Oh dear. I meant to do this back for my four-hundredth post, but apparently I just couldn’t be bothered in mid-January. Well, I’d like to now thank you for choosing oftentimes to look at what I click out here, some of you in the United States, and all the way out in Germany and the UK sometimes, and even sometimes from an unknown country. Yes, that hit is always so curious. Feedburner is the one who can’t identify the country, by the way. It is too mysterious! Legion of Doom, perhaps? Or Fortress of Solitude?
Yes, I stalk you! I stalk you through my stats. Because I’m so lonely. So very, very lonely. It’s hard out here for a pimp. Pimping ain’t easy! Okay? It ain’t. The Prophet Don Knotts has shown us this.
So yeah, let’s open up the search hits and the spam comments and see what we’ve got, shall we?
We’re going to go for the best first!
Dear Occipital Hazard,
I would like to see, please:
somwon eting poop from thar but
Thank you in advance.
Well, Coprophagous, you’ve come to exactly the wrong place. Get lost!
Thank Athena this finally happened! Dr. Andrew Wakefield, the go-to guy for all vaccine and autism causation proof, has finally had his study disproven and taken apart in BMJ. The article is called, “How the case against the MMR vaccine was fixed,” and it’s really worth a read.
I have done the research for someone who wanted to know if she should vaccinate her little baby or not. I could only find one study on PubMed that found a link between autism and vaccines. That was Dr. Wakefield’s. (I did find a lot of studies that said they couldn’t replicate his results.) It’s case studies of twelve children, if you haven’t read it. That’s not a lot. I’m not saying it isn’t significant to those families, because your child means the world to you. But twelve children does not a convincing argument make; it’s just an interesting finding. All that says is that more research really needs to be done, and hey guys, we found something new of note, and we think it’s real, and time will tell.
The other day I went to the dermatologist. The fancy one, where they offer you tea and cocoa and shit (figuratively, I mean–they don’t offer you a turd) when you come in, and where they do have, no lying, a Botox and Restylane rewards program. I sat and I talked with a very nice esthetician who had very nice skin. A couple of leftover pitted acne scars, but that only let me know that she had felt my pain. She didn’t have any active blemishes that I could see, not even well-camouflaged with makeup. Not like my fucking face, which has looked awful lately. Children turn away into their mothers’ arms as I walk by. I am not an animal, I am a human being!
We talked about my options and set up a treatment plan. I got a file started. And I learned that there is a lot of hope for me with minimally invasive procedures. Chemical peels can do a lot to take out the scarring. “To change the texture and hyperpigmentation of your skin,” she said. I thought they’d have to sand the shit down so I won’t look like the love child of a pizza pie and the moon. I bought new products. We’re set to start sloughing the nastiness off my face in January, including pulling the blackheads out, and using chemicals to kill off the bacteria and burn off more skin in February. I saw pictures of people who’d had series of peels. They looked so much better. I got hope.
Hello, Dear Readers! It’s my three-hundredth post! What better way to celebrate than to let you (or people somewhat like you–okay, maybe nothing like the people who actually peruse this blog) write the content for this post? THERE IS NO BETTER WAY, ONLY ZUUL. Excuse me. I’m hopped up on pizza.
I would like to use the best first, instead of the other way around. See, this is my favorite, favorite search result ever that has come to my blog. I just have had no idea how to use it in any way, shape or form. So here it is, posted as my first letter.
Good bye, sad mothers, good bye, old cows, with dried-out utters and distorted hips, good bye, and so alone you all will die.
Disturbed, Poetic Searcher
Isn’t it a beaut? I haven’t had the heart to plug this into a search engine myself, for fear that it’s a part of something else. I simply love it on its own, and I love that my content was honored to come up in the searches for this piece of text. If anyone does cross-stitch, I will trade you a shrug or something else in exchange for a wall hanging of this quote. I’ll put it up over my bed. I am, after all, a thirty-three year old, single woman. That’s even sadder than an old mother. Singly! Singlet! Singleton! Unitard! Table for one!
I get a lot of weird search results that have to do with number 2. Some are vexed, some think enemas are sexy. Hey, that’s why there’s thirty-one flavors, including “beer enema, ” “enema art,” and my personal favorite, “the enema strikes back.” I do not want to meet any of these people, or if I know any of these people, know that I know them. Please keep your enema fetishes to yourselves. Now that I’ve repeated that word a bunch of times, I’ve probably boosted myself in the rankings. Happy happy, joy joy.
But let’s get to the troubled doodie people.
Deer Occipital Hazard,
Does ground cumin make you poop?
Dear Shaddam IV,
After doing some research, I’ve found that in Ayurvedic medicine, cumin is indeed considered a laxative. Don’t know if that’s what you’re going for or not. I know that it’s a big ingredient in kitchari, and that stuff blows through my colon like a bullet train.
The Spice Must Flow,
Let’s look in the junk pile and do some alchemy! Let’s turn crap into gold. Yes, another installment of my pathetic attempt to pretend I get mail from my spam and such. Let’s dig in.
Dear Occipital Hazard,
How much should I weigh?
582 pounds for your height.
Why are medicine men patronized?
-Desperately Seeking Information