Wednesday, February 18, 2004

It Taint What It Used to Be!

The following story is absolutely true. There has been very little hyperbole in the details describing the ensuing event. Reader discretion is advised. In fact, you probably don't even want to read it -it's disgusting.

Tonight, around 12:30, I realized I had had enough. The other day, while grooming my man-area, I was working the area between the umm, brain and the turdcutter, also known as the taint or choad. I ran into a speedbump that I know is there, a dirty, filthy skintag, but this time, I accidentally cut it. I was wondering why I had started to bleed as if I had a tiny faux-vagina between my legs, then I realized that I had given a fleshwound to Skintag Sal. Sal has been with me for about two years. I've watched him grow; he's become a part of me, really. I thought that he would be okay, but over the next couple of days, I realized that Sal was getting out of control. Perhaps at the sight of his own blood, he was thrown into an Incredible Hulk-like state and began to grow, but by tonight around 12:30, I couldn't take it anymore.

Sal had to go.

It is very difficult to break up a relationship, especially when you basically spend 24-7 (twenty four hours a day, seven days a week for those who hate numbers) together. I wasn't quite sure how to do it, so I did what my dad would do to me when he wanted to get rid of me. I smothered him with a bag of ice. After about 10 (ten, again, for those who hate numbers) minutes of what had to be the most emotionally difficult time in my life (you try being forced to murder your own baby...), Sal was unconscious, numb. I poised myself. I sat there -naked- on my bed, with a paper towel beneath Sal, to cushion his fall. I may be a murderer, but at least I had the decency and respect for him to try to do this properly. I reached out and grabbed the guillotine, a pair of fingernail clippers with I (heart) New York inscribed on the main lever. I figured this would be the best way to do it, as the last image Sal's fading vision would see would be "I (heart) New York". Oh how he loved the Big Apple. I remember one time when he and I were visiting, we were riding the Subway from Times Square uptown to Harlem and we both fell asleep, in each other's arms, and wound up riding the train all the way to Brooklyn. We didn't care. We had each other. This was how it had to be. With tears in my eyes, I brought the clippers down to ready position -nestled on both sides of Sal's beautiful, innocent head. With a forced smile and a single tear streaming down my cheek, I said to him, "Hey, buddy. Next stop...Brooklyn."

In an instant he was gone. I mean, his body was there, stuck to the fingernail clippers, but it wasn't him anymore. The lifeforce that made Sal Sal was no longer there. With one fell swoop our two-year relationship was over. All I have to show for it is a little nub which I may take a nail file to tomorrow. It's just too painful to have any memory of him around; it's much easier if he's gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

I don't know how to dispose of the body, though. It's sitting in front of me, on my computer desk, on a sheet of paper from February 5, 2001 of a Far Side comic-a-day calendar I use to write notes on. I can't throw him away; Sal meant too much to me. I will probably take him to New York and spread his ashes on the Subway. On the A Train. Our train.

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