I used to wonder if worms ever got dirt in their ears. When I later discovered that worms don’t have ears, I felt a huge sense of relief. Imagine having a giant clump of topsoil stuck in your ear and not having any hands with which to pick it out. But then I started to feel bad for the worm. Life can’t be easy without any ears, hands, or arms.
I got over that and began to ponder another worm-related question. Yes, I entertained more than one worm thought. Do worms ever feel dirty? I mean, I know they literally live in the earth, but surely some earth is less comfortable than others. There must be times when they wish they could have a good shower, right?
Maybe that’s why they always seem to come out when it rains. To wash off the filth. And get eaten by birds.
This raises another question…Why is the word “earth,” the very name of our home planet, synonymous with “dirt?” Is this not strange? Do Martians line up at their garden stores for bags of “black Mars?” As an earthling, I find this disturbing.
The best worm of all, in my humble opinion, is Lowly Worm. Not only does he have eyes (unlike his run-of-the-mill brethren), he also wears a boot and drives a car. His boot likely prevents him from talking to his ass — which appears to be a common problem among worms. And his fashionable outfit establishes him as the lone clothing-wearer among a species of nudists.
While I’m on the topic of long, cylindrical life forms, I’m very glad I’m not a snake. I like snakes. I have never been squeamish about snakes and have no problem picking them up and removing them from the garage floor. The thought of finding a vacated snake skin, however, freaks me out. Imagine if humans could simply shrug off a their outer layer flesh? The mall floors would be layered with hollow people-shaped clumps of epidermis. We could literally jump out of our skins. On the upside, it would eliminate the need for exfoliating.
And I just learned something really freaky! Did you know there is actually a worm snake? Yes, it’s officially called the “Carphophis amoenus” and they reach about 13 inches in length. I think I want one.
It seems fitting that a blog whose title includes the word “embiggens” should also include an entry entitled “The Itchy and Scratchy Show.” But, before you get your hopes up, it’s not what you think. It will not feature an aardvark-faced mouse or an axe-wielding cat. It will, in fact, feature nothing more than a bunch of rather itchy bumps…that make me scratch.
It seems that I am the proud recipient of a strange and insidious rash that has encircled my eyelids and under-eyes (is that a word?) like an infectious raccoon. Cortisone cream seems to work, but this rash — like a highly skilled maze runner — always manages to stay one step ahead of its steroidal enemy.
On the upside, it has taken my mind off COVID.
I have always considered myself to have pig’s eyes. Picture a pig’s eye. Non-descript. Invisible lashes. No outstanding features. Blank. This is me without makeup.
Not exactly “bedroom eyes.”
And, while I’m talking about pig’s eyes, did you know that Saint Paul, Minnesota was originally named Pig’s Eye after a one-eyed, whiskey-brewing reprobate? It’s true. I checked. And, like one quarter of the Face Like A Frying Pan family, he was French Canadian.
Check out this video from The Passive Aggressive Guide to Minnesota History…
When we hear the term “sweating like a pig,” we automatically think of a human drenched in a thick layer of pungent perspiration. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Pigs actually have no sweat glands and; therefore, could be said to have the freshest pits around. This is why they enjoy rolling around in mud. A swine has got to cool off somehow.
Since no post is complete without a reference to a Muppet — and I could not write a piece about pigs without wanting to find a Miss Piggy fact — I managed to find a rather tasty little tidbit. Yes, the world’s most beloved pork puppet was originally named Piggy Lee in honour of the famous jazz singer, Peggy Lee. Her name was shortened to Miss Piggy as no one wanted Ms. Lee to take offense.
I hereby proclaim that I would have no problem with any future Muppets being named in my honour. Even if they have pig eyes. With bumps around them.
Call me neurotic, but I am pretty particular about my skin holes. By skin holes, I am referring to cuts, lacerations, and punctures–pretty much anything that leaves my innards exposed. As people commissioned to protect said innards, I expect health care professionals to be equally, if not more, attentive to safe medical practices than I am.
Enter sloppy nurse. We’ll call her Nursey McSlopperson. If anyone out there actually has the surname “McSlopperson,” I apologize and add that any likeness to any member of the McSlopperson clan is purely coincidental. Then again, if your name is actually McSlopperson, you should really consider changing it–particularly if you are planning on entering the medical profession.
At first glance, Nurse McSlopperson is anything but scary. But don’t let her Spongebob scrubs fool you.
Sponges are harbingers of all sorts of nasty bacteria. Spongebob is a walking cesspool of filth.
I regularly get allergy shots at Mrs. McSlopperson’s place of business–we’ll call it The Doctor’s Office That Employs Nurse McSlopperson. There are other nurses here too. They are not sloppy. They wear Snoopy and Mickey Mouse scrubs. They are harmless and nice. Unfortunately, I seem to get Sloppy Nurse more often than not.
Why is she sloppy? I don’t know. Maybe her mom, Mother McSlopperson, never taught her basic hygiene. Maybe her mother was also a sloppy nurse. Oh, you meant “why do Ithink she is sloppy?” Here’s why. When you get a needle, it leaves a perfect little hole–an entrance into the inner workings of your body. A sterile band-aid is needed to close that point-of-entry and protect your guts from foreign invaders. “Sterile” is the operative word.
Nurse McSlopperson, however, peels the band-aid open and sticks it on herself, gives me the needle, and peels the band-aid off her own skin and applies it to mine. This, in my opinion, is disgusting. Who knows what strange microbes lurk on her epidermis. She could be harboring a flesh-eating fugitive. She may not have washed her hands after using the washroom. A dog may have licked her hand after licking his balls. She may have just finished giving a woman with chlamydia a PAP smear. Anything is possible. And everything goes through my mind.
I can almost feel the dude with the cowboy boots sidling through my blood stream.
The most troubling problem is that I cannot wash my innards. Whatever toxic slurry traveled from her skins cells into my needle hole are now gnawing their way through my bloodstream, digging their dirty fingernails across my organs, and pooping on my cells. No amount of Purell can fix that. I’m not going to sleep tonight. I sort of feel like this…
Do you think this is a sloppy nurse or am I just being my overly neurotic self?
Driverless cars disturb me. Sure, I love my car. His name is Wally and he faithfully waits for me wherever I go. But, it doesn’t mean I want to entrust him to get me home safely without my help.
After all, in Back to the Future, Doc Brown piloted his time-travelling DeLorean, in Harry Potter, Weasley’s flying Ford had someone at the steering wheel, and the speeder bikes of Star Wars still required drivers . Even the Jetson’s flying cars had animated characters at the helm. Why then, is actual technology striving to make the human component of driving redundant?
See? No driverless cars in the Jetson’s version of the future.
I like driving. Lots of people like driving. Why, then, are companies seeking to take away our fun? I would much rather see them developing flying cars. Now that would be fun. And it would take hours off a weekly commute.
If safety is an issue, I think we should steal an idea from TV’s Ray Barone and look into the manufacturing of cars made of Nerf. Even if they are sluggish when wet.
Now this is where technology should be headed. Cars made of high density foam.
In 2016, a self-driving Tesla struck a transport truck, apparently failing to detect the broad expanse of white against a sunny sky. This is not good. A lot of things are white. Buildings. Other vehicles. The Staypuft marshmallow man. A large gathering of brides. A Trump supporters’ rally. These are almost all things for which a vehicle should stop.
Let’s look at drones as an example. They are, after all, miniature driverless vehicles. If humans can’t master the art of making drones foolproof, surely we should abandon the idea of placing their large and deadly counterparts on our highways.
1. Hollywood paints pizza delivery drivers as pimply faced, heavy metal playing, menaces-to-mailboxes-and-lawn-ornaments. Surely, even the worst of these is better than a drone. Particularly, since they have been known to fall from the sky, which would seriously shift your pizza toppings.
In fact, drones have hit Seattle’s Space Needle, driven into an office building and thwacked a worker in the head, been attacked by a branch-wielding chimpanzee, and they have come close to hitting several commercial airplanes and helicopters. Quite frankly, the people in Quebec are better drivers.
And, ironically, during the first-ever Great Bull Run in Virginia, the carnage was not caused by a horned boy-cow. Instead, several spectators were wounded by a rogue drone that crashed into the audience.
I hear the bull was looking specifically for this guy.
2. While pondering roadways filled with nerf, I began to reminisce about my childhood. One of my all-time favourite toys was the nerf ball. I’m not talking about today’s jazzed-up, built for wind-resistance variety. I’m referring to the simple round blob of foam that was, seemingly, designed solely for the use of lobbing it at people’s foreheads. Prior to the nerf ball’s conception I’m sure there were a lot of ball-to-head related injuries. Mainly because the name softball is exceedingly deceptive. Softballs are not soft and bouncing one off your brother’s forehead could lead to permanent brain damage. A nerf ball to the cranium, however, is the equivalent of a cotton ball to the face. No blood or hospital visits required.
Ironically, this simple toy catches a hefty price on the marketplace. Right this moment, there are several for sale for about $60 + $40 shipping. Yes, $100 for a round piece of foam.
Don’t remember the original Nerf ball? Here’s a video clip…
3. Interestingly, there exists some hot and heavy debate on the internet regarding the case for introducing rubber cars. The proponents joyfully exclaim that loud crashes would be replaced by “boings,” dents would simply sproing back into shape, and upon impact, passengers would merely bounce around within their rubber cabins. Bumper-to-bumper traffic would be fun–like a game of full-sized bumper cars.
The opponents adeptly point out that rubber is, indeed, a very heavy material, making cars sluggish. Rubber would also melt due to engine heat–which, now that I come to think of it, would lead to melted rubber injuries. They also remind us that, even in a rubber car, a head-on collision is likely to lead to fatalities as the passengers would be endlessly thrown about the insides of their bouncy car.
What is your take on the rubber car? Yeah or Nay? What about cars made of Nerf?
The Jetsons: http://cogdogblog.com/2017/06/those-flying-cars/
This one has been kicking around as a draft for awhile, so I thought I’d release it out into the world….
Vomit is slippery.
This is one of those statements that I accepted as truth despite never having actually measured the viscosity of vomit. Nor have I ever had the opportunity to use alliteration to describe the contents of my stomach. Until now.
I, unfortunately, can attest to the fact that vomit is, indeed, slippery. And not at all pleasant to the touch.
You see, it’s allergy season. (Right now you’re probably saying “Allergy season? It’s not spring, you idiot.) Every season is allergy season for me, but the fall with its decaying leaves, moldy earth, and other rotting detritus wreaks havoc on my faulty immune system and fills my lungs up with snot.
Here’s a song about snot…
I suppose that by now you are wondering how my snotty lungs led to slippery vomit. My body doesn’t actually like having items other than air in its lung compartments and, in an effort to rid itself of the unwanted mucus, it decided to send me into a fit of violent coughs. Now these coughs sort of start at my toes and gather strength as they move upwards.
And I had a full stomach as I had just finished eating lunch.
And, did I mention that I was in my car on my way to work?
Yes, my clothes were neatly pressed. My name tag firmly in place, to the left, by my heart. And I had sandals on. This is important to note.
This particular cough started somewhere around my kneecaps. It picked up steam as it made its way upwards to my “guttal” region, stirring up my egg salad sandwich and chai latte. From there it escaped my mouth as an ear-piercing bark coupled with a gurgling and spewing sound. The gurgling and spewing noises were, as I quickly discovered, the by-product of a former sandwich exiting my throat at warp speed.
I “ugly cry.” I wonder if I also “ugly barf.”
When I opened my eyes (I believe it is dangerous to barf with one’s eyes open lest they are blown out of the eye socket altogether), I was shocked to see that my steering wheel was plastered in slimy egg salad stalactites and the sheen of bile. Bear in mind that I was still in the flow of traffic and that gripping a stomach juice-smeared steering wheel is like trying to grip another person’s tongue with your bare fingers.
Turning my steering wheel was out of the question. Thankfully, work lay straight ahead.
Somewhere underneath the self-loathing and disgust caused by the fact that my hands were mired in my own puke, there lurked a glimmer of pride. I had managed to keep my clothing and my car seat vomit-free. The only victim appeared to be my steering wheel. Surely, such accurate aim was worthy of praise–or, perhaps, even a celebration.
Look at how happy this steering wheel is. It has, likely, never been barfed on.
I pulled into the parking lot and began rifling through the glove compartment for a kleenex, a paper towel, hell, a well-used snot rag would do. Thankfully, a Wendy’s napkin presented itself and I was able to return my steering wheel to its former dry, vomit-free and respectable self. I had made it to work. No one need ever know that I had just puked in my car. Unless, of course, I decided to broadcast the fact. In my blog.
Unfortunately, when I placed my foot on the ground, it made a squishing sound. My sandals were laden in barf and I had thoroughly soiled my only napkin. I had no choice. Me and my putrid pukey feet would have to trudge into work as is. We would have some explaining to do.
What is the grossest funny thing that has happened to you? It’s okay to share. You are among friends.
The bunny rabbit is probably one of nature’s gentlest creatures—from the tip of its twitching nose to the end of its puffy cottontail, everything about a bunny screams out “hug me.” Even the name “bunny” is sweet—hence its pairing with the words “honey” and “snuggle.” Heck, the rabbit is even too gentle to eat other animals—preferring, instead, to nibble demurely on tender greens.
Yes, in the animal kingdom, the bunny rabbit is a seemingly well-adjusted pacifist who is comfortable in his own fur. But every once in awhile, we come across a troubled specimen—a rabbit that is simply unable to adhere to his society’s expectation of what a rabbit should be. Here is a list of some of our favourite non-traditional hares, the ones we’ll refer to as “bunnies with issues.”
Despite his impeccable grooming and formal attire, Alice in Wonderland’s White Rabbit demonstrates an intense preoccupation with time and punctuality. He appears to suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and an unhealthy attachment to his clock.
He also exercises negligence—bordering on the criminal sort—by luring unsuspecting females into his hole, showing little regard for their mental and physical safety. This fastidious clock-watcher and abductor is, indeed, a bunny with serious issues.
The Cadbury Bunny does provide a greatly appreciated service to the human population, but he does so at great expense to his psychological well-being. He is a rabbit who believes that he is a chicken. As a result, he can no longer communicate with his fellow bunnies—preferring, instead, to cluck.
His alter ego is so strong that he has actually undergone severe physiological changes—changes so horrific that he is now able to lay eggs. Even more disturbing, these eggs appear to be covered in shiny foil. This delusional bunny may, in fact, require institutionalization before his rabbit qualities are lost forever—but, for now, he simply remains one of the world’s most troubled bunnies.
The Energizer Bunny
The Energizer Bunny may appear to have his act together. He has held a steady job for several years, he believes in protecting his eyes from the sun’s harmful rays, and he plays a musical instrument. But beneath his seemingly polished appearance lurks a raving workaholic—willing to sacrifice life and limb for the sake of his career.
His dedication and reliability may have earned him a stellar reputation among Hollywood’s movers and shakers, but it has also left him with no time for friends or family. Like a chocolate Easter bunny, he is a shell of a rabbit with only his career to keep him alive.
His job has also put him in harm’s way on several occasions including encounters with Darth Vader, Dracula, Wile E Coyote, and King Kong. He has even endured an alien abduction where he underwent God-only-knows what types of unspeakable torture.
Whether the root of his troubles stem from schoolyard teasing about his baby pink fur or from being launched into a life of fame at an early age, the fact remains—he is one twisted little bunny with a whack of issues.
The Open Season Rabbits
Admittedly, rabbits are not exactly the Vin Diesel’s of the animal kingdom—nor do we expect them to be. They abhor violence and are rarely the aggressors in forest melees. But that is not to say that they suffer from low self-esteem or that they willingly assume the role of a doormat—or a bunny fur rug. They do not voluntarily surrender carrots to their foes. And they certainly would not willingly give you their foot—good luck or not.
This is why the bunnies of Open Season are so disturbing. A psychologically healthy bunny would not let you catch him in the first place, but if he was having a slow day and you did happen to snatch him up—he would not passively allow you to fling him at a window. And he would surely not stand idly by and wait for you to do it again. These bunnies are obviously in need of therapy to cope with their many issues. And they may also require CT scans.
The Nestle Quik Bunny
The Nestle Quik Bunny is, perhaps, the most poignant example of a rabbit suffering from the effects of substance abuse. This short brown fellow with the pink button nose will sacrifice all of his hopes and dreams—achieving the high score in his favourite video game, mastering the art of ping-pong, and reading great masterpieces—to acquire his next hit of this rich and thick chocolate beverage. Armed with a straw and a spoon, this addicted little fellow has been known to lapse into prolonged periods of depression if denied his drug of choice. It is his addictive personality that has earned him a spot on this Top 10.
Harvey, the six-foot tall and invisible rabbit, likely suffered a great deal of taunting as a young bunny. But the havoc he unleashed on poor Elwood P. Dowd’s life was unthinkable. Revealing himself only to Mr. Dowd, Harvey became the lonely man’s best friend and confidante—all the while guarding his own identity in a CIA-like fashion that even the Snuffleupagus would envy. And poor Mr. Dowd quickly became the town laughing stalk.
A sane bunny would have revealed himself and eased his human companion’s pain. Harvey Rabbit may have been the victim of a painful childhood or, perhaps, he suffered from an extreme personality disorder. Either way, Harvey’s lack of transparency—that, ironically, was caused by an excess of transparency—makes him a bunny with major issues.
As a master con artist, Boingo Bunny, has cleverly duped his fellow woodland creatures into believing that he is something he is not—a a mild-manner lagomorph who wouldn’t hurt a soul. This false persona enables him to get his filthy little paws—no, really, they’re filthy–on many a stolen confectionary. Of course, his furry white brows, rusty brown belly, and penchant for carrot crumpets make him an endearing little fellow, aiding his evil plans.
Perhaps, Boingo’s problems manifested after losing his coveted job working for the Muffin Man. Or maybe he was dropped on his head several times as an infant. Whatever the cause, Boingo obviously suffers from some deep-seeded psychological issues that have led him to abandon his good nature and choose, instead, a life of malicious crime. Indeed, Boingo is a bunny who suffers from serious mental problems.
Wallace & Gromit’s Were-Rabbit
Wallace’s alter ego, the Were-Rabbit, demonstrates why God made rabbits small. Much of a bunny’s image as a docile, gentle creature can be attributed to its meagre size. If you enlarge even the sanest of rabbits to the size of the Volkswagen that bears their name, the result will be anything but demure. Bunny hops will become earth shattering. And a ravenous monster rabbit or “were-hare”—now I know why they didn’t use that name in the title—would be capable of wiping out a farmer’s market stand in no time, leaving nothing behind but a heap of useless melon rinds and lettuce cores. The Were-Rabbit, perhaps, could benefit from extensive behaviour modifications in order to adjust to life as an overly large rabbit.
It would seem that the bigger the bunny, the bigger their issues.
Now Roger isn’t a bad bunny. In fact, if a real rabbit were to be anthropomorphized, he is pretty much how many of us imagine one would be—fun loving, energetic, and desperately in need of Ritalin. Much of the troubles that he experiences in his life can actually be attributed to the fact that he possesses a relatively low intelligence quotient—making him a prime target for manipulation.
Roger also suffers from the most intense allergic reaction to alcohol that the research community has ever observed. One drink transforms this simple-mind, but loveable bunny into a force of unstoppable destruction—annihilating everything in his wake. Roger’s alcohol-riddled alter ego and dim wit earn him a spot as a bunny in need of help.
Bugs Bunny is a classic example of a rabbit who suffers from multiple psychological issues. Admittedly, Bugs possesses the highest IQ that the scientific world has ever encountered within the rodent order. It is, perhaps, his immeasurable intelligence that has caused him to be ostracized by his fellow rabbits—forcing him to adopt the role of human.
Bugs’ delusions of grandeur have earned him countless enemies, which include in their numbers several humans, one duck, a coyote, an extra-terrestrial, a witch, and a large red hairy thing. Bugs exhibits an inability to get along with others, which is exacerbated by the fact that he is extremely paranoid—believing that everyone he encounters is “out to get him.” His irrational fears often lead to bizarre behaviours such as wearing women’s clothing and lashing out with violent acts.
It would also appear that the laws of gravity do not affect him.
Bugs is a bunny with multiple issues who could likely keep a therapist busy for years—earning him the number one spot on our list.
Yesterday was my mother’s birthday and she received 45 scratch cards. Seriously. Now, one would think that receiving so many chances to win BIG money would be a good thing. And it was–in the beginning.
The first problem is that some of these game cards are as easy to understand as an Ikea instruction manual in Klingon. And, the play area, itself, has font so infinitesimal that a flea would require a magnifying glass. After just one card, my mother had the eyes of a crack addict.
This man has, obviously, played too much scratch bingo.
And, of course, there is the scratching. My mother has arthritic hands. After one giant monopoly board, she was worse off than Jerry Seinfeld after signing his Japanese royalty cheques.
One can only hope that she wins a huge payoff. If only so she can afford laser eye repair and physiotherapy on her hand.
Which brings me to a whole other concern. Me being me–an OCD neurotic mess–I, immediately, began to worry about her inhalation of so much of that weird scratch-off residue. I mean, what the hell is that stuff made of? Some carcinogenic slurry of road-paint and drywall dust from the floors of a factory in China?
Note to self: Tell mother to wear card-scratching mask.
1) I don’t think I have ever purchased a scratch card for myself. Perhaps, if I lived in one of the Top Five States that spend the most money on scratch cards, I, too, would have succumbed to this addiction.
In fact, according to MoneyWise, the monies spent in Massachusetts on scratch tickets equate to almost a thousand dollars per adult. It makes sense as this Atlantic coast state (interestingly, a geographical characteristic shared by all five top states) claims to be home of the original instant scratch ticket.
2) I am a fan of Simpsons-esque eyeballs–large and round with the pupil smack-dab in the middle. And, as far as eyes go, I subscribe to a “the bigger the better” school of thought–unless they are simply temporarily enlarged due to a night of scratch card playing or cocaine snorting.
The world’s largest eyeballs belong to the Colossal Squid. These baby blues–or should I say blacks–measure in at 11 inches in diameter. Eyes the size of dinner plates.
My ex-father-in-law had a glass eye that he used to pop out of his head from time-to-time. I’d find it on my chair, my place mat, or other random places. Thankfully, it was small. I can’t imagine finding this thing sitting next to my fork.
Plus, isn’t this squid missing his eyeball? Is he out there somewhere swimming around with a giant eye patch bumping into blue whales and things?
3) According to Marc Okrand, the creator of the Klingon language, roughly 100 people are fluent in this tongue. Is it just me or is this 99 people too many? I remember mastering Ubbi Dubbi as a young child. I thought I had unlocked a secret code–a little kids’ version of the Dead Sea Scrolls. But, for the most part, whenever I uttered something like “Hubellubo! Hubow Ubare Yubou?” people simply looked at me like I was having some type of seizure.
The point that I am trying to make is that I was a child. The adults around me did not pull out their Ubbi Dubbi to English dictionaries and try to decipher my nonsense. They told me to talk like a normal person. Why, then, have 100 grown-up humans gone to great pains to master a language that only 99 other people have mastered? Has no one told them to talk like a normal person?
If you’ve never actually heard a non-Klingon speaking Klingon, you will want to check out this dude rapping in Klingon.
I am constipated. Unfortunately, this is all I can think about right now. And, as a result, this preoccupation will be reflected in today’s writing. After several false alarms where I thought I was actually going to get some relief, only to find a mere smattering of constipation pellets in the bowl, I have decided to give in and consume the toxic-tasting–but extremely effective–slurry of mystery ingredients all ending in “xide” and “trate,” otherwise known as Milk of Magnesia.
The name, in itself, is misleading. Milk does not taste like a combination of mint, chalk, and fish oil. And “Magnesia” sounds like a derivative of “magnificent,” which I can assure you, it is not. It also makes me think of the Rational Youth song, Saturdays in Silesia—which sounded better in the eighties.
So, anyways, my guts are rumbling.
As you already know, I am completely neurotic. And my sloth-like colon has given me something new to worry about. What if my intestines simply explode? I just had the kitchen walls painted.
1) Thankfully, after a quick perusal of Google, I have learned that my situation is not quite as dire as I first thought. Back in 2013, a housewife in Mumbai underwent what, in my opinion, would be a horrifying surgery. They removed a “football sized” lump of crap from her colon. And, wait, it gets worse. This poor woman had not had a bowel movement for 45 days. Yes, that is over 6 weeks without pooping. I have 43 days to go.
2) It seems that some people have the opposite problem. They can poop anywhere at any time. In fact, they can perform a rectal flush on command. With an audience.
In case you haven’t already encountered this case, meet the crazy feces-flinger from British Columbia, Canada. Not only did she yank down her drawers in the middle of the donut shop, but she proceeded to take a dump, pick it up and fling it at the employees. I bet everyone involved had a crappy day.
3) I really shouldn’t complain about constipation. It could be worse. I could suffer from explosive diarrhea. Or worse–explosive nocturnal diarrhea.
Imagine having to get up several times each night to relieve your screaming bowels. Knowing my luck–I have, after all, thrown up on my steering wheel–I would get the explosive diarrhea without the “getting up” part. My husband and, heaven forbid, my stuffed animals would be covered in excrement. My husband is, at least, washable. Although, he’d never let me hear the end of it. “You crapped all over me last night. Blah, blah, blah…” So much drama.
Well, the Milk of Magnesia is starting to work. Time to grab the Poo-pourri.
I am neurotic. I don’t know when my perception of the world around me transformed from a blissful place of sunshine and lollipops into the anxiety-riddled one that I now inhibit inhabit. My mother says I was always a tad bit…um…”different” (insert finger quotes here), which I guess is true. I did believe, after all, that tow trucks broke cars and firemen started fires. Think about it. Every time a car stops working, there’s a tow truck around. And, every time there’s a fire…well, you know where I’m headed with this.
It seems that my mind–although highly superior to others in many aspects–in my opinion, which, by the way means very little given the state of my mind to begin with– was pre-programmed for neuroses at a very early age. (If you made it through that sentence without experiencing a walloping migraine, congratulations for your stick-to-itiveness. If that sentence made sense to you, please accept my condolences. I see padded cells and really long-sleeved white jackets in your future.)
When I was 7 years old, I experienced what I call the Toadstool Event…an event which has given me a phobia of inedible fungi. Mycophobia. A fear of fungus. Yes, even the cutest flock of fungi has the power to fray my nerves.
Don’t let their innocent faces fool you.
It started off as an innocent school trip. My classmates and I merrily frolicked through the forest, picking colourful fungi to take back to our classroom, “oh-ing” and “aw-ing” at every turn, trying to outdo one another by finding increasingly weirder-looking specimens. When our mushroom marauding came to an end, we piled on our school bus and returned to school just in time for lunch.
I happily devoured my peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich and my wagon wheel (a chocolate-covered marshmallowy dessert adored by school children in the 1970s, not an actual wagon wheel, although those likely contain a great deal of healthy fibre), and headed back to my classroom.
If these are the “original” wagon wheels, I would suggest backing away from the box.
Upon entering, my teacher (who from this moment on, I will refer to as Ms. WTF Were-You-Thinking) stated, “Now, I hope you all washed your hands before lunch as you did handle poisonous mushrooms.” The whole room broke into a series of obedient nods and “yes, Ms. WTF’s.” I, however, had lapsed into horrified silence.
I could almost picture the toadstool remnants stuck to my hands.
I had not washed my hands. I had potentially eaten peanut butter, jam, and toadstool spores for lunch. I had no choice. I had to confess my potentially life-threatening hygiene faux-pas. And what followed is likely what transformed an otherwise well-adjusted (albeit slovenly) child into a neurotic, hand-washing-obsessed worrywart who is actually allergic to mushrooms. It’s true. I’ve been tested. Well, the mushroom part…I’ve never been tested for the rest.
Ms. WTF Were-You-Thinking immediately gathered the offending fungi around her, opened up her toadstool book and proceeded to say aloud, ” this looks like the destroying angel.” The very name was ominous. She continued to read the potential side effects of accidental ingestion, but my mind only heard the words “deadly” and “Poison Control.” I don’t remember much after that–other than my parents receiving a phone call that evening stating that Poison Control had concluded that I had not, in fact, been in contact with any toxic fungi and that I would, indeed, live.
In a true neurotic fashion, I did not believe them and forced my parents to stay up with me in case I died. I, apparently, fell asleep at 10:00 and was pleased to wake up the next morning and discover that I was still alive.