Mind Farts

Welcome to Mind Farts. This is where I will discuss important matters, thoughts and feelings that bubble up in my neural pathways like dump in a septic tank. Bubble Bubble...


Lance Armstrong-- 

Listen, Lance. Let's get one thing straight. You cheated. You doped. You lied. You looked countless people in the eyes, and lied. You also created a foundation for cancer victims. You also inspired countless people across the world, and now most of them are disappointed. But listen. Lance, if you're out there, preparing for your latest triathlon or half-marathon with a blood transfusion and some testosterone injections--let's get another thing straight.

You're a ridiculous athlete. Most of the riders in the peloton were doped. Many of them probably still dope with undetectable shit out of a scifi movie. The problem is, people trusted you. People adored you. People put you on a pedestal and rejected the accusations and stood up for you and championed on your behalf and believed, wholeheartedly, that while other riders were drugged to the gills, you, the man inhuman, were clean. Many believed that you were the guy--that one guy who defied all odds, who rode a bike for 6 hrs a day, who never tested positive, and who could do no wrong.

But we were wrong. I was wrong. Some people may see you as a sociopath. Some might call you a narcissistic lying machine. But me, personally, I feel bad for you, man. You've always tried to be the best, you've always had something to prove--with all the victories, all the sponsorships, all the accolades... were you ever happy?

Were you ever happy? You've gone to such great lengths to dominate everybody and everything that got in your way. You try to bring lawsuits against those who 'slander' your name. You strive to squash legal accusations through threats--and when somebody is brazen enough to imply that you're a fraud, you insinuate that the brave soul is somehow 'pro-cancer.'
But why? What are you trying to prove? And now, as the world comes crashing down around you, what will you do?

It's time to open up, Mr. Armstrong. It's time to be human.


Doctors-- 

I hate doctors. Nah, nah, scratch that. I hate going to the doctor's. Yea, yea, yea, they could find a malignant mole, diagnose me with an autoimmune deficiency, and generally save my life. But I'd rather just believe that I'm a perfect specimen. Why do I need some poindexter in a white coat to tell me that my blood pressure is a little high? Of course my blood pressure's a little high, you're giving me the ghoul eyes, Dr. Kevorkian! Why do I want some guy telling me that I should cut down on trans fats and refined sugars? "Hey Doc, I respect your opinion, but chocolate is delicious. Don't rain on my parade."

The worst part for me is the buildup. Sitting in the waiting room, covertly eying all the poor souls around me. I like to hold a copy of Reader's Digest to my face as I scan the sickly-looking ones. Sometimes you'll hear a croaking cough or see somebody with big enough bags under their eyes to snag an elephant. While a part of me, the human part, wants to feel bad for these dying souls, the other part screams for them to get away. I mean, I don't want the flu! Take your hacking cough and bleeding eyes somewhere else bud, I can't afford to get your sickness.

Sometimes I wonder why I even bother going to the docs. If your insurance sucks, it ain't cheap. And why risk exposing myself to all those contagions? The reason I came to the doctor's was to feel better. And what's with all the needles? How much freakin blood do you want from me? Are you drug-testing me without my knowledge? Am I gonna get that blood back? Listen, if you're gonna draw an inordinate amount of blood from me, 'least do me a favor.

Enhance it! That's right, Lance-Armstrong that shit! I want that blood infused with all kinds of performance enhancing drugs (steroids, EPO, HGH, etc.). Once you've 'spruced' up my life-liquid, feel free to inject it back in. Otherwise, get those sharp death sticks away from my veins. I'm a human, not a lab rat!

Speaking of Lab Rats--

I don't want to alarm you, but I possess incredible abilities. I have what's known as scoliosis (no, there's nothing wrong with my skull). Scoliosis means, more or less, curvature of the spine. For me, it means my lumbar resembles an "S". Kinda like Superman. Or a mutant.

Anyway, the first time I learned about my 'condition' was in a shiny room, faced by an even shinier bald-head, and surrounded by a bunch of Asian Johns Hopkins medical students. As I sat there, they jotted notes and made observations in their clickity-clicks. It was a little dehumanizing. I mean, I guess I understand that I was just a specimen... but come on, duuudes. Stop referring to me in the third person when I'm sitting right there!

The worst part is, they don't take the time to explain any of their furtive whispers. I guess they assume I'm too stupid to understand the complexities of the human body. "Ah, yes, 23 degrees on the lower, uh, patella platypus rotary, right?"

But it really all started--

When I was young. My so-called white coat syndrome, my fear of the medical masses, began when I was but a wee-boy. I used to lock myself in the doctor's office (oh I was conniving). Sadly, I never realized how to open the windows in his office... so the only way out was to go through the door I had locked. Which meant... the nurses and the needles and the blood-draining contraptions of my nightmares would be waiting on the other side.

Man, did I hate the other side.

But let's save the other side for another day, cuz I got something else to say.

Drunk People-- 

If you've ever existed in the realm we call "reality," you've probably witnessed a drunk person doing something that drunk people do. The beauty of drunk people is, well, they think they know what they're talking about (as they slur it out in meaningless order), and they always think they know what's best. No matter how many times you advise your wasted friend that jumping off the roof into the backyard pool is a bad idea if he misses the angle, he ain't gonna listen!

See, I like to think of drunk people as not drunk people, per se, but normal people--just devolved. A drunk person is like a caveman. Their reasoning is a little hazy, their utterances resemble grunts and moans more than words, and anything that involves stupid physical activity is suddenly the most appealing thing in the world. Drunk people will amble through strangers' homes in their tightie-whities because, well, "the front door was unlocked." Drunk people will confess to you the object of their greatest affection, only to forget this 'soul-mate' at the first sight of a nearby hottie. Drunk people pee in exhaust pipes, fornicate with their clothes on, and generally smell like fresh piss and regurgitated fast food.

But where would the world be without drunk people??