What’s Wrong With Me?
I’m not feeling right.
Something is a bit off.
I seem to be suffering from some mysterious medical condition.
The symptoms are myriad:
- Nausea.
- Runny nose.
- Headaches in my stomach.
- Stomach aches in my head.
- Squirrels steal my mail and replace it with half eaten nuts.
- Everything smells like fear.
- Everything tastes like pine cones.
- Pine cones taste like pickled beets (but they smell like fear).
- The sound of Justin Bieber’s voice makes me weep uncontrollably.
- I have a rash on my butt in the shape of Piers Morgan’s face.
- I have a rash on my face in the shape of Piers Morgan’s butt.
- My left eyeball pops out of its socket at really inconvenient times.
- Itchy scalp.
- Dizziness.
- Chills.
- Tremors.
- Tremors 2.
- Any movie involving giant mutant worms.
- Sleeplessness.
- Sleeplessness from incontinence.
- Sleeplessness from continents, especially Europe.
- Sleeplessness because Elvis’ ghost visits me nightly and gripes endlessly about how Mary Tyler Moore Hogged all the screen time in Change of Habit.
- The compulsion to make ridiculous lists.
- Paranoia.
In my quest for answers I’ve read several books authored by a world renown doctor.
Unfortunately, upon reading these books, I’ve discovered them to be no help at all. Not only did these books not reveal any insights regarding my condition, I now have an incredible craving for green eggs and ham, and an intense desire to write in poetic meter.
This is bad.
It’s very bad–So very bad, you see.
“Egad it’s so very bad,” I said to me.
It’s sad when things are bad,
would you not agree?
I would be so glad to not be sad.
I’d be a happy lad, so full of glee,
and live so happily.
Do you see how infuriating that is?
After doing some follow-up research, I’ve found the author of these books, Theodore Seuss Geisel, to be a complete fraud, and not a medical professional of any kind.
Note: in another shocking turn of events, I’ve discovered the renowned author and child care expert, Dr. Spock, wasn’t really a Vulcan. When will the misinformation and subterfuge end?
Dr. Spock was born in New Haven, Connecticut. Frankly, that’s not even close to Vulcan.
But this spurred an epiphany: my condition has been caused by stress and anxiety; the stress and anxiety that results from living a lie.
A horrible lie.
A horrible horrible lie.
Horrible!
I have written in the past about a certain tattoo. A tattoo on my left butt cheek. A tattoo of Winnie the Pooh with his head stuck in a honey pot. I’ve referenced it often.
It’s a lie.
I haven’t any tattoos of lovable cartoons charters on or around my buttocks.
I apologize to anyone my lies may have hurt.
I apologize to A. A. Milne.
I feel so ashamed.
Hopefully now that the truth is out, the healing can begin.
Thank you for your patience.
ADDENDUM:
Sometimes when Elvis’ ghost visits me, he brings me peanut butter and banana sandwiches. They taste like pine cones and they smell like fear.
Horton can hear a Who, but he can’t help you diagnose the cause of your explosive diarrhea.
idiotpruf 
I misplaced my glasses. Did you write “everything smells like fear” or “everything smells like beer?” If it’s beer, you’re actually okay and living in a brewery.
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Oddly, both those things apply.
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That Justin Bieber thing sounds serious… better see a doctor about that, and quick.
The rest of it’s probably just allergies combined with a haunted butt cheek. Getting a tattoo might fix it, or make it worse. Either way, please report and include pictures!
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Nobody wants pictures.
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LOL !! that’s all I can say! cause it’s all been said before!! đŸ™‚
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And said by mental health professionals.
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No shit, you’ve got it too??? I hear there’s a lot of it going around, particularly pine cones smelling of fear, although I’ve met some people who claim that the warm autumnal air smells of hubris, but I don’t think there’s much hope for them.
P.S. This post made me laugh out loud nine times. That is some sort of record. I think. I don’t know. Oh, Gosh, have I made this awkward? Thank God I’ve been lucky enough to not suffer from paranoia. Shit, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Christ, I’m sorry. Have I ruined everything? Why is my scalp so itchy??
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It’s like Ebola, but without the celebrity.
P.S. In Pennsylvania the warm autumnal air smells of hubris and cow dung.
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Looking at Dr. Spock’s picture, I can’t help but notice that the ears are all wrong. Clearly he’s a fraud. He probably can’t do a mind probe to save his life. Such a disappointment. However, your spectacular display of rhyming Seussism, clearly a sign of pronounced enlarged cerebral cortex disease (large brain), lol.
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I’ve never been told my problem is that my brain is too big.
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You and I kind of have something in common,dude. Justin Beiber makes you cry uncontrollably- he makes me heave up industrial strength hairballs uncontrollably- *HACK!*
Sorry, dude *(tail flap)*
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We are soul mates.
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đŸ˜¸
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Don’t worry, justin beiber makes everyone cry. Probably including himself.
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He makes Selena Gomez wretch uncontrollably.
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While she’s crying even.
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Could be worse. You could be visited by Dr. Spock.
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That really would be creepy.
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This is, to me, the best ever funniest piece of work done đŸ™‚ It had me literally in stitches and I will borrow it to show my panel of doctors when they cannot pin point my medial ailment LOL! Thanks for a great laugh and good start to my work week! đŸ˜€
p.s I have no pine cones in my little red dot and so I will say, my taste is like angsana pods !
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I hate it when everything tastes like angsana pods.
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Oh, I love this post (sorry for your malady) but that Seussism up there is classic stuff! Excellent!
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Perhaps I should write poetry for children. After I sorted out this weird illness of course.
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Elvis’s ghost visiting? Eureka! A healing crisis! xoxoM
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It was the young fit Elvis too.
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Ebola, these days it is all about having Ebola to get a first class hospital treatment (and a very, very secure burning afterwards – hopefully deceased)
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A secure burning is another one of my symptoms.
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Oops – what does your local fire departement have to say about this?
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I’m not going to tell them.
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Damn you, Horton!
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You’d think an elephant with super hearing would be of more use. He doesn’t even need a stethoscope.
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I’ve already donated most of my brain, and my left pinky toe.
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Well at this rate, you might as well just donate your body to science. With all those fascinating symptoms, the med students will be fighting over who gets you. Just be sure to bring some of those peanut butter and banana sandwiches.
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