Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


The Assbreak of Psoriasis
In addition to guilt, shame, a generally comical appearance, low I.Q. scores, a receding hairline, a grumpy temperament, chronic flatulence, failing eyesight, a third nipple and a propensity for boozy mayhem, my parents have bequeathed a gift to me through the magic of genetics — a symbol of their parenting skills made flesh, if you will. Yes, match two sets of malformed chromosomes under the right conditions and nine months later you get a kid who’s going to go through life afflicted with fucking psoriasis.

Fucking psoriasis? It’s a rash. A red and crusty rash. A chronic, persistent rash for which there is no cure… It’s neither contagious nor fatal; in fact, it’s superficial by nature. But to a certain extent it can determine personality and outlook, if not destiny. Think of it as the icing on a cake; a cake made of crippled emotions. Yup, that sounds about right. The red, crusty, cracked and bleeding icing on a rotten cake made of crippled emotions. That was baked by, ummm… Monsters! Monsters and Nazis. You don’t want a slice of this dry, scabby cake, my friend. No way.

Its cause? Well, those affected usually suffer from having to carry around a huge and constantly erect, diamond-hard penis. The stress of wielding such mighty genitalia causes the immune system to… No, I don’t know what the damn cause is, other than the lack of a law preventing booze and sick, bestial urges from causing two people who should be kept apart by forcing them to live in deep, separate wells to inexplicably meet, decide they like each other and copulate. Shit, from what I’ve heard, my dad accidentally brushed his teeth with some of my mom’s psoriasis cream after the first night they spent together. What is it you need, Pop, God to throw up a neon sign reading THAT WAS AN OMEN. AN OMEN OF ILL TIDINGS. RUN! GET OUT NOW!

Actually, while faulty DNA is its origin, the actual psoriasis rash is the result of a profound deficiency in tiny, nimble teenage Asian girls frolicking around in sexy anime costumes. Some dubious group of scam-artists calling itself the National Psoriasis Foundation says the rash is caused by a wonky immune-system response that makes the body generate skin cells faster than it can shed them, but, uh... Fuck those guys.

The delightful affliction can show up pretty much anywhere, but prefers to make its appearance on the scalp and various stretchy extensor surfaces of the body, such as the knees and elbows. Of course, it wouldn’t be fulfilling the complete scope of its rashly duties if it didn’t declare a little manifest destiny on other, sometimes more sensitive body parts. Hence the title of this entry.

You know, the four people reading this dumb site have all at one time or another commented in amazement on the fact that I hold nothing back in the Diary of Indignities. Well, guess what? There are, in fact, indignities I do hold back, both for society’s sake (and by that I mean “restraining order”) and because, unless your name is H.P. Lovecraft, they resist description. Like the indignity of getting a heaping dose of psoriasis lodged in your ass-crack.

Now, as I’ve mentioned before, youthful experimentation aside I monkey around with the pooper as little as possible. An embarrassed post-crap dab or two with some toilet paper to comply with the rules of society (and by that I mean “the Eighth Judicial Circuit Court in and for Alachua County, Florida”) and I’m done with the whole gizmo. But there are a surprising number of sensitive nerve endings living it up in your ass-crack. For the most part they spend their time enjoying the warmth and doing their jobs, sensing the proximity of the opposite ass-cheek or whatever, but get ‘em all riled up on psoriasis and shift in your chair wrong and I swear by all that is fucking right and proper it feels like you just got zapped in the shitter by a lightning bolt made out of mentholated scorpions.

Don’t even get me started on when the skin gets so dry and cracked it starts bleeding. Just don’t. Because I will break down and start sobbing. Despite evidence to the contrary, I really do try and keep as much of my blood as possible inside my skin, no matter the point of origin. But losing precious ass-blood… Well, frankly, it’s extra disconcerting.

Dry, cracked and bleeding skin is no good on your ding-dong either. You can quote me on that: no good. Not only does having a flaky, crimson rash on your weiner put a crimp in the ol’ social life, but experiencing this problem can also make it difficult to hit your regular masturbation quota. And if your goal is, like mine, to run off a batch by hand anywhere from four to 73 times a day, well… Don’t get thrifty on the lube, my friend. Turns out they don’t make ding-dong-shaped bandages, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Okay, let’s see… Libeling my parents, check… Ass-blood, check… Rash-dick, check… What else sucks about psoriasis? Getting it on your face and having people treat you like you picked up some new atomic kind of AIDS that’s only caught by molesting animal corpses; that sucks. Spending money on dermatologists and creams and shit and just having to waste time on maintenance so people don’t scream and shoot you in the face with Lysol when you leave the house; that sucks. Dropping 500 clams on the wrong kind of medicine because some quack from a walk-in clinic thought you had a skin fungus; that sucks. Oh, and the cockamamie home-brewed hippie remedies everyone tries to foist on you. They suck as well.

Just in case any hippies end up here by accident, I’d like to say a few things about your sham alternative-medicine hokum: Herbs don’t cure shit. Herbs go in quiche, yes. They are not medicine. Sure, cavemen used herbs to try and cure shit, but that was before we had science and stuff. Your commie, repellant herbs and garnishes might’ve been in common medicinal use for 2000 years or whatever, but the average lifespan for people living during those 2000 years was, like, 15. I mean, I have nothing against the Indians, and think them getting shafted so much and stuff sucks, but they tried to cure shit with Echinacea… And, ah… Well… They died. I’m sorry, and I’m not happy about it, but it’s true.

I’ve had a few pinkos suggest that I might try fasting to clear up the occasional out-of-control patch. “It’ll cleanse your body of the toxins,” they say in that dreamy, annoying self-righteous hippie voice they affect whenever passing on some spurious wisdom-of-the-ancients type bullhonky. Well, you fucking hippies, listen up: your phantom toxins aren’t the problem. It’s that overactive skin-cell doohickey or whatever. But fasting could be a solution to one of my problems, at least. All hippies reading this please start a program of total abstinence from all food and water for… Oh, I reckon 30 days ought to be sufficient to totally cleanse your mind, body and spirit of all those nasty toxins. There, problem solved! And also please give me all of your cool stuff, since you hate capitalism and private property and America so goddamn much.

Mmm, on second thought you can keep your dirty hippie stuff. I don’t want it. I’d hate private property too if all my private property was, like, filthy tie-dyes and Phish bootlegs. Get a job, buy some cool stuff and see how you feel about private property then, Tofu Joe.

Alright, my work here is done. If anyone needs me I’ll be over in the corner, scratching my elbows.


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