As I said, I have an illness that causes tumors throughout my endocrine system. The eventual result is thyroid cancer and what follows thereafter is never good. Obviously. Right now, we’re dealing with a 2.3 cm. neck tumor and a smaller one on the thyroid. The wonderful news is they’re both benign. Hearing that news was better than winning anything I could ever imagine. There might (teaser alert) be a reason for this but I’m awaiting the results of genetic testing before saying anything here, although when you see what I mean, you will laugh.
Oh, you will laugh. I hope so, at least. I do every time I think about it.
Anyway—back to these tumors. They both have names. The neck tumor is Newt; yes, for that guy. And the other, of course, is Palin. There were so many possible choices. We named them for a number of reasons, but the most important for me was to get a sense of emotional control over them, like nicknaming someone you just can’t stand. What you’re really doing at that point is trying to get a sense of control over your own fear. MEN 2b, or for that matter any serious illness, carries with it a sense of helplessness, a daily sort of terror. As the patient, you have to deal with that. You can’t let it drive you back to bed in despair. As they say in England, that’s not on.
Or, as I say, bullshit. Fuck that.
Sure, I notice the tumor called Newt. Every day. Actually, whenever I swallow. As a matter of fact, at 2.3 cm. you can put your fingers around it. If you think it’d make you feel like you were constantly choking, you’d be right. In the mornings, I’m sure our neighbors think something terrible’s happening in our apartment. Newt’s one of several reasons I’m going to have what amounts to proactive surgery to remove the thyroid; Newt goes in the bargain as well. I look well forward to the days after surgery when Newt’s a memory.
Of course, there is the problem of what to do with Newt. I’ve honestly thought of sending it to Gingrich but with all this, the last thing I need is to bring down the Secret Service on our heads for sending bodily material through the mail. Besides, the doctors might want Newt for research purposes.
Still, imagine if you will the idea of this small, inocuous package arriving on his desk. A staffer opens it, if female most likely also trying to keep Gingrich’s pasty paws off her. She screams. Gingrich says, “But I didn’t touch your—” Meaning “this time.”
Then she hands him Newt, all wrapped like a birthday gift. It comes complete with a card and note: Hi! I couldn’t help but notice the resemblence; this has been stuck in my throat a long damn time, and, well, you’re Newt Gingrich. Now get your hands off your staffers and never forget you too are a tumor, repellent, malevolent, and beholden only to yourself. Here’s hoping you wind up selling pencils on South Cobb Drive in Marietta. John.
I know. Not very, um, decent of me. I know. But we’re talking about Gingrich here. Of course, you can just imagine what Sarah Palin’s reaction/s could be. I bet she’d eat the thing right in front of Todd. As Zappa might have said, her mind is prehensile.