these...these foreigners just come right in and start hassling me. It was such bullshit. Next thing you know they're kicking me around, demanding to know what I'm doing here, asking me for ID, saying they're gonna culture my wives and children, and take my DNA. Worst of all, they said they would kill me. Well, I thought it was just a bad dream but the next day there were a hundred more at the door, then a thousand, then ten thousand, a freaking army man.
