Wednesday, 12 December 2007

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Unbelievabilitiness: The Absolutely True Tale of the Last Three Years of SEK's Life (as Pitched to an Uncaring Suit with DRAMATIC MUSIC) (This post is inspired by my sincere desire to answer adjunct whore's question and the not-undeserved-ribbing I took at an another online locale when they learned of my latest run-in with absurdity.) In the year 2004, SEK was diagnosed with cancer. Being an idiot, he decided to hide his cancer from everyone—his wife, his parents, his friends, his advisor. After four brutal (but successful) months of chemo, he outed himself as a "cancer survivor" and everyone was mad at him—his wife, his parents, his friends, his advisor. SEK was mad too. Mad at the world. So he started a blog about random shit to outlet The Anger he couldn't control. (His body had turned against him cellularly. SEK felt betrayed. "You are my body!" he said, shrugging his shoulders.) Venting felt good. It relieved his incomprehensible rage ... until the morning of November 30, 2005, when he walked in on two undergraduates bumping nasties in his office. For it was on that morning SEK's Fate revealed itself to him: "You are to be the blogger to whom everything improbable will happen," Fate said. "Except unlike all those liars out there, my deeds will be documented in Official Campus Records and Police Reports." "You're upset because I beat your cancer," boasted SEK. "Now I'll beat you." SEK continued living his uneventful life. He garnered mild acclaim for purportedly hilarious posts and experimental shit of no merit. Life was sweet. Then Fate struck like lightning in the guise of the Troll of Sorrow. The deranged military sharpshooter/analytic philosophy-fiend threatened SEK with legal action (for plagiary? really?) and his wife's life. (The latter threat he took seriously.) It was distressing, but Fate hadn't fazed him. So it sent a Honda Civic to do its dirt. That hurt—as did the six months of rehab—but SEK survived. Now Fate was really upset. "Cancer couldn't kill him, civics neither," bemoaned Fate. "Marine sharpshooters and horny undergrads couldn't slow him down. If I can't kill SEK himself," Fate thought, "the least I can do is kill his career." "Casper," Fate cried, "I need you to teach this fool a lesson. Read this reasonable post he wrote, and attack Attack ATTACK!" And so Casper attacked, with the aid of his friend, (the ostensibly liberal, but in fact fascist) Jesus' General. (Who, when you think about it, is "funny" in the same way Bill Hicks is, i.e. because you agree with him. Unless you like your jokes ideologically flattering and ungrudgingly predictable ... which SEK doesn't.) Try as Casper might—to this day—Fate's accomplice could no more harm SEK than his master. So Fate tried one last scheme. "Why didn't I think of this before? SEK loves books! Why not use the Library against him?" This time, he was successful. The Library stole all SEK's money, gave it back, honored him for his generous donation, then expelled him ... two days after he'd paid his filing fees and two days before his yearly checkup with his oncologist. Fortunately the X-rays,...
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HOW SEK HID CANCER FROM HIS WIFE (This being the requested sequel to this post from last week.) One summer, SEK became very depressed. "I am sad," he thought. Then he became very happy. "Now I am happy!" Then very depressed again. "Sad again." He was, as they say, "moody." Eventually his throat starting swelling something awful, so he went to a doctor. The doctor felt SEK's neck, then sent him to another doctor who ran some tests. "You have thyroid cancer," the oncologist said. "Can you fix it?" SEK asked. "I can and then you will be happy." "Happy?" "You won't be perpetually PMSing anymore." "I don't understand." "You see [insert overly-technical explanation of how the thyroid regulates hormones and how SEK's manic-depressiveness was the result of his body being flooded, then drained, of hormones], so when the chemo's finished, you won't be depressed anymore." "But when I'm doing the chemo, I'll still be depressed?" "And really sick," said the oncologist. SEK returned home and saw his wife diligently working. She was so pretty and diligent. He did not want to disturb her. So, still depressed, he decided not to tell her anything. To bear it alone. Then SEK got really sick. Not chemo-sick—he handled that like a trooper—but different sick, like he had a hangover all the time. He returned to the oncologist. "I am really sick," he said, "like I have a hangover all the time." The doctor poked SEK's liver and declared: "You have an invasive liver fungus. You must take these medicines which attack your liver. They will make you feel like you have a hangover all the time. Then you will be better." SEK went home and, in a fit of inspired stupidity, told his wife about the liver fungus, but not the cancer, thinking he could use the liver fungus to hide the cancer. (From his wife, not in his body.) This is how SEK hid cancer from his wife. (Until he got drunk one night and told her.) THE END

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