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Jett Superior laid this on you on || October 24, 2004 || 12:44 am

The whole lice thing

As mentioned before, sometimes in the course of my job-related duties I end up with a carload of kidlets that have contracted The Cooties.

I’ve yet to ever, ever have picked up and/or had a dalliance with lice in my entire life, even in these near sure-bet situations. HOWEVER, I’m still all goofy about it and tend to spend the days following a lice discovery on one or more of my clientele clawing away at any spot on my body that has even the slightest downy fluff of hair*.
For the record, I do indeed suppress the mad urge to give my crotch a vigorous scratching.

Anyway, after giving the head a good solid scratch or ten-thousand over the course of seventy-two hours, things tend to start falling from the depths of ones mane. Never mind the fact that these things are merely eensy plugs of scalp that have just cried out in misery and pain before finally succumbing to my vigorous fingerwork, screaming, “THAT’S IT! I’M JUMPING! HAD ENOUUUUGH!” Yes, you never mind that at all, because I will sit and stare at them for absolute ages, trying to see whether or not those things are not eensy plugs of scalp but instead are lice that have suddenly become super-intelligent enough to play a rousing game of possum with me. I look for them to start unfolding their wee little legs (with a creepy horror-movie sound effect akin to a verra, verra creaky door slowly and agonizingly opening to reveal the half-devoured corpse of your sixth-grade advanced algebra teacher who has finally figured out that it was an incredible sham, your being placed in that class, because you were indeed a mathtard all along and were faking your way through that shit. And boy-oh-boy, is he pissed and ready to gnaw on your brain all the way down to the bastardized math facts you’ve badly stored somewhere in there, because that’s The Source of All His Evil Power, Motherfucker) and scampering –or burrowing, whatever the fuck it is that lice do in their spare time—amongst the rib knit of my rust-colored tank top.

All this is just a drunken, breathy way of saying that I’ve spent the better part of two days digging away at my head because I saw a fucking sign on Thursday afternoon –a mere SIGN, people –taped to the door of one of the visitation rooms at the office:

LICE, 10/21/04

I realize how essentially brain-damaged and freakish this makes me seem to most of you, but I have a solid rebuttal to that: COOTIES! We’re dealing with COOTIES here. You know?

Today the itch-scratch-itch cycle was so relentless and uninterrupted that I finally came home this evening, plopped down in front of the sofa where my lovely Maxim was seated, and beseeched him to dig through my pile of keratin to see if it was the site of a major infestation. He surmised that I’ve a little more than a touch of the hypochondriac in me, but placated me with a thorough ‘lock-picking’ anyway.

He passed me with a clean bill of health, asked me coyly if I would like to see his extra-special ‘tongue depressor’ and I’ve not itched one farging bit since.

This is starting to be nowhere near as funny as it initially was.

*Even, friends, the eyebrows.

1 worked it out »

  1. Nina 10.25.2004

    Thanks for sharing that! *itch* I know how you feel! *twitch*

     

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