Scratch in the Snatch

The sun rose on the junkies
Like a big crack bouquet
Yet something was different
In Venice that day

She found that her hand
Had crested her thigh
First an itch then a scratch
Then a gash! My oh my!

To find out the culprit
Her legs she did spread
And looked down to realize
Her snatch was all red

Where the sun did not shine
Small beasts took a hold
They hid under her girl parts
In the pink fleshy folds

“Ouch” the girl said
When she did try to pee
“I think that a yeasty
Has just bitten me!”

First she panicked and gaped
Where have these things come from?
“Oh fuck!” she exclaimed
“Have I done something dumb?”

She jogged through her mind
And she minded her snatch
But nothing would fix it!
Just to scratch and to scratch.

Back at home in Seattle
A cure she did get
The beasts jumped the ship
“Let’s find a brunette!”

Did she learn a good lesson?
I don’t think so. You see:
It’s better to have more sex
Than to be itchy-free

It’s hard to imagine
How this poem could end
Without a THANKS SKW
For being my friend.

FOD

Just prior to my extremely minor surgery, I contracted a very serious disease called FOD. FOD is a pervasive problem, and one that should not be taken as lightly as a grain of salt in American Society. I found that, the closer I got to the knife, the more FOD ravaged my brain. I’m sure many other Americans have experienced this as well. It’s like Mad Cow.

While under the influence of FOD, I bequeathed large chunks of money and property to veritable strangers who had been nice to me during the 48 hours prior to my surgery. I made peace with old enemies, sought out indiscreet sexual encounters, and reminded everyone in my life that I loved them. I worked out 4.5 hours per day, in the event that my body was to be permanently marred during surgery. I even talked to the big guy (and girl), in case the FOD antibodies mutated into their lethal counterpart, D.

Bonus Round: 
Q: “Why do men chase women?” A: “Because they fear death.”

FOC

FOD is easily confused with FOC, because the two diseases share many symptoms. All of a sudden I realized: the chances of dying on the operating table? Slim. Less than the chances of my dog chewing off my left eye because she thinks she sees a biscuit reflected in my pupil. That’s what makes FOC such a much more dangerous condition.

C is more mainstream than D. It also comes right before D in the alphabet. Coincidence? I don’t think so. C is everywhere, so it stands to reason it might be in me.

There was that time I spilled the paint stripper all over myself. Or when I slept on the tail pipe side of the overnight video bus to Tiruchengode. Or the mosquito coils I burned during the other 130 nights I was there. I painted the house without opening the windows. Maybe it's all the Walmart chicken I’ve been eating. I do wear my ipod right over my left ovary. Tupperware. It took months for all the epoxy to come off my hands after I repaired those boats. I didn’t take my multi-vitamins last February. My mother smoked when she was pregnant with me. I can’t afford to buy the organic brands anymore. I have nothing to breastfeed. The stuff that cleans the mold off the bathroom ceiling always ricochets back into my face when I spray it. Wait, I have to take a sip of my French spring water from my evian bottle before I apply Zoe’s flea medicine. Why is furniture from IKEA always so heavy? I think some of the Windex got on my toothbrush when I cleaned the bathroom mirror. Anxiety is a breeding ground for free radicals.

But… I look better with a tan.

FOG

FOG is the disease I contracted just after my surgery. It occurs when you take two vicodin and a muscle relaxant. Apparently, in my adult search for good health, I forgot how fun it is to be good ol' fashioned high like the sky. Today, as I write to you from the sky, it's a gorgeous day - clear with a slight breeze behind my eyes.

Good thing I’m writing this down, because tomorrow I won’t remember a word.

The "don't try this at home" version of cloud 9 is cloud 10: the remarkable triple dose of morphine that they administered to me in the hospital (who knew that was the drug I was demanding when I screamed "MORE!"). Morphine's reputation precedes it. Intense, beautiful, serene? Oh no. Cloudy was the head in my bed.

It is NOT peaceful to have everything that you look at move. When I looked at the ceiling it would melt into the walls. If I tried to look at the walls... well, they would quickly drown the floor. Forget looking at the floor; that's when the levee breaks.

Move over morphine, endorphine is coming back soon.