Thursday, September 23, 2004

Got to Admit, I'm Getting Better

A little better, all the time...

My nasal cavity is still more stuffed than a twice-baked potato, and I still sound like Bea Arthur after chaining three packs of unfiltered Camels and gargling gravel. Some would even claim that's what I look like too. But I'm feeling much better...much, much better. I was feeling like such doo doo yesterday that I actually went to see a doctor, a practice I generally despise and resist at all costs. I feel like I'm just wasting everyone's time every time I see a doctor.

The only thing that keeps me sane in a doctor's office is my habit of feverishly searching through the doctor's drawers and playing with his junk. Wait, strike that last sentence, too fruity. Searching through his drawers and playing with his junk? OK, let's go with: The only thing that keeps me sane in a doctor's office is when I root through his shit and...OK, nothing I say here is going to sound remotely heterosexual, so let's just assume that you know what I mean. I don't spy on other people; never have, never will. I don't look through people's medicine cabinets or search through their closets for hidden porn or stashed jars of fecal matter. I don't go through my roommate's stuff when he's away or my co-workers files when they're out. But for some reason, when I'm in the doctor's office, I feel incredibly compelled to open every last one of his drawers and cabinets and touch and/or play with every last thing he owns. Every time. I must explore this man's office. I won't lick all his tongue depressors and put 'em back in the jar, but stranger things have happened.

Well, this doctor's a pretty good guy, so I didn't do that this time. And he pretty much saw me right away, so i didn't have time for my medi-spelunking practice. I originally selected him as my doctor a few months ago because of his proximity to my apartment, which is literally in the next building over. But he's good, I like his work. He stands on a wall and tells me no one's gonna hurt me tonight, not on his watch. Before yesterday I had only been to him once before actually, when I took a speeding softball off the shin and my leg blew up like a swarm of Africanized bees had stung me repeatedly (isn't that a bit racist, that Africanized bees are the most harmful? Think about it. I'm appalled.). Meanwhile, five months later and I still have that bruise on my shin, no joke. The doctor was shocked when he saw that. I'm a medical marvel.

Long story short, he told me that taking over-the-counter medicines like Dayquil and fever reducers like Tylenol are bad for my body in fighting off this infection, and that I should be spraying some saltwater shit up my nose several times a day to help the process. Doctors could tell me to take a dump on a homeless guy and I'd probably do it -- I just think they know a lot more than I do about the human body. My diet is impeccably unhealthy and most of the water I drink each day comes accidentally from the bottom of a bong. But so far, this doc's advice is dead-on balls accurate, and I'm feeling better. Plus, the doctor is kinda dreamy. I almost asked him to check me for a hernia before I left. You know, just in case. Cough, cough.

Praise Jesus that he told me to stop taking the Dayquil. I'm not kidding, I'm 99 percent sure that shit was kicking me back into a four-year old ecstasy roll. Not the good part, though, and not even the part we called "Drizzlepiss," the section of time after the peak and before the comedown where you're not still "rolling balls," but it's still coursing through your system, the time when you can smoke a bowl and kick right back into it pretty easily. (Incidentally, the term was coined by a good college buddy, who used that term to describe that five-second part in Mario Kart when your guy's star wasn't blinking any more but you could still knock people off the road. Clever as hell). Well, Dayquil didn't even kick me back into drizzlepiss, it put me straight at that part where you're coming down hard, shivering and sweating while sitting Indian style on the couch, staring blankly at the television that's somehow tuned into Dora the Explorer, pupils all big, testicles all small, wondering when in the world you'll ever feel normal again. Where the fuck does it say that on the Dayquil box? All I see is that stupid fuckin' "stuffy head, sore throat yada yada yada so you can rest" slogan...Well I didn't get no rest. I got post-ecstatic depression flashbacks.

Needless to say, I'm feeling better. Occasionally I'll laugh too hard and cough something up that looks like Slimer. Like yesterday when my old roommate told me to check out the Macho Man Randy Savage's new website, complete with his new rap song "Be a Man," featuring 50 Cent. I wish I were kidding. This dude actually raps, and apparently the whole point of his little exercise is to call out Hulk Hogan and challenge him to a fight. My sides almost split. If you don't listen to this rap, we're not friends anymore. Just go to his site and do it for your ol' sick pal, Ace. It's an instant classic.

And sometimes I'll be so stir crazy from being in this apartment for so long that I'll replace the lyrics to Baba O'Reilly with new ones about making toast (It's onleeee, toast-ed, wheat bread, ba dum ba dum ba dum dadadadadadum). It's a pretty good song, just ask my roomie, who is probably singing it at his desk right now. But I'm starting to get real crazy in here, so I think it's time for me to go outside.

Before I go, I just saw the US Postal Service commercial again, the one with Dave Brubeck's Blue Rondo ala Turk. This song, this album (Time Out), incredible stuff. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was the first jazz album to sell a million copies. Take Five is the track most often played, but folks, listen to the rest of that album at some point, especially Blue Rondo. It won't change your life, but it just may fuck your father in the shower and have a snack. Kudos to the USPS.


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