Bizarro Orlando, FL (BP)- Louie Cameron, 76, has a rare form of dementia that has silenced the area of his brain responsible for creating lies that preserve one's reputation (yes, that is a thing that exists). That doesn't stop him from keeping abreast of the latest news, and Louie doesn't like what he sees.
"It's such a pain in the ass, I can't even tell you," Louie sighed, dabbing sweat from his brow. "I'm trying to make this guy into a martyr, and he keeps pissing in my cornflakes."
Louie is reacting to the latest of several brushes with the law by George Zimmerman, who was thrust into the spotlight for shooting an unarmed teenager, Trayvon Martin. George was found not guilty on the charge of 2nd degree murder, and released. Since then, Zimmerman and his handgun, Little Blasty, have traveled around America punching for love on all the wrong faces. Though his estranged wife has agreed to drop her charges against him, his latest arrest for a "domestic incident" suggests that he's back at it once more.
During the controversial murder trial, Louie defended Zimmerman against every allegation of racism and villainy that he could find. Thanks to his clinical candidness, he was able to offer us an uncensored glimpse into his mindset.
"It seems to me that being a thug should be enough to get profiled," he explained. "By 'thug', I refer to young black men that wear clothing I don't like. When Zimmerman testified that Martin only attacked him after he saw the gun, I thought for sure I was in trouble. People would figure out that a strange man approaching you with a gun in his waistband is probably going to use it on you, especially after he's been following you for some time. Luckily, nobody gave that scenario any thought. I was empowered to hate black people in a way that I haven't experienced in a long time."
But now a different narrative is beginning to take shape. Zimmerman the brave neighborhood watchman has begun to paint himself as plump, scruffy ball of uncontrollable rage. Suddenly the stories of Zimmerman's life pre-notoriety, where he was known as a dangerously unstable asshole, weren't easy to brush off.
"I'm thinking about dusting off that old story about the Australian guy in Oklahoma if this keeps going south," Louie grumbled while scrolling through Free Republic. "I've lost one martyr, but I suppose one's just as good as the other. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to alphabetize my secret transexual pornography collection before my wife gets home."
Showing posts with label Medicine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Medicine. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Monday, September 9, 2013
Battling the Bond: A Survivor's Story
Bizarro Post Mental Health Bureau- There's a hidden disease in America, a festering plague that knows no cultural or social boundaries. Few can believe that it is true and nobody is trying to stop it. Now the truth is coming to light in this Bizarro Post exclusive, where we have found a brave individual wanting to speak out about their addiction to Gold Bond medicated powder.
"It started legitimately. I was working outside on my driveway, and between the sweating and constant movement I developed chafing," said Dennis Reid, 34, an accountant from Huntsville, Alabama.
When used properly, Gold Bond is legendary for its ability to soothe the savaged loins. But when some people first feel the soothing arctic blast washing over their no-no places, once just isn't enough.
"At first I tried to find legitimate reasons to use it. I'd wear woolen long-johns to mow the lawn in the middle of summer. I cut up a pair of my jeans, took a square of denim, and rubbed the hell out of my upper thighs for hours," Reid admitted. "My friends thought I was jogging to loose weight. What they didn't know is that I had lined my boxers with sandpaper."
Once his skin was shredded and seeping, Reid could be found lying on the cool tiles of his bathroom floor, tripping on a massive hit of "Goldy-B" for hours at a time. Visitors would sometimes ask about the strange dust covering nearly every surface in the bathroom.
"I told them I had a cocaine addiction," Reid recounted. "The truth was just too terrible."
It wasn't long before the pretenses were dropped. When Dennis Reid woke up in the morning, he dusted up. When he felt a twinge of doubt or self-loathing, he powdered his donuts. Before he went to sleep at night, he frosted his mini-wheats. It all came to a head when Reid's then-girlfriend Jeanette found him lounging in a plastic child's pool full of Gold Bond. Word spread to his friends, who sprung into action with an intervention.
"I never would have guessed that the Den-man was into Bond-age," said long-time friend Hal Kasmire. "As soon as I found out, I knew I had to get involved. Whip him back into shape, you know?"
"At first I denied everything," said Reid, when asked about the intervention. "Then I just broke down. All the lies and shame crashed in on me."
"He throws himself at me," Kasmire said. "And he's just saying 'I'm dusting right now, man! I'm riding the Polar Express as we speak! I need a hug, bro!' So I gave him one. It felt so right, and I think he felt it too."
Three months of withdrawal made Reid's life into a nightmare. Jeanette left him immediately after the pool incident, and as much as Hal Kasmire wanted to be there for his best friend, work and family demanded his attention as well. And then came the symptoms of a body craving stimulation that only Satan's Sand could provide.
"I felt so swampy. I wasn't so fresh....down there," Reid recalled. But I powdere...powered through. Every time I thought about quitting, I thought about Jeanette. If I could just beat this, she would take me back."
She didn't, but that's beside the point. One morning just like any other, a man named Dennis Reid woke up to find that his junk wasn't cradled in the hands of angels, and that was just okay. The addiction had lost. Dennis had won.
"It's been a year since I kicked Gold Bond," said Reid, grimacing while working in his yard. "I'm doing a lot better, you know? My withdrawal alienated my friends, and my addiction cost me the love of my life. Even Hal doesn't return my texts much anymore. I spend most of my time on futile attempts to be content with my lot in life, and my thighs are just on fire right now. But at least I'm not addicted to something. That's....a plus, I guess. Big victory. I'm a...champion."
That you are, Dennis. That you are.
"It started legitimately. I was working outside on my driveway, and between the sweating and constant movement I developed chafing," said Dennis Reid, 34, an accountant from Huntsville, Alabama.
When used properly, Gold Bond is legendary for its ability to soothe the savaged loins. But when some people first feel the soothing arctic blast washing over their no-no places, once just isn't enough.
"At first I tried to find legitimate reasons to use it. I'd wear woolen long-johns to mow the lawn in the middle of summer. I cut up a pair of my jeans, took a square of denim, and rubbed the hell out of my upper thighs for hours," Reid admitted. "My friends thought I was jogging to loose weight. What they didn't know is that I had lined my boxers with sandpaper."
Once his skin was shredded and seeping, Reid could be found lying on the cool tiles of his bathroom floor, tripping on a massive hit of "Goldy-B" for hours at a time. Visitors would sometimes ask about the strange dust covering nearly every surface in the bathroom.
"I told them I had a cocaine addiction," Reid recounted. "The truth was just too terrible."
It wasn't long before the pretenses were dropped. When Dennis Reid woke up in the morning, he dusted up. When he felt a twinge of doubt or self-loathing, he powdered his donuts. Before he went to sleep at night, he frosted his mini-wheats. It all came to a head when Reid's then-girlfriend Jeanette found him lounging in a plastic child's pool full of Gold Bond. Word spread to his friends, who sprung into action with an intervention.
"I never would have guessed that the Den-man was into Bond-age," said long-time friend Hal Kasmire. "As soon as I found out, I knew I had to get involved. Whip him back into shape, you know?"
"At first I denied everything," said Reid, when asked about the intervention. "Then I just broke down. All the lies and shame crashed in on me."
"He throws himself at me," Kasmire said. "And he's just saying 'I'm dusting right now, man! I'm riding the Polar Express as we speak! I need a hug, bro!' So I gave him one. It felt so right, and I think he felt it too."
Three months of withdrawal made Reid's life into a nightmare. Jeanette left him immediately after the pool incident, and as much as Hal Kasmire wanted to be there for his best friend, work and family demanded his attention as well. And then came the symptoms of a body craving stimulation that only Satan's Sand could provide.
"I felt so swampy. I wasn't so fresh....down there," Reid recalled. But I powdere...powered through. Every time I thought about quitting, I thought about Jeanette. If I could just beat this, she would take me back."
She didn't, but that's beside the point. One morning just like any other, a man named Dennis Reid woke up to find that his junk wasn't cradled in the hands of angels, and that was just okay. The addiction had lost. Dennis had won.
"It's been a year since I kicked Gold Bond," said Reid, grimacing while working in his yard. "I'm doing a lot better, you know? My withdrawal alienated my friends, and my addiction cost me the love of my life. Even Hal doesn't return my texts much anymore. I spend most of my time on futile attempts to be content with my lot in life, and my thighs are just on fire right now. But at least I'm not addicted to something. That's....a plus, I guess. Big victory. I'm a...champion."
That you are, Dennis. That you are.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Every Goddamn Thing Causes Cancer
Bizarro Post Medical Science Bureau- Dr.Robert Kline, a leading research scientist with the Engelhardt Cancer Institute, has released his long-awaited report on the most common catalysts for all forms of cancer.
The results are not good.
"Everything," said Dr.Kline, cradling his face in his hands. "Just everything. Everywhere. All the time. There's nothing you can do."
The list is extensive and includes many known carcinogen's, but there are many shocking revelations hidden within the report. New cancer causes include:
-Butt dialing.
-Living within 100 yards of a power pole.
-An apple a day.
-Wearing white after labor day.
-Allowing Farmville to post content to your friend's Facebook newsfeed.
-Leaving dirty dishes in the office kitchen. We're not your maids, Steve.
-Eating brussel sprouts to grow up big and strong.
-Double mastectomies.
-Being the guy that throws rocks at sleeping zoo animals because they're boring you.
-Writing a blog that nobody reads.
"Doomed," muttered Dr.Kline. "Doomed. Doomed."
Dr.Kline offered no further answers to our questions, though we will continue to inquire. It should also be noted that catatonic episodes provoked by major depression are responsible for some really nasty cancers. Just saying, Doctor. We'll be in touch.
The results are not good.
"Everything," said Dr.Kline, cradling his face in his hands. "Just everything. Everywhere. All the time. There's nothing you can do."
The list is extensive and includes many known carcinogen's, but there are many shocking revelations hidden within the report. New cancer causes include:
-Butt dialing.
-Living within 100 yards of a power pole.
-An apple a day.
-Wearing white after labor day.
-Allowing Farmville to post content to your friend's Facebook newsfeed.
-Leaving dirty dishes in the office kitchen. We're not your maids, Steve.
-Eating brussel sprouts to grow up big and strong.
-Double mastectomies.
-Being the guy that throws rocks at sleeping zoo animals because they're boring you.
-Writing a blog that nobody reads.
"Doomed," muttered Dr.Kline. "Doomed. Doomed."
Dr.Kline offered no further answers to our questions, though we will continue to inquire. It should also be noted that catatonic episodes provoked by major depression are responsible for some really nasty cancers. Just saying, Doctor. We'll be in touch.
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