If you look hard enough into something, you can probably find anything. Abe Lincoln was found as a chicken nugget. Lenin rose again in a shower curtain. Elvis was seen in a potato chip. Jesus has been found in a ton of things, though usually the bottom of a bottle … or a fish stick.
Those have now been topped. A tumor was discovered and an ultrasound of it was sent off to be examined by people at Urology, the International Society of Urology’s office journal. Why so? Because located on the tumor was a face. AND IT HUNGERS. Maybe?
The face appears to be in some manner of … concern. Distress. Pain. Acute sensory awareness. Like something out of a story concocted by Warren Ellis or William S. Burroughs, no one is aware of how it came about, but it’s being waved away as simply a random occurrence.
The testicle was removed and the mass was discovered to be harmless.
Sure it was.
Hey, Mr. President.
We don’t talk much. You run with slightly more influential crowds than The Guys. That’s cool.
And it’s also cool that you’re trying to be the Picard to Bush’s Kirk by talking through problems like the economy, Iran and Rush Limbaugh.
But, maybe, just maybe, talking won’t get support for that health care initiative you want. It may be time to put away the teleprompter and sick kids and maybe try something a little more … active to engage the American people.
Now, we’re not advocating setting off a giant electromagnetic pulse to trigger brain tumors across the country or appointing Pamela Anderson to give the nation’s water supply Hepatitis C. But we’re not not saying that those ideas would totally work.
As a driver, I happen to know that I am the very best driver there is.
Don’t pretend it isn’t true. Fess up. You’ve got tickets. There was that little fender-bender a few years ago. And that was somebody’s grandmother you just flipped off.
I, however, have no such issues. My relatively few tickets and whoopsies (“accidents” are so formal) weren’t due to driver incompetence; they were because of booze. And we all know that alcoholism is a disease. You wouldn’t blame someone’s tumor for groping you in the elevator, right? Right.
But maintaining my flawless (sober) record is wearing my nerves out. I’ve raised the bar very slowly the past 10 years, dispelling the naysayers with commute after commute of form-perfect driving, but you other drivers refuse to follow my example.
Well, no more Mr. Nice Guy! You’ve caught me in between my annual Labor Day Weekend Mad Max Trilogy Parties*, so I’m itching for street justice! I won’t be sated until red lights are obeyed, blood is on the street or AMC runs those movies very, very soon.
Here’s how it’s gonna go down: Continue reading Take it from Snee: Street, street justice!