Monthly Archives: September 2011
“Finally–you answered! I forgot my key, I’ve been ringing the doorbell for ten minutes. Where are you?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s classified.”
“Due to the sensitive nature of the operation.”
“The director has made it explicitly clear that only those with top secret clearance are to be informed of any detail of the mission. In these specific cases, individuals will be read in only by the Director himself in a secure location of his choosing.”
“You’re in the bathroom, aren’t you?”
“They had a free build-your-own-taco stand at the bar last night.”
“I should spend the weekend at my parent’s, shouldn’t I?”
“Yeah, I already called in sick for Monday. I’m gonna be a while.”
“Its exhausting just knowing you, do you know that?”
Komen for the Cure and the Pink Ribbon Shop have pretty much put their stamps on anything pink from earbuds to pet leashes, knee high fuck me socks to reusable water bottles and delightful clickey pens.
If its pink, it probably has a tag on it claiming to donate some miniscule portion of the profits to one organization or another.
That’s why I bought a pink wine bottle opener—easiest Christmas gift I ever bought. Not only did it make opening a bottle of wine pretty much idiot proof, but it was fucking pink and said right on the box it supported breast cancer.
It was a gift that showed I cared on so many levels while belying the fact that it took me 2.3 seconds to go into the store, grab the first pink thing I found and get out. On Christmas Eve that’s a pretty good time.
So anything that’s pink is going to support breast cancer, it doesn’t matter what the product is. It’s only a matter of time before there’s a pink dildo out there.
Perhaps with the knowledge that there are in fact pink “neck massagers” out there, the name of the calendar isn’t as shocking. But I still have to wonder who thought that name wouldn’t invoke somewhat different images?
Was Pretty in Pink taken? I think that could have worked. It’s short, it’s sweet, it’ll remind some people of the John Hughes’ movie, there’s a little alliteration. It’s a good title.
But In the Pink? In the Pink? Really?
Just for the record there are actually two of these In the Pink calendars; there’s also a mini-wall calendar available, just in case you like your pink a little smaller.
It isn’t just that it’s called In the Pink, which apparently nobody cared could be a reference to vagina, but it’s that fucking everything pink is suddenly commandeered for breast cancer. It’s all over the place! It’s everywhere!
And it’s unfair.
Nobody cares about man cancer.
Everybody is all pink pink pink pink pink about boobs; they have their wristbands and their ribbons and key chains and car magnets and fucking Christmas tree ornaments.
But does anyone care about prostate cancer? Well, probably butt doctors. And the 230,000 men diagnosed each year. Maybe the 30,000 men who died from prostate cancer—or their families, at least, those 30k might not have an opinion on the matter anymore.
No one else seems to care.
So I think we need a calendar.
Let’s make it one to match this piggy breast cancer one. We’ll style it exactly the same and call it In the Stink, and it’ll feature all these great shots of pigs rolling around in the mud, playing some of that foozball, going to bars.
You know, doing man things. Pigs on St Patrick’s Day! Pigs lighting their farts in front of a cozy fire for Christmas! Pigs being pigs on Thanksgiving—no real imagination needed for that one. You ever see a pig water ski while drinking a beer? Me neither, but that sounds like the perfect July, doesn’t it?
I’m not really sure what else real men do. Fix cars? Maybe doing some plumbing? A little pig plumber’s crack? I’d buy a calendar with a bunch of pigs replacing a roof.
I’d love to see that calendar display, too. Can you imagine that little trio of cancer calendars? Two In the Pink, one In the Stink.
That’d be downright shocking to see.
There’s a huge disparity with all these cancers. There was a study a few years ago that showed forty-nine states received government funding for breast cancer screenings, compared with the 28 for prostate. Breast cancer receives at least four times more funding, which leads to seven times more drugs on the market to treat breast cancer than prostate.
Maybe it just because they’re out there, everyone can see them—they’re always in your face. Which of course makes a guy an asshole for noticing—and is that fair, either? If you’re not being discreet about them then I should have to be discreet about looking. If you don’t want anyone staring at them then throw sweatshirt over them.
I only have a vague idea of where the ol’ prostate is; it’s up in there, that’s all I need to know for now. Does that make sense for why people pay more attention or seem to care more about one than the other? Maybe breast cancer just cornered the market on cramming it down everyone’s throat in the eighties by starting up the Susan G. Komen thing.
There’s probably no catching up to the marketing or fundraising breast cancer has reached, even having blue designated the color of prostate cancer (blue? brown!) I think a nice In the Stink calendar could at least help out.
—That cloud looks like a hypothalamus.
I squinted at what I believed to be the cloud in question. I decided to take her word for it since she’d been to med school. By been to med school I mean she’d spent a day touring Miskatonic Medical School before deciding it wasn’t for her.
Doctors were always busiest in the fall she’d told me, because of everyone going back to school and being worried about the flu, but that was when her pneumonia always flared up. She’d be too sick to work with the sick, and so she decided on a career as the make-over girl at the cosmetics counter in Macy’s.
I didn’t know pneumonia could flare up, but I’d never spent the day at medical school.
We were laying near the top of a hill, the small lake spread out below. The Acropolis sat at one edge of the lake, its caryatids keeping close watch on the park spread out before it.
K’s hand sleepwalked across the sky to follow a small bundle of cloud. She giggled:
—Like a little kitten.
—I wonder where its ball of yarn is?
—Must have gotten lost behind the couch.
I think the couch may have been the storm cloud that broke before the sun was up that morning and tried to wash away the gray dawn. The rain was gone now, the ground dry, the sidewalks parched again. The city’s wakeup call was probably rolling around above those clouds now, deciding what to be next.
I forgot about the leaking cloud couch as K adjusted herself on the hill trying to properly fluff the grass behind her head. Her elbow brushed against my arm, sending a wave of freezing fire through my body that settled smoldering in the back of my stomach.
She took her arm away from mine to reach up to the kitten again and laughing scratched playfully behind its ears.