A co-worker today told me about some study (scientific, I'm guessing) that discovered men who sit for more than 6 hours per day increase their chances of getting cancer by something like 40%. This is in all likelihood, like so much else in the universe, a bunch of horseshit. But it nonetheless got me thinking about one of my most oft-thought-about topics; namely, my own demise, albeit this time with less fist-shaking and exhortations that "they" will "see."
The long and short of it is I am fucked. I'm by no means an overwhelmingly unfit person, though I'd hazard a guess that my lay-up missing exploits on the basketball court are probably long in my past. But having as a I do a day job which entails a good deal of sitting, coupled with a leisure-time schedule that avoids excessive physical activity in favor of things best enjoyed while sitting or lying mostly still, it looks like this particular horseshit scientific finding has me up the proverbial creek without the proverbial paddle. Or, as the case may be, up Cancer Creek without an effective and comprehensive treatment schedule.
As is usually the case when thinking of my own death, I am beset with notions comical, albeit in a way that certain people (my family, for instance) find terribly unfunny. This leads me to a slight moral conundrum: how do I share my death-inspired giggle-fits of joy with my friends and Internet acquaintances without offending any delicate sensibilities that might be contained therein (this would be you, Irate Ian)? After much thought and internal debate and external verbal abuse of passing schoolchildren, I settled upon the perfect solution: an Internet poll!
Specifically, a poll that shall posit the question: Which Cancer Will It Be? "It" being the type of cancer that shall shuffle me off this mortal coil, of course. I've narrowed it down to a manageable list of cancers both real and imagined, some of which are more likely than others to wrack my fragile body as the years roll on. But let that not sway your opinion! I will of course be much more impressed with those among you who choose only the most ridiculous of deaths to subject me to, for what that's worth.
Without further ado, here are your choices:
The long and short of it is I am fucked. I'm by no means an overwhelmingly unfit person, though I'd hazard a guess that my lay-up missing exploits on the basketball court are probably long in my past. But having as a I do a day job which entails a good deal of sitting, coupled with a leisure-time schedule that avoids excessive physical activity in favor of things best enjoyed while sitting or lying mostly still, it looks like this particular horseshit scientific finding has me up the proverbial creek without the proverbial paddle. Or, as the case may be, up Cancer Creek without an effective and comprehensive treatment schedule.
As is usually the case when thinking of my own death, I am beset with notions comical, albeit in a way that certain people (my family, for instance) find terribly unfunny. This leads me to a slight moral conundrum: how do I share my death-inspired giggle-fits of joy with my friends and Internet acquaintances without offending any delicate sensibilities that might be contained therein (this would be you, Irate Ian)? After much thought and internal debate and external verbal abuse of passing schoolchildren, I settled upon the perfect solution: an Internet poll!
Specifically, a poll that shall posit the question: Which Cancer Will It Be? "It" being the type of cancer that shall shuffle me off this mortal coil, of course. I've narrowed it down to a manageable list of cancers both real and imagined, some of which are more likely than others to wrack my fragile body as the years roll on. But let that not sway your opinion! I will of course be much more impressed with those among you who choose only the most ridiculous of deaths to subject me to, for what that's worth.
Without further ado, here are your choices:
- Colon Cancer (I do eat a lot of meat)
- Eyeball cancer (If there is such a thing)
- Pancreatic Cancer (I'm pretty sure this is pretty deadly)
- Lung cancer (A dark horse, given my lack of smoking habit)
- Brain tumor (Softball-sized, horseshoe-shaped)
- Testicular cancer (Ow my balls)
- An As-Yet-Undiscovered Cancer That Shall Be Named After Me (My personal preference, but hey, you do what you do)
As far as #7 goes, I am open to and openly encourage suggestions, such as a cancer that blocks up my urethra and forces urine to come out of my ears, henceforth to be called Sheehan's Ear-Piss Cancer. Or whatever you can come up with.
And as an added bonus, I am offering prizes! Indeed, the person who correctly guesses--or comes anatomically closest to guessing--my ultimate destroyer shall have an item of their choosing from my personal belongings. To give you an idea of just what that might be, let me open up my Rucksack of Worldly Possessions here, and see what I can find....
- An incomplete set of 1989 Topps Baseball cards
- A small collection of not-at-all-rare, easily-purchasable books
- A Subway Club Card signed by Michael Moore
- An official game ball from the 1994 World Series
- An uneaten bag of potato chips
- A half-eaten bag of potato chips
- You might want to purchase your own potato chips
Vagina Cancer, of course. I'll take the empty bag of potato chips. I hope they're Tim's, I love Tim's.
ReplyDeleteCancer is the sign of the Crab. So you'll probably just end up with crabs. Of the vagina, of course.
ReplyDeletePatrick's got crabclaws, Patrick's got crabclaws!
ReplyDeleteYeah, but they're in my new vagina, which to me is a way more interesting development.
ReplyDeleteEyeball cancer...in your vagina. ZAP! I'll take the books.
ReplyDeleteWell, since you now have a vagina, the most likely and logical affliction would be breast cancer. Seeing that you have just recently become aware of the labia that you previously thought merely a loose taint, I doubt you have been conducting regular breast inspections. And considering your extreme laziness and refusal to accept your vagina, I further doubt you will check in the future. I give you about 11 years before the tumor appears. Given your body type, you will notice the lump fairly quickly and only take 6-10 more months to get it checked out. You will get a mastectomy, suffer the fate of Kurt Hansen for 18 months, then experience a horrible relapse, receive a second mastectomy, and finally die nippleless around the age of 43.
ReplyDeleteIt sounds like you better check on that loose taint, Patrick, before you end up like Kirby Puckett ... speaking of which, you owe Evan some baseball cards.
ReplyDeleteIf Evan gets that all right he deserves more than just my baseball cards. He can have my first-born child.
ReplyDeleteI only want it if you mate with a half Jap, half Scot.
ReplyDeleteThat's distressingly specific. But I'll keep my eye out for any kilt-wearing Japanese women.
ReplyDelete