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June 29, 2007 19:13Elective Butchery
Sure, I've been tempted to get cosmetic surgery. A snip here, a tuck there. I never thought I'd go through with it though. Dreams of getting a modest boob job just to give me something other than my penis to fiddle with were just that – dreams.
But I finally decided to do something about my emergency backup brain. Like the dinosaurs, I had a secondary brain located near the base of my spine to help coordinate the movement of my lower quarters. Evolution deems this sort of thing necessary when the functionality of the main cranium is deemed too slow and laborious to tell the ass-end of the body what needs to be done in a timely fashion.
Okay, I ASSUME this thing growing on my lower back to the right of my spine was a secondary backup brain. It certainly looked like one, jutting outwards on a short stalk, with identifiable lobes throbbing with evil intent, sending independent thoughts to the main brain such as, "Kill them all," "Bathe in their blood," and "Shop at Wal-Mart."
My doctor differed, however. With all her imagination sucked out by a higher education, she deemed my spare brain to be merely a mole, and wrote me a referral to have it lopped off. I was somewhat reluctant to see it go, and anticipated a ten to twenty point drop in IQ. On the other hand, it was a rather unsightly appendage at the beach, and we live in a beauty-before-brains society. Faced with such a dilemma, I sought guidance from the source of wisdom we all turn to in these troubled times. I asked myself, "What would Paris do?"
Of course, you and I both know what Paris would do. She would have the disfiguring nub surgically removed. Then she would drive drunk to the nearest party and get video taped performing bored, indifferent sex acts that would later net her a million dollar distribution deal. I resolved to do exactly the same.
 "I'll give you one guess why I'm here," I told the dermatologist as I took off my shirt. She gasped when she saw it. At least, I think she was gasping at my brain-mole. She may have been gasping at my manly physique. Women sometimes go all gooey when they see me with my shirt off. It's the combination of flabby, ill-defined musculature, corpse-like white flesh, and shaggy back that drives them wild. Seriously, girls, stop emailing me for photos. Why fuel your fantasies when there's just not enough of me to go around?
"That's going to the lab," she said after a pain-numbing needle and a quick flick of the scalpel. I watched my brain-mole bob around in a sealed test tube as it was labeled, filed away, and shipped off to pathology. They just wanted to make sure it was benign. The fools. I already knew it was no such thing. It wouldn't be long before it was putting thoughts in the heads of all the lab technicians. Its will was so strong, it didn't need to be physically attached to them to dominate their weak minds.
No reports of any pathologists killing people and bathing in their blood yet. But Wal-Mart has noticed increased sales figures for beakers and Bunsen burners, so it's only a matter of time.
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