Tag Archives: Christopher Reeve

The Two Big C’s: Cancer and Commodes

3 May

4668582_f260There seem to be few certainties in life.  They say death and taxes are two, but I know a few people that have dodged that second bullet longer than seems possible.  (You know who you are) I have a new spin for you to consider.  Neither is pleasant but both are guaranteed.  I promise you.  So, we might as well try to wrap our heads around it now rather than let it sneak up on you.  I suppose you could do things to minimize the potential for each….but if left on this beautiful, shitty planet long enough you will meet with one or both of them.

Exhibit One: Cancer. If you live long enough, cancer will find you. Sure, you may not die from it, but at 92, if you’ve dodged cancer your entire life, get ready for Exhibit Two (more on that in a bit). Cancer is the mother bitch of all mother bitches. It doesn’t care if you’re a Tea Party whack job or a bed wetting lunatic liberal. It doesn’t give two shits if you have Oprah money or live in your double-wide dream home. Go ahead, be an optimist. Live your life well. Make plans. Never smoke. Cancer doesn’t care; ask Christopher Reeve’s wife. Sonofabitch. I’m hoping for a questionable mole but I know that colon cancer will be knocking on my backdoor at some point. Yes, I get colonoscopies. I’m going to have a lot of them; some even for medical reasons. Goddamned cancer. You are universally hated.

Exhibit Two: If you manage to survive into your twilight years; all of your friends and wife are dead; your kids don’t visit as often as they should and you’re just passing time reading old Watch Towers left by those pleasant but pushy visitors that don’t even seem to have parents at the senior living frat house; you’re just trying to avoid STD’s from that floosy, Edna, who has been meeting you for nooners before bingo…know this…you are one missed bowl of Fiber One away from dying on the shitter. Serious as a heart attack. Go ahead, skip your bran muffin. See if I care. Hopefully, Joyce, that sweet wife of yours, will still welcome you into her happy cloud paradise. But, she might be mad that you held out your best moves for 40 years, yet have no problem giving it to Edna during the light of day, all the while yelling, “Bingo! Bingo….Binggg-gooohhh.”

If I had my wish, I pick toilet. In fact, when I see the end approaching I’m going to cancel my nooner with Clyde,  eat a baby loaf of Tillamook Extra Sharp Cheddar Cheese, wash it down with a glass of alfredo, bare down and wait for the bright light.

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