Brain Dead Serious

The Growths On Just One Side of My Sinus Were Nasal Polyps, Not Cancer — But I Didn’t Know That For Weeks

NOTE: The author was diagnosed with nasal polyps on one side of his nose. The growths had a different look than usual grape-like polyps and surgery and biopsy were ordered by his doctor to rule out malignancy. It turned out the growths were indeed just rotted nasal polyps. This article is about his discovery of his illness, the arduous waiting game for the biopsy results, and his thoughts throughout the entire ordeal. The author apologizes if some sections sound like they make light of cancer and other serious diseases when the intent is the exact opposite. Nothing has made the author empathize more with patients of severe illnesses than what he experienced with the diagnosis and treatment of his nasal polyps. And it his hope that anybody going through the same issues finds some solace and reassurance in this story.

“Your polyp looks different. It’s a different color, black in some areas. It looks like it has veins and solid tissue. We really need to get it biopsied.” Those were the words I heard my ENT doctor say before life left me where I stood… or sat… It’s hard to remember because my mind swiftly drifted out of that room and floated up in the sky.

Mucus That Smelled Like a Stray Dog’s Butt

I’ve always been prone to colds, cough and other respiratory diseases. Sticky, green mucus–the kind that looks like the ooze that made the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles who they are, and which healthy people would consider extremely gross–is more like a pet peeve to me. I’ve been living with it my whole life, usually a minor inconvenience but a constant reminder that my immune system unfortunately isn’t as good as others’. But some 5 weeks ago, my normally green mucus turned to brown, or more like the color of rust, obviously due to significant amounts of blood mixed with it.

My girlfriend, Erika, was horrified the first time I showed the specimen to her on a piece of tissue paper (I guess it’s a measure of intimacy when a couple can pull off disgusting stunts like this). She kept yelling at me to go to a hospital and have it checked but I tried to calm her down, saying I probably just had a wound in my sinus because of my sinusitis. No worries–it should go away soon like all other literally sticky situations before it.

A few days passed. One morning, I woke up, blew my nose, and what came out smelled like the maggoty carcass of a dead rat. Or maybe the butt of a stray dog. It had already been smelling off  and showing streaks of blood for a few days, but that morning the smell was so revoltingly strong I wanted to burn the shirt I used to wipe my nose.

I finally agreed to go to the hospital.

The Discovery

I entered the ENT’s clinic confident I would leave with a prescription for antibiotics and some advice to exercise (which I would most likely ignore because I’m a stubborn idiot). The ENT was a tall man with a calm voice but who was way less spunky than my pulmonologist (whom I loved because he’s spunky and always brought good news that my lungs are clear every year during the annual physical examination which the company I work for required). After describing my symptoms, telling him my mucus was smelly–although not honest enough to describe it as smelling like the maggoty carcass of a dead rat or a stray dog’s butt–he made me sit in a tall chair so that he could peek into my nose.

He sprayed something in my nostrils before sticking an endoscope down each opening. I told him the brown mucus and foul odor only came from the right side, so he started viewing from there.

“Oh. You’ve got a polyp.”

Immediately, my heart sank. Polyp? Did he say polyp? Where did I hear that before? It was such an unexpected development that he actually found something in my nose that shouldn’t be there in the first place that I found myself already panicking.

He definitely said “polyp” and I didn’t know what the heck a polyp was but even then, all I could hear was the “C” word.

“Uh,” I grunted because the long, thin steel instrument was still up my nose as the doctor watched the live feed on a screen.

“It’s big. We need to remove it by surgery. Don’t worry, everything will be done through your nostril. Nothing would be opened.”

There was a rush of images in my head of me lying on a cold table, wearing a hospital gown, and a group of unaffected medical people silently talking among themselves as they poke my nose with long instruments, longer than the one my doctor had already jammed up inside my nose. This was very bad, I thought. Erika would be worried sick and she’d kill me because my hardheadedness to see a doctor was already proving to be a seriously big mistake.

“Hm. It’s really just on this side. Your left side is clear,” said the ENT as he explored the left side.

“There’s mucus. We need to suck that out.” He told me when he went back to the right side. He proceeded to get another instrument from his drawer and switched it on, letting out a buzzing sound, which I assumed was a motor.

In spurts that were slightly satisfying, the instrument sucked out the mucus covering that side of my sinus cavity. All these procedures were new to me and I actually marveled at the fact that my nose wasn’t hurting even as the doctor kept poking it with the endoscope. Again, he expressed his alarm at the size of the thing he discovered.

“It’s huge. That’s why your mucus is smelly. It gets stuck in here and rots.”

Ok. That explanation clarified things. In fact, I had already read about that explanation before I went to the doctor because I did some online research about sinus infections to prepare myself for what I was going to find out. Sometimes, when sinus cavities get extremely inflamed, mucus gets stuck there, serving as plentiful grazing grounds for bacteria, resulting in smelly mucus and sometimes foul breath (which scared the hell out of me for obvious reasons).

“It’s really just the right side. We really need to remove it and have a biopsy done.”

My heart further sank into the floor.

Wait–biopsy? It’s THAT bad?

All of this already felt unreal to me. I could sense my brain trying to block the truth of these quick, unforeseen developments because that’s the only way it could protect itself from the deluge of dark thoughts and emotions trying to burst through.

Immediately after he slid the endoscope out my nostril, I asked him whether polyps are dangerous… Of course what I really meant was did it have any connection with the “C” word.

“Not really… usually. But it is abnormal tissue growth, so we need to do a biopsy.”

Right around this time, I realized how the mind tends to focus on certain words and phrases when it tries to cling on to hopes that everything is fine and nothing terrible is happening. The words “abnormal” and “tissue growth” echoed down the chambers of my being moments after the doctor uttered them, so did the words “biopsy,” “huge,” “surgery.”

“You also need to do a CT scan,” he continued.

All the words the ENT were saying were raising alarm bells in my very soul; he never said the “C” word but that was all I could think of. And I couldn’t believe I was thinking it, given that I arrived at the hospital thinking all I was going to get was an advice to exercise.

I had the CT scan done right after I left the ENT’s office. As the platform lifted me up and slowly conveyed me into that dome, I found myself remembering all those movies and shows I watched of people entering this cold, lifeless machine.

The worst thing was knowing none of those movies or shows ended well with regard to those characters. I was so terrified I’m amazed up to now that I didn’t pass out because there were definitely times that I felt myself trying to automatically shut down the swift unacceptable realities happening one after the other by switching off my own consciousness.

The Horrors of Online Research

Obviously, I didn’t wait ’til I got home to Google what polyps were. Searching the terms “polyp” and “nose” returned encouraging results, which nipped my worries for a short while. Multiple websites would tell you that:

“Nasal polyps are common, noncancerous, teardrop-shaped growths that form in the nose or sinuses. They’re usually found around the area where the sinuses open into the nasal cavity. Mature ones look like peeled grapes.”

“Common.” “NON-CANCEROUS.” Good.

That’s from WebMD and many other sites describe nasal polyps almost the exact same way–with that slightly amusing comparison to grapes (it kind of helps calm you down when you imagine these growths look more like fruits than something nefariously uglier).

The WebMD article further explains that:

Often linked to allergies or asthma, they may cause no symptoms, especially if they’re small and don’t need treatment. Larger ones can block normal drainage from the sinuses. When too much mucus builds up in the sinuses, it can become infected.

Unlike polyps that form in the colon or bladder, nasal ones are rarely cancer. Experts think that long-term inflammation causes them or that they run in families. Nasal polyps aren’t painful to the touch. Medications or surgery can treat most. They may come back, though.

“RARELY CANCER” (still good though the word “rarely” was unwelcome). “Aren’t painful to the touch.” Well, that’s exactly like mine. The doctor kept touching it with his instruments and all I felt was a slight tingling sensation. Again–that’s very encouraging that all I had was a simple, non-cancerous, nasal polyp. “They may often come back, though”–not a problem as long as I could get rid of this batch that’s making the air I breathe in and breathe out smell like the worst kind of infection.

I’ve always advised Erika against diagnosing herself using Google whenever she got sick because I’ve had numerous experiences searching mild symptoms and then finding out later that they exactly match a type of cancer or some other frightening disease, but usually cancer. It always happens. But given that nasal polyps were a mystery to me, I gave myself the license to break my own rule and I kept on browsing site after site, looking for more articles that could give me more assurance that I was all right, so I could actually tuck in that night and not have nightmares about chemotherapy, losing my hair, and losing all our money.

And then somewhere along my fervid online research, I stumbled upon something that stabbed my heart like a cold dagger:

However, there are growths in the sinuses and nose that may look like polyps but can be precancerous or very rarely actually contain cancer. These masses are often on one side of the nasal cavity only, while most true benign nasal polyps are present in both sides. Polyps present in one nasal cavity but not on the other, should be biopsied or removed if they are suspicious.

“Precancerous.” “Often on one side of the nasal cavity only.” “Should be biopsied or removed if they are suspicious.”

Immediately, I remembered with horror how my ENT kept on repeating “Yours is really just on this side.” I thought nothing of it before and actually kind of felt it was a positive thing that my polyp was just on the right side. If both my sinus cavities were blocked, surely that was more serious?

Turns out that was completely wrong when it came to these things.

Digging further, I found more and more articles telling me the same chilling fact: growths on just one side of the nose are unusual and may not actually be polyps (those friendly grape-like things I was just reading about minutes ago), but something else. I realized that’s why my doctor wanted mine to be removed and biopsied–he wasn’t sure he was looking at a benign nasal polyp.

Reading more articles as blood started to drain from my head, I also learned that polyps that bled were even more suspicious. Didn’t my mucus have a ton of blood in it? I was alone in the room because my girlfriend works night shift, but if she were there, I would’ve probably collapsed in her arms as I tried to digest all these dreadful bits of medical knowledge I was discovering.

I probably wouldn’t have slept that night if I didn’t stumble upon an old forum thread where a woman described her own diagnosis of nasal polyp. Hers also appeared on just one side of her nose. Like me, she thought she was totally fine until she checked the Internet and found out “unilateral” growths (appearing just on one side) are unusual and suspicious compared to “ipsilateral” growths (appearing on both sides).

The woman was so wrecked with worry that she maybe had cancer that she was begging for people on that message board for stories where unilateral nasal polyps turned out all right for the patient. And the kind users there did share stories of their friends or loved ones getting diagnosed with unilateral and ipsilateral nasal polyps that were completely benign. Some had theirs removed by surgery, others were able to shrink or cure theirs using nasal sprays, one guy said he was so fed up with his that he blew his nose out so intensely one day that his polyp came out. Gory but it worked (though he responsibly advised against doing it). The woman thanked them all for helping her calm down.

But the stories just weren’t enough. As days went by, the woman described how thoughts of cancer were consuming her day and night, and how she couldn’t wait to get her polyp surgically removed and biopsied. In her last message on the board, she shared the good news that her operation was over and her doctor informed her that her unilateral polyp was benign.

The bad news was she was so overwhelmed by anxiety that she lost her baby. She was pregnant.

It was probably the darkest thread I’ve ever read and I felt so sad for the woman, but perhaps unsurprisingly, her story was the only piece of writing that calmed me down enough to sleep that night.

‘Your Polyp Looks Different’

After a week’s worth of using a corticosteroid spray and tablets, while also taking antibiotics and spraying an additional saline spray into my nose, I went back to the doctor to see whether all those things I did had any positive effect on the growth inside my face.

“It’s still there,” said the doctor, again with the camera in my nose.

“It shrunk a tiny bit but it’s still there.”

I had already talked to my family about the surgery and biopsy in the horizon, while watching my mother’s face sink into worry. I was thinking it might be a while before I needed to do that because all those medicines I was taking could help shrink the polyp–maybe even get rid of it all together because based on what I read, in some cases, corticosteroids handily took care of business.

They didn’t. And the doctor (whom by then was already my least favorite doctor in the world, especially compared to my spunky, bringer-of-good-news pulmonologist) had more bad news to say to me:

“Your polyp looks different. It’s a different color, black in some areas…”

The endoscope kept on poking, turning side to side, looking at various angles.

“It looks like it has veins and solid tissue… We really need to get it biopsied.”

Life left me where I stood… or sat… It’s hard to remember because my mind swiftly drifted out of that room and floated up in the sky.

At that point, it was impossible not to say it out loud in my brain: “cancer.”

We maybe talking about cancer here.

In my nose.

Me.

Me?

Of course, me. Nobody else was in that room after all, sitting in that chair, with a camera up his sinus.

Using the term “C word” in my head was already ridiculous even though that’s what I called it the week before as I tried to push that possibility out of my mind. After the doctor said those words, I could only call it by its proper name, like a devil finally breaking you down so that you can yell out his monstrous name: “cancer.”

Everything turned grey. The ENT’s office with all the books and instruments melted into a haze and nothing was real anymore aside from that dreaded word and the reality it defined.

“Doc,” I asked him after he sucked the mucus out again. “Is this dangerous?”

For about two seconds, his face clearly worked up the best expression to tell me the facts without causing me to have a panic attack. He then said in his calm, almost vacant voice: “Well, we’ll have it biopsied. That could take 3 to 4 business days. Then we’ll know if it’s benign… or malignant.”

That last word squeezed the remaining life out of me.

Nothing Matters–Not Even Game of Thrones

Every single day leading up to the biopsy–not the operation, the biopsy–was torture of an inhumane kind. I still went about my day-to-day tasks, including working my day job, but I couldn’t muster any smile that was genuine. I held everything back from my friends because the thought of dragging them down into the depths of my worries with me was intolerable. My only source of comfort was Erika and my family who showered me with the best food when I came home. But even that food I could barely taste because the prospect of cancer only made you think of cancer. Nothing else.

Not even Game of Thrones.

This might seem like an insignificant detail but I’m a huge Game of Thrones fan and the fact that its most epic episodes were not having any positive effect on my mood was a great indication of just how deep depression and anxiety had sunk in. While waiting for my turn to do some tests for the surgery clearance, I remember watching the episode where Daenerys rode her dragon for the first time to burn a massive opposing army, but none of the epicness rubbed in. On the contrary, I found myself wincing inside as I watched fictional characters getting burned alive.

That’s when I realized that any thought of death bothered me, made-up and real. I just wasn’t comfortable thinking about death and I certainly didn’t enjoy seeing it onscreen.

Which wasn’t the case when I was healthy… or part of the fully living crowd. It was then I understood that fully living meant having the freedom to laugh at death while it played its themes safely away, usually behind a screen. Watching death on TV or in the cinema thrilled me, whether it’s characters whose lives are in danger or characters who were actually dying–sometimes the more horrible the method, the better.

All of that stopped the moment it was me whose very life was in peril.

There was a strange, eerie transition from being the audience to the object, feeling like your life–your tragedy–is playing out onscreen for someone to marvel at or cry over. And the worst thing was you couldn’t get out of the situation, like you’re trapped in your own story.

The title of the story would either be “Nasal Polyps” or “Sinus Cancer” but you just didn’t know because you’re inside that story and you couldn’t see the script or the credits.

I had read somewhere that sinus cancers were very rare, and many patients actually had real reason to develop them, such as mining workers whose sinuses were exposed to various harmful elements like nickel. I’ve also been inhaling pollution in the streets my whole life as I travelled to and from school and then later, to and from work; and since two years ago, living in condos had exposed me to more dust, triggering a seasonal allergic rhinitis, which prevents me from breathing normally for months. Living in a third world country was bad–but I was damn sure I wasn’t inhaling anything like nickel.

Despite that, death by sinus cancer still felt like a genuine possibility to me. One horrifying article actually described that your eyes could pop out when sinus cancer spreads, and I kept remembering this documentary I watched in my youth featuring a man whose face was operated on because doctors discovered he had a rare sickness that manifested itself through recurring colds.

Half of that man’s face was removed and replaced with a horrendous prosthetic.

I couldn’t imagine having to go through anything like that.

I couldn’t imagine death or the process by which one gets there.

The Longest Month of My Life

From the moment I heard a biopsy was needed to determine whether my growth was benign or malignant, the results were all I could look forward to. I marked the date on my calendar. I repeated it in my head like a mantra. Thursday, Thursday, Thursday. Then it changed. Friday, Friday, Friday. My life revolved around it, and there was nothing beyond it–no plans, no future, no nothing. It’s like a curtain of static has been pulled over my life and I couldn’t see beyond that day regardless how much Erika told me that it’s going to be all right and that we should plan a trip for our anniversary. I imagined myself reaching a fork in the road and one led to long suffering for me, my family, and friends, while the other led back to life where I left myself waiting a long, long time ago.

I’m not a religious man but it was God whom I talked to throughout this period. I implored him to spare my life and others in the same boat as I was (I kept remembering the woman who lost her baby in the forum thread I read), to give me the strength to face people every day even while I was on the verge of buckling underneath the pressure of it all. Pretending to live was mighty difficult when there was a real chance I already had one foot inside my grave, and I just didn’t know it.

There were times I actually wanted to drop everything all together. What if I just stopped all these checkups and tests? What if I just cancelled the scheduled operation? I mean–I could just live my life not knowing whether I had cancer or not. After all, the smell in my nose had been gradually subsiding since using the saline and corticosteroid sprays.

Perhaps I could just give up and continue my life?

Isn’t this like Schrödinger’s cat–I’m both alive and dead until I actually read the results?

Both alive and dead kind of sounded better than definitely dead.

These were the thoughts that occupied my mind throughout my waking moments but a lot of them were fantasies and an excuse to pass the time.

The day of the surgery (which is by the way called FESS for Functional Endoscopic Sinus Surgery), I almost didn’t even care what was going to happen, which was probably irresponsible of me. I didn’t think there could be any complications or that I could bleed severely or that I might feel excruciating pain. Somehow, I just knew that my ENT was going to pull it off without a hitch. I kept wishing I could jump forward in time to when I’m already reading my biopsy results–learning about my ultimate fate.

The operation took around 4 hours–or at least that’s the span of time from when my mind totally shut down because of the general anaesthetic to the time I opened my eyes in the recovery room of the hospital’s surgery suite. There wasn’t any pain at all although I was extremely thirsty when I regained consciousness. My doctor repeatedly warned me beforehand that I wouldn’t be able to breathe through my right nostril after the surgery because of the packing inside, but I could breathe in and out just fine when I woke up. There was some relief–but not because the operation was over, but because I knew I was one step closer to Friday.

I plodded through seven more days before I was finally in that room I imagined millions of times in my head, waiting for a hospital clerk to hand me the documents that would reveal my destiny. I was with Erika whom I missed terribly even though I was with her every day. Minutes from now, I knew I was either going to collapse crying or scream with joy… or maybe I would still collapse crying regardless of the results. Looking around the medical records office, it was haunting knowing that countless people have retrieved their results from that small room, many of them probably breaking down in the arms of their loved ones when they saw their future at last.

I was still putting my signature on some acknowledgement forms when the clerk handed Erika the test results. I didn’t ask her right away but I was watching her in the corner of my eyes, looking for any sign that spelled my doom. For a couple of seconds, I was almost sure that my nightmares had come true because she was reading the papers so silently–no smile or any sign that there was good news at all.

“What does it say?” I finally asked her, my voice cracking, as I took the documents from her hand.

I immediately scanned for familiar words. No mention of “cancer” nor “tumor.” Nothing said “malignant” or “pre-malignant” or “pre-cancerous.” Nothing.

To my surprise, I didn’t fall down bawling nor jumped with joy. Perhaps it was just my severe exhaustion after reaching the end of this long treacherous journey, but I simply smiled, embraced Erika, and said “It looks like I’m ok.”

We immediately went up to my ENT’s office and showed him the results. He confirmed the good news–the great news–that my growths (because there were two of them that were removed) were indeed just nasal polyps. My doctor had shown me pictures of them after my operation and they looked nothing like grapes. They were unevenly shaped shiny masses colored brown and red with some parts yellow. According to my doctor, the reason for that was because the polyps themselves had rotted (not only my mucus) because of the legions of bacteria that had thrived there.

The packing in my nose was removed by my doctor after another week. Once the ordeal was over, I saw my ENT in a different light–somebody who had saved my life by taking away the main culprit for my recurring infections, which I thought could’ve developed into something more serious had no action been taken to correct the situation. Needless to say, I was thankful to him, and to Erika, to my family, and to all my friends who supported me and expressed their concern for me throughout that dark period.

The truth is I was grateful for everyone and everything. Even people who never knew I was sick. People who never knew who I was. People in the streets. Stray dogs and cats. To God.

I was–I am thankful for life.

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Brain Dead Serious

Let me Just Say that, in My Humble Opinion, You Should Die in a Fire Alone and Unloved

dieinafire

Look. This discussion is obviously getting heated and emotions are running high, which is pretty understandable given the weight of the discourse and the various political /ethical /economic /spiritual /sexual implications of our opinions, but I would just like to state before things really get out of hand and we hop onto an even more complicated topic, that, in my humble opinion, you should die in a fire alone and unloved.

I mean, you are obviously a very well-read individual with some enviable knowledge of the relevant themes and facts around this particularly contentious issue before us, and by simple reasoning it’s not hard to realize that you deserve to live like other people many of whom aren’t even as knowledgeable and clever as you are, but I hope I don’t sound too arrogant or dismissive when I tell you that you being burnt to a crisp like a piece of meat that fell into a pit of fiery coals would make me supremely satisfied, indeed.

If it still sounds kind of rude, please don’t take it personally. It’s really just my honest, unbridled opinion on the matter. I assure you I do not harbor any other ill will for you aside from the fact that I wished your eyeballs were evaporating right in front of me at this very moment. Bubbles of sizzling fat popping on your face. Boiling blood frothing from your mouth and gushing out of your ears. Tongues of angry, red flames dancing all over your melting skin dripping onto the singed floor. These images in my mind are absolutely objective and I can assure you that I’m not hiding behind any agenda when I express categorically that I wished you were in a fatal smoldering situation right now.

And please also allow me to qualify that you should not only pass away horribly in a fire, but you should also be alone and unloved as this transpires.

For your information and the viewers reading my two cents on the subject, I would like to make it crystal clear that “alone and unloved” means you should perish without any real friends to comfort you or family to bid you farewell. Not even a pet. Ideally, you should have been in this extreme isolated condition for a prolonged period of time; and in fact were this fire to fail to ignite, you would still have taken your own life by some other means anyhow like drowning in a sea full of jellyfish or by a more classic method such as bathtub electrocution. I understand that these are all fair ways to cause one’s own demise but personally, I insist on my preference of you expiring in an inextinguisable inferno whilst you tear the night apart with your horrid screams of anguish.

Now that this little wishful thinking of mine is out of the way, please do go on with what you’re saying.

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Brain Dead Serious

Scientists Reveal Human Beings Evolving into “Self-Righteous, Book-reading Capybaras”

capybara

An artist’s depiction of the future human-capybara descendant.

ZURICH – In a stunning conference today in front of the international press, evolutionary biologists from the University of Zurich reported that their studies reveal humans are evolving into none other than self-righteous, book-reading capybaras.

“We all know human beings came from prehistoric apes, and these prehistoric apes in turn came from primitive unicellular aquatic organisms. As our 8-year research into the trend of human evolution concludes, we are confidently predicting that humans will eventually evolve into self-righteous, book-reading capybaras,” the team’s head scientist Dr. Florian Bircher said.

Dr. Bircher was quick to follow up his statement when a panicked buzz began to sweep the packed room in the Zurich Marriott Hotel.

“Settle down. Settle down. I know you were expecting people to evolve into big-headed bug-eyed, grey aliens or into something like the Kardashians, but there’s absolutely no scientific evidence that supports such belief. In any case, people are too fat and lazy to evolve into something beautiful,” he added.

Capybaras, the team of scientists explained, are amazingly like human beings. These giant rodents are extremely sociable with one male usually mating with two females (yes, like a lot of men you know). Semi-aquatic, they spend lots of time in the water but they can also run really fast on the ground much like your coworker who regularly shifts between jogging and swimming in his hopelessly predictable life.

“But the most striking similarity is that capybaras never stop eating plants because they’re hardcore herbivores. As more and more people lose their ability to eat meat without imagining the animal on the plate as their pet, you can see how vegetarianism and veganism will eventually lead to an all-grass, all-bark, all-day capybara diet,” Dr. Bircher said.

capybara 2

The future human-capybara race will be pansexual and in fact will “hump anything that moves,” according to scientists.

The big difference between capybaras in the wild today and these future human-capybara hybrids is that the latter will be very self-righteous. And they’ll read books.

“In all my years of debating with people as an evolutionary biologist with the highest academic honors, I still haven’t met one person who admitted they were wrong. In fact, the homeless guy I had an argument yesterday about basketball pretty much said I’m a moron and I should just kill myself because I don’t know shit about what I was talking about. Furthermore, all my friends think they’re better than me. This unique trait will definitely be passed down to our giant rodent descendants whom we project would rather commit suicide than admit someone else is right.”

“Plus they’ll read books, I should add. They wouldn’t want to be caught without a book in their webbed hands. It’s just going to be a sign of high capybara culture or something like that.”

“But in the end, they’re still rodents. So they’ll breed like rabits and live like rats, thereby pushing our kind to extinction. Oh, and by the way, they’ll be pansexual–actually, they’ll hump anything that moves.”

Dr. Bircher and his team’s study can be read in this month’s Journal of Evolutionary Biology.

 

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Brain Dead Serious

An Open Letter to Anyone Who Wants to Be Insulted

open-letter

Dear Stank Face,

I can’t believe you’re willing to go through with this when I specifically told you all this letter is going to do is insult the turd out of you, you miserable nincompoop. If you think there’s going to be anything of value here that you’ll pick up along the way, rest assured there’s zilch, dingbat. There will be no hidden meanings, no cleverly disguised metaphors, or any meta literary device in this insulting letter. Just insults after insults, you namby-pamby butt nugget.

I wish there were anything of higher importance here, blowhole, like in other open letters but there’s really none except the amount of name-calling you’re going to receive. I’m sure you’ve been called an ass or a bitch or a douche a few times throughout your pathetic waste of a life but here you’ll be called more and you’ll receive them as surely as the chicken shit, jizz bucket, and butt moocher that you are. And as long as you’re not willing to stop, guttersnipe, this letter would be happy to dish out the goodies that degenerate shit pissers like you deserve. Tell all your shaft-sock friends that it’s too late to stop the unpleasantry train because it’s hitting you right in your pizza face to shred your bug-eyed, spotty-lipped, inbred mug, so it could be fed to the dogs.

You know, some people are ordinary weasels, twits, and dweebs, but any reader like you who’s mad enough to take all of this must be a truly useless loser who’s metastisized into an irredeemable sperm dumpster with a penchant for licking turd off a hobo’s scrotum. That’s right. It’s just gonna get worse from here because this letter will now start to curse you lot of fuckwits and miscreant cumb bubbles with vicious words that could form a deadly virus that’ll spread from mouth to mouth and terminate poor mothers when their dog-kissing, blood-sucking, dirt-eating, worm-headed sons and daughters kiss them. Get out while you still can, douchewaffle.

But I guess that’s too much to ask of ass goblins like you. After all, one can usually reason with dolts and goofballs, but not with pieces of cum cake–the reprobate tribe of which you represent. One must wonder how much shit stack you’ve ingested during your lifetime that you have devolved into this hopeless state of cock gobbling. And no, this open letter doesn’t intend to throw shade about a particular gender or class of people, but it does try its best to dub you a cum-guzzling, bowl of ass soup. I don’t really have to explain to you how the last thing an insulting letter like this tries to do is be gender-sensitive. But I just did just in case you don’t get it since you’re a shit-spraying avatar of asshattery.

Let’s clarify something here. According to this letter, you’re an overstuffed peawit, dingleberry, fuck stain, turd burglar who’s also an overall cunt bag, jerk tard, vaginal bloodfart that has shit for brains. It doesn’t even need to make sense. It just has to get the point across that you’re a sperm-burping gutter slut who’s also a fuck-faced, pillow-biting brainless waste of space at the same time. You lived your life as a cheap, lying fart-knocker with your man-whoring, fuck-ball pals, and on your gravestone they’ll write “RIP Ass Maggot.” History will remember you for your lunkheadedness and for your sorry-ass vomit-fondling days.

So, snot gargler, it’s clear you want to see the end of this open letter no matter how many times it calls you a dick-shitting scrotum breath. On one hand, I kind of respect your dumb-headedness to go this far but overall, I’m still more shocked at your tragic monkey-fucking metamorphosis. I guess you are a true-blue queef master who has devoted your sick existence to ass piracy and professional douche-sucking while continuing to be a decorated pussy ebola and a talented shit stain. Congratulations, peepee cheeks. You are now way past wankers, yahoos, dipshits, skanks, and dongbags–you are, for better or for worse, a legit hose monster, cock nozzle, butt-munching dick trickle, and thunder cunt. You are ass-felching personified.

This open letter would love to go on for your family of dump trucks but all good things must come to an end. And thus, so long, brainless, stiff-legged, fattypants. May you continue to grow as a shining piece of monkey shit and ass clown.

Yours truly,

This Open Letter

 

 

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Brain Dead Serious

Justice Be Done: A Petition to Burn Off Half of Manny Pacquiao’s Mustache #BurnPacstache

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In light of recent remarks by eight-division boxing world champion and Filipino congressman Manny “Pacman” Pacquiao against LGBT, calling them “worse than animals” because animals are supposedly better since they know that bolts only go into nuts, we are calling for three sanctions against Pacquiao in the name of justice and to advance affirmative action, namely:

(1) His declaration as a nuisance candidate in the Philippine senatorial elections

(2) The boycott of all his remaining endorsements after Nike’s withdrawal of their support; and last but not the least–

(3) The symbolic burning of half his mustache (official hashtag #BurnPacstache).

Now, we would love to expound on items one and two on our list but according to our research team, Facebook is already flooded with passionate theses about these rational and righteous causes by your own friends who are only too glad for an excuse to  practice their almost-forgotten essay-writing techniques, so let us move on to number three; that is, the burning of half of Pacquiao’s mustache.

We know the big question on your mind right now: Why? Why call for the burning of half of Pacquiao’s mustache? Why not the full mustache?

As concisely as we could, please let us explain our position as regards this matter of tremendous consequence for the future of gender equality here in the nation–and Pacquiao being an international celebrity–around the world.

Any kind of punishment must be commensurate to the crime, and since Pacquiao said homosexuals are worse than animals, clearly with the intent of proclaiming the unfounded superiority of heterosexuals, he deserves only partial upper-lip facial-hair incineration as opposed to full upper-lip facial-hair incineration. The reason being that it has long been established that animals are in fact better than humans, and human beings are nothing less than the dregs of life’s evolution here on earth. The bases of this argument, both scientific and philosophical, are quite solid. To cite just a few examples: animals never caused climate change (the dinosaurs definitely never produced enough poisonous gas through their farts that they caused global warming and their eventual extinction; an asteroid did it for them), animals never made wonky, jam-packed trains that broke down 5 days a week, and animals never savaged their kind on social media through semi-vague passive-aggressive posts day after day.

Clearly, animals are way better than human beings–all human beings–not just homosexuals. So taking this proposition into account, we can confidently say that Pacquiao was only half-wrong in his statement.

Had he said that both heterosexuals AND homosexuals are better than animals, then we would be aggressively calling for the searing of his entire mustache, not just half of it.

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Pacquiao in his younger years had light mustache indicating normal, mild religiousness.

Take note: this cause–while admittedly quite common and so subtle that it may be mistaken as uninspired–is strongly symbolic at the very core. Pacquiao’s mustache is not like any other facial hair worn by your average Joe. A cursory look at the boxing legend’s history reveals that the growth of his mustache runs parallel with his unhealthy obsession with his faith. Before Pacquiao turned into a raving born-again Christian pastor with outrageous ambitions of being the President of the Philippines (which may still be possible looking at how bad things are in this country), he was a normal, moderately worshipping, totally mediocre Catholic who balanced praying with equal amounts of gambling and womanizing. He was perfectly all right back in those days when it could be remembered that his mustache was only light and sparse like those found in boys just hitting puberty.

Manny Pacquiao and Shane Mosley address the media at a press conference to promote their upcoming fight in New York

Pacquiao in his older age has grown a thick mustache signalling his destructive fanaticism.

However, as his mustache grew thicker and fuzzier, Pacquiao transformed into an insatiable and violent gay-bashing machine who calls in his sleep for the automated eradication of gayness via smart machine guns in an Avenger Helicarrier. This metamorphosis is truly shocking considering that Pacquiao was previously known as some sort of a philanthropist who may have helped a lot of people, especially in Mindanao. Fast-forward to the present time and Filipinos would rather celebrate Christmas with Floyd Mayweather Jr., another sporting icon who pioneered the use of women as punching bags and speed balls.

We therefore call on all citizens, not just of the Philippines, but of the civilized world, for the half-burning of this prickly symbol of bigotry, so that everyone may know the seriousness of the issue at hand. However, we do clarify that this method of protest cannot and must not be undertaken without the full consent of Pacquiao. If Pacquiao cannot find it in his broken conscience to allow us the just execution of this punishment, then the burning of half his mustache in all posters and images showing his smug Christian mug would suffice.

Sound off if you agree with this petition and use the hashtag #BurnPacstache. Remember: global gender equality hangs in the balance.

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Brain Dead Serious

I’ve Never Felt More As One with Humanity as When this Happened to Me

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Cell phones, tablets, laptops–technology has forcibly pulled people away from each other, creating this gap that has made it impossible for us to truly unite as fellow human beings even in this much celebrated “social media” age. Fortunately, I have been lucky to discover a way to feel myself one with mankind, and I stumbled upon it in the least likely place you’d expect to find such deep realization–in the men’s bathroom.

One of those normal, busy days in the office, I stood up from my chair feeling a little rumble in my belly. I promptly walked away from my desk, leaving all my mundane tasks behind–all these unnecessary things and activities that have made me, us, slaves of an unrelenting system that drains our lives’ true worth. I left all of them as my buttocks began to feel like it’s going to explode.

I rushed past the toiling drones, their faces sucked into their computers and their expressionless eyes showing the depressing truth of their hollow souls. Step by step I closed in on the men’s bathroom where the turbulence in my tummy sought immediate refuge and release. My hand clasped the cold door knob… and I was in.

Pushing the cubicle doors one by one as gently as possible so as not to betray the fact that I was on the brink of an uncontrollable posterior convulsion, I checked if they were occupied. Alas! Those wretched things were filled with fellow bum bazooka warriors firing brown shells into the water. And I was overcome with the depressing burden of existence.

But suddenly… a door opened! And out came our old IT guy who had just done the dirty deed!

Even before he was fully out of the cubicle, I leapt inside like a nimble lemur in the forests of Madagascar. And then it hit me like a ten ton truck–the smell of his newly flushed shit stacks.

The air was still warm with that man’s sweat and body heat when I shut the door. As my fingers fumbled for my belt buckle and my pants dropped to the floor, I realized I have never been as close to anyone as I was when I took a lungful of that old man’s intestinal contents. It smelled like stale bread and rotting vegetables. In fact, while pooping in the noisiest way possible, it came to me that that man in that very moment wasn’t only our IT guy. He was not just that incredibly incompetent fool who always told me to restart my computer whenever it wouldn’t do as it’s supposed to do. And then suggested reformatting it as a second option. He was much more… much more. A symbol. A representative of mankind. Humanity itself.

I pressed the bidet happily to wash my crack. He and I, and lots of other men in the office pressed the same thing that day… and the thought made me smile.

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Brain Dead Serious

Emilio Aguinaldo’s Barber: “I am the One to Blame for the President’s Many Mistakes”

Newly unearthed letters from Emilio Aguinaldo’s ancestral home in Kawit, Cavite reveal that the first Philippine President’s barber was the one to blame for every questionable and downright disgusting decision Aguinaldo had made throughout his life.

The trove of correspondences yellow with age and of priceless historical significance sheds new light on the murkier side of our country’s history from the Spanish to the Japanese occupation era. The letters were penned by Aguinaldo’s barber himself and were anonymously signed “Your loyal barber.”

The team of local historians and archaeologists who discovered the letters released some of the shocking excerpts today, such as this one written around the time Aguinaldo was retreating from the advancing American forces in Northern Luzon in 1899.

“Dear El Presidente,

Word has reached me that you and your troops, in a word, have your boots stuck in unbelievably deep excrement with your hopeless guerilla warfare against the gringos. I warned you long ago that this would happen if you keep your ridiculous and evil flattop. Please let me cut it; I will go to your location even if it costs me my life…”

According to the team’s lead historian, the key word here was “evil.” It appeared that Aguinaldo’s barber firmly believed that the iconic haircut (arguably the flattest flattop ever documented) had supernatural, almost “occult” influences on the President. Another excerpt reads:

“I tried and tried to convince you to adopt a more conventional hairstyle, perhaps a wavy, side-swept one like Dr. Rizal’s or a tidy brush-up like Apolinario Mabini’s, but you insisted on this weird, taboo flattop that my barber family has refused to offer our customers for decades.

You even went absolutely nuts when I suggested Andres Bonifacio’s neatly parted mop had more appeal to it, and suggested I was committing treason against the Republic. Your insecurity towards that man was truly boundless.”

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President Emilio Aguinaldo’s hairstyle was so rare, he’s actually kind of funny-looking in this photo taken 1904.

The team’s investigation into the haircut trends in Aguinaldo’s time shows that the President sported an extremely rare hairstyle that both made him into a legend and the constant butt of jokes of Katipuneros during secret meetings.

The barber even remembers the very moment he completed cutting the infamous crown:

“I remember it like it was yesterday. As soon as I lifted my scissors, your eyes literally glowed red. It was as if the innocent boy bursting with selfless bravery turned into a conniving, power-hungry man who will stop at nothing to conquer the country for himself. All because of that cursed flattop.”

“Yes, the hair gave you immense strength and tactical knowledge that allowed you to win key battles in Cavite while Bonifacio embarrassed himself with his losses, but those victories came with a price: your soul.”

The barber’s beliefs–while truly extraordinary–were not without merit, said the team’s lead historian. Aguinaldo’s top was so distinctly flat that he stood out like a sore thumb in the battlefield, allowing every soldier to recognize him even far away, with the unintended effect of boosting troop morale. It was like Aguinaldo gave an inspirational dugout speech every time he took off his hat.

The shock of shocking flatness also unified Cavite revolutionaries–the “Magdalo” faction–like no other conceivable force could. The straightness of the top and the uniformity of the strands, in the eyes of revolutionaries, symbolized strength through unity. The lead historian even went as far as to suggest the flattop was the key determining factor in the 1897 Tejeros Convention at the end of which Aguinaldo was elected the first president of the Philippines and Bonifacio was relegated to the pathetic post of Director of the Interior (so much for starting the whole revolution). As is now famously known, Bonifacio deemed the elections unjust and tampered with, and his subsequent condemnation of the process resulted in him being accused of treason, and eventually being executed.

But Aguinaldo’s barber had a more interesting take on the whole event:

“I witnessed first-hand how your initial decision to commute Bonifacio’s death sentence was immediately overturned when he screamed in your face that ‘your hair was flatter than your unbelievably flat personality’ and that “no wonder we’re losing the war because our enemies are using your head as crosshairs to aim for our soldiers.'”

Apparently, the brilliant general Antonio Luna was also the recipient of Aguinaldo’s ire stemming from his crop of square hair.

“Poor Luna once broke his serious character to make an admittedly tasteless joke about what the difference was between Apolinario’s legs and your hair. The answer being that your hair stands. The savage look on your face afterwards told me that that man–as important as he was tactically to you–was as good as dead. And sure enough, a month later, Luna had more holes in him than Manila.”

Aguinaldo and Quezon during Flag Day, 1935. The first President sported the flattest flattop even in old age.

Aguinaldo and Quezon during Flag Day, 1935. The first President sported the flattest flattop even in old age.

The one-sided correspondences between the first President and his barber continued throughout the years as the hairstylist tirelessly implored his rogue customer to cut his hair and end the curse once and for all.

“Shame on you for surrendering to the Americans! Miguel Malvar was still fighting his heart out while you were taking an oath of allegiance to the invaders and making a secret pact to spread your laughable hairstyle among the young generation of Filipinos who will be reared in American culture. You were the one responsible for this revoltingly bad hairstyle being prescribed in our schools.”

“The demon in your hair was also whispering in your ear when you cooperated with the Japanese as you made speeches on their behalf, even radioing an appeal to Gen. Douglas MacArthur in Corregidor to surrender! If you had only let me nip your mane even an inch, you would not have uttered such unpatriotic nonsense!”

Emilio Aguinaldo never listened to his barber but he nevertheless collected some of his letters, presumably to remind him of the supernatural origins of his ‘do. Whether the barber was speaking the truth or not, it is now undeniable that one man’s bad hair changed the course of history and its ripple effects will be the subject of fierce debates in universities and scholarly journals for years to come.

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