Last May, I used this blog to announce to the world that I had developed a very sudden and statistically rare case of testicular cancer. I had surgery, had the thing removed. Which remains, to me, a totally unacceptable way to lose a testicle. Maybe at the tip of a pirate’s saber, or while wrangling a giant octopus deep under the ocean, those’d be okay. But a regular old organized cellular rebellion — fuck that.

I wrote a series of posts that talked about my condition, what I was facing, and how I was holding up. It seemed only natural to me at the time, the best way to keep friends and family posted while I was dealing with something I really didn’t want to talk about on the telephone any more than necessary. Folks commended me for my bravery, for my sense of black humor and optimism, and told me how well I seemed to be healing up.

And yeah, in a way I was healing up. But in this other way, I really, really, wasn’t.

As my body was healing up, my mind was slowly donning a space suit made out of 400 pounds of wet laundry that never dried up and never, ever came off. Food all tasted the same, and I’d find myself flying into sudden rages when individual air molecules struck my skin.

Every night I’d lie awake and just look at the dark air above my bed, watching the little glowing fireflies that live in my retinas while an enormous black bird whispered very, very destructive and completely logical things into my ear.

Actually, I have a story about that part, which you can see here — the audio’s a little problematic, but you should get the gist:

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As we near the one-year anniversary of Jeff’s McDonalds-as-pizza-toppings post that the internets loved so well, the Universe has seen fit to bestow upon us a sequel of sorts.  While traveling through Nebraska, Flickr user matthewnstoller and one of his friends happened upon a food cart touting this lovely piece of work:

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All kinds of dorky hobbies are out of the closet now that the geeks have inherited the earth. Sci-fi’s a big enterprise now (har har) … now that “Lost” and computer programming is big business, all the nerds like me are out of the closet and partying in the light, blinking while our eyes adjust to the brightness of the pop-culture spotlight.

Loving comic books was once an express ticket to a lonely lifetime in Mom’s basement. Now they’re big, big blockbusting big business. I dated an actual human woman once who took me to see “300″ and “Spiderman 3.” It was her idea. Here in New York, a grown man can wear a Batman t-shirt out in public without shame. It’s a beautiful thing.

Now that all us nerds are out basking in uncloseted comfort, we owe something to the rest of the world. We shouldn’t forget what it was like to be punished for something as simple as liking things the rest of the world didn’t get. We got to be respectful, got to be patient with strangers’ weird obsessions. Even when it’s really, really tough to get.

Seeing a guy on a unicycle just breaks my heart. I imagine him in a completely empty apartment, empty save for a pile of burger wrappers and dust bunnies … and a unicycle lying in the middle of the floor. He says aloud, “Well, that’s it. Everything’s gone, all of it. The worst is over, but one thing’s for sure: I’l never get laid again. Might as well learn to love this unicycle …” Heartbreaking. But it’s not my place to judge.

A Segway — that’s the unicycle 2.0. It’s even more pathetic than a unicycle because it doesn’t even require any physical skills to operate. Cops that ride Segways around might as well be on My LIttle Pony big wheels for all the respect they inspire. But I digress.

On one level it’s pretty easy to keep an open mind. Live and let live and just work for the weekend, and it’s all gonna be cool.

However, ferret lovers exist on an entirely different level altogether. Ferrets are kinda cute, I’ll give them that. But so are subway rats. Ferrets are long rats, plain and simple. And there’s something about die-hard ferret lovers that really, really creeps me out:

I keep watching this thing, over and over, and I’m trying to stop judging, trying to get beyond to a higher place. But man, NOTHING’S gonna make that okay.

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I don’t make a single dime off this blog, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t pay off big-time. I don’t have ads or a large readership, but apparently my influence is enough that people are imitating things they see on here … something that might get them hurt or killed slowly through sheer fat absorption.

Take Bret Wallin, for example. He and literally hundreds of thousands of other people saw the post a little whole back about that ridiculous Franken-fast food pizza. And while some folks thought “yeah, I’d taste that,” Bret said “who’s got a Boboli crust” and MADE one. Actually, he made several:

My friends and I definitely tried our hand at making a couple McDonald’s pizzas. The first was exactly like the pictures you posted – each fast food kept to it’s own kind. The second, though, we chopped up the fries, nuggets, and burgers to spread out the toppings more traditionally.

A really fun time, for sure. We felt that the pickle was surprisingly one of the emergent tastes (as well as the ketchup and mustard to some degree). I first saw a link to your post (I think) on the site Kissing Suzy Kolber. I was visiting some old college friends and I knew right then – “we have to make that… we have to make it TONIGHT!”

And we did. Like I said, a great time. Most everybody felt fine except a couple guys had three slices. That sort of knocked them out for a little bit.

Understandably.

So wait. They made one of these things, ate it, then turned right around and made ANOTHER one. You know, to get it right.

This is why I use my fingers and eyes to make love to the Internet all day long.

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My friend Richard sent me these photos tonight, saying

“I don’t know where these came from but they’re going around the
net. If you haven’t seen them already, I know you will enjoy them. Don’t ask questions, just marvel.”

And marvel I did. My God. Have a look – ingredients and buildup here, the shocking conclusion after the jump.

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This is too fascinating and revolting (which, for me, is a synonym for fascinating) to pass up. It’s probably safe for work and a good lesson in why you shouldn’t go around stealing food out of the work fridge.From the Vaginal Food & Cuisine section at MyVag.net — Don’t Try This At Home. Here’s a telling excerpt:

As I love my girlfriend so much that it hurts, and I want to have her in everything I do, I decided to produce yoghurt with my girlfriend’s lactobacillus. I bought a yoghurt machine, which is just an electric contraption that keeps small cups constantly at body temperature. I put plain milk in each cup, and then with the full and loving help of my girlfriend I swabbed a bit of her vaginal juices and put a small bit in each cup. I then mixed the contents in each cup, plugged the machine and waited overnight.

The results were fabulous! … I have taken a few cups to work, which I store in the office fridge. A female co-worker pinched one from me, ate it, and liked it so much that she is asking me where I got it, but I do not dare tell her where it came from!

One thing is clear. This is gateway behavior for full-throttle sexual cannibalism. You totally know the deal: this guy is all chunky cardigans and cups of Earl Grey tea and little weird food projects like this now. But once he works out that he can have this woman he loves so much literally coursing through his bloodstream those beady little eyes are going to light up like candles only an electric chair can snuff out.

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I see you in the bathroom in my office every afternoon at about four o’clock. I think we’re on the same cycle that way. I think you’re a VIP in your company judging from the deferential reverence in younger men’s voices as they talk to you at the sinks and urinals. You respond to in clipped, quick sentences. It’s obvious that your words are almost as precious as your time, and given just as sparingly. You’ve got decisions to make, places to be, and barely enough time to take lunch.

This afternoon you strode purposefully into the bathroom, robotically munching Cheez-Its from a little bag. Without wasting a single motion, you unzipped, pulled EVERYTHING out and started pissing away a good two feet from the toilet — using both free hands to keep eating those Cheez-Its.

If you’re that busy, you’re in heart attack territory, man. And then where will you be? Dead on the floor, lying in a puddle with your piece out and Cheez-its on your lips. That’s no way for a man of industry to go.

Going to the bathroom is important, and so is snacking. Nobody is so important that they have to do both simultaneously. That’s not efficient, it’s just nasty.

Take a little time to taste the Cheez-its. Get outside, get a little air, some sunshine. You’re building a world and that’s great, but take some time to enjoy the world you’re in. It’s a hell of a mess, but there’s some beautiful stuff if you stop and look.

Take care, man. Take care.

–Jeff

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