Thursday, September 11, 2014

Forget the "Weed cures Cancer" Crap! Here's the Real Shit!

After a routine appointment with my specialized team of elite ultra-genius doctors, it was decided a series of CT scans of my innards was necessary. This medical dream team had been testing me for years because of this super-rare condition I have called spontaneous awesomeness. I’ve had it since birth, and these medical professionals have been trying to find the root of my awesome since I first displayed the symptoms as a toddler.
It was upon reviewing the results that my doctors discovered I had a totally unique form of cancer that was caused by my internal organs being jealous of my awesome power. In layman’s terms, my very insides were hating on me for being so cool. 
It’s called Intro-organic-hater-carcinoma. The scans showed my pancreas was riddled with angry and bitter lesions. The doctors said there was no cure. They couldn’t even tell me how long I had to live because my awesomeness was so intense they couldn’t factor it into the expected spread of the disease. Basically, they said, when you’re this awesome all bets are off.
The only advice these medical professionals could offer was the more awesome you are, the more intense your internal jealousy will be and the faster your illness will spread. Try to not be so awesomely cool.
Yeah right, as if that was possible.
I wandered through the downtown core aimlessly, wondering what I’d ever done to deserve this cruel affliction besides mocking French people, yelling at the elderly, playing practical jokes on the disabled, taunting Bruce Springsteen fans, hipsters, and hippies, and being deliberately offensive to as many people as possible as often as I could just to watch them get all wound up and upset.
 Why me Lord? I asked. And by Lord I meant the one True God, Jesus Christ…not the countless other false gods worshiped by heathens and pagans doomed to spend their afterlives in eternal damnation, burning in hellfire forever.
When I was walking by the downtown liquor store, a dirty old booze-hound stumbled over to me and asked if I had any change to spare. Usually, I kept a pocket full of useless video-game tokens from the old Top Hat’s arcade just for these types of occasions, and I would take great joy in handing these bums handfuls of worthless coins and picturing their bitter despair when trying to redeem them for a cheap bottle of sherry at the liquor store. I even planted secret remote cameras behind the counter so I could get a picture of their faces at the exact moment they realize they got screwed. 
Today though, I just wasn’t in the mood.
“Go away rummy,” I told the old coot. “I got nothing for you. I have cancer from being so awesome and there’s no cure.”
“Cancer, eh,” the old drunkard said. “I happen to know an old secret remedy. Yes sir I do!”
“Really,” I said, anxiously hopeful. I knew that the best medical minds on the planet had just told me my condition was hopelessly irreversible, but what did they know? They only spent eight to twelve years studying cutting-edge medicine at some of the finest universities in the world. Here swaying before me was a mysterious old degenerate alcoholic who claimed secret knowledge of a miraculous cure.
“Please tell me Boozy, I’m begging you. Tell me the life-saving cure!”
“Gimme $50,” he said, belching loudly and scratching his crotch.
$50 for the cure to my fatal condition? That’s all?
“Deal,” I shouted and gave the man a pink bill.
He looked around cautiously before leaning in close and whispering a single word in my ear. He smelled like urine, stale vomit and failure.
“Beer.” He said softly. “Beer is the cure.”
My eyes grew wide with the stunning revelation.
“Honest and for true?” I inquired.
“Of course,” he answered. “Just look at me, sonny. I sleep under a bridge every night and every morning there’s blood in my urine. I haven’t been able to hold down a job since 1988, but I’ve never had cancer a day in my life!”
“Oh, my God.” I exclaimed. It really was that simple, and it made perfect sense! The cure for cancer was right under the public’s nose, but the evil pharmaceutical companies didn’t want us to know! Those bastards!
I realized that I was talking to myself, the old wino had stumbled back to the liquor store while I stood in stupefied disbelief.
I began drinking beer every day with little or no regard for my personal safety or the safety of those around me. The alcohol only seemed to magnify my awesomeness, and when I went back for further testing the doctors were dumbfounded. There was no trace of my hater-cancer.
I was cured.

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