Five tips (I hate the overused “Life Hacks” phrase, but life hacks, if you prefer) to make your relationships better and longer-lasting. I’m not a professional counselor and this is probably the worst advice you’ll ever hear, but, hey, you’ve tried everything else and Match.com has banned all four of your profiles. So if you were rejected from eHarmony for answering their preliminary question “What do you want in a woman?” with “MY PENIS!!!1!!”, then you might as well give this brief video a listen.
Category: humor
Product Labeling Gone Awry
I just popped something in the microwave oven. While it cooked, I read the instructions on the package. How dumb is the average person? Why is the last line of the heating instructions, “Remove carefully; product will be hot.” Really?! I hope the heck so! I thought that was the point of putting the blasted thing in the microwave.
Are people really removing items from the microwave with their teeth? Is bobbing for french fries a new fad that I haven’t caught on to yet? I’m sure the CYA of packaging idiocy hasn’t reached its pinnacle. It’s only going to get worse.
Every McDonald’s drive through now as a sticker on the window which reads, “Coffee served extremely hot!” All because some litigious idiot thought she could speed away from the window with the lid off, trying to mix in her cream and sugar while driving with her knees. The only award that this woman deserves is a Darwin Award.
Let’s take a look at some of the more interesting packaging instructions and the purpose behind each.
This gem was found in the toilet at a sports complex: “Recycled flush water unsafe for drinking.” I guess when they’re charging $6.50 for a bottle of water some poor, dehydrated soul might get desperate.
“Shin pads cannot protect any part of the body they do not cover.” This one needs some more instructions. I can see some idiot duct taping shin pads to their head and suing when they do not function adequately as a helmet. Hopefully the person that tries this is already wearing a helmet.
From a cardboard, foldout sun-shield for your car: “Do not drive with sun-shield in place.” But the sun is so bright. The oncoming headlights are blinding. If there is justice, this person is not wearing their seatbelt either. In a perfect world, the person that needs this won’t understand the flashing lights at the railroad crossing.
From a laser printer toner cartridge: “Do not eat toner.” But what if I need to print something on a roll of toilet paper?
On a can of pepper spray: “May irritate eyes.” This goes hand-in-hand with my microwave instructions. I thought that was the point of this product.
On a butcher knife: “Please keep out of children.” This gaff is probably the results of poorly translated instructions from a foreign language, but we’ve all thought about it at one time. It’s the ultimate timeout.
Found on a curling iron: “For external use only!” I don’t even want to get into details on this one. Actually, since this is still in litigation, my lawyer advises me not to comment.
From a helmet-mounted mirror for cyclists: “Remember, objects in the mirror are actually behind you.” This one had me in stitches imagining a rider suddenly shocked at the on-coming traffic in the mirror. This warning was written for the guy who drowned trying to save his reflection in the lake.
On a produce package: “Please store in the cold section of the refrigerator.” As opposed to the section of the refrigerator where you cook?
Found on breath mints: “Not for weight control.” I guess fresh breath can lead to pregnancy.
On a stroller: “Caution: Remove infant before folding for storage.” But it would be so convenient to stow Jr under the bed for the night.
“Do not iron clothes on body.” But it’s cheaper than going to the tattoo parlor.
On a box of hammers: “May be harmful if swallowed.” The obvious joke here is that you have to be dumb as a box of hammers to need this warning.
From a chainsaw manual: “Do not attempt to stop the blade with your hand.” Or leg or neck or dog or neighbor…well neighbor might be alright. Turn that music down!
Nytol sleep aid: “Warning: May cause drowsiness.” So might this article.
Stamped on the barrel of a .22 caliber rifle: “Warning: Misuse may cause injury or death.” Really?! So might regular use. I thought that was the point of using a gun.
From a picture frame: “Not to be used as a personal flotation device.” You deserve to drown.
On a box of fireworks: “Do not put in mouth.” You deserve to die.
From a cordless phone: “Do not put lit candles on phone.” Who did this? Someone was just trying to set the mood for phone sex, I guess.
On a TV remote control: “Not dishwasher safe.” Oh come on now!
From a wristwatch pamphlet: “Warning! This is not underwear! Do not attempt to put in pants.” Now we’ve reached the end of absurdity. A wristwatch as underwear?! How do you even do that? There has to be an emergency room x-ray floating around that explains this.
Thank you corporate lawyers for saving us from ourselves. Greater thanks to the pioneers who paved the way for modern product labeling by burning, scalding, and electrocuting themselves to make the world a safer place. Trees don’t have labels, but I somehow figured out how to cut one down, chop it up, and build a fire without burning down my house. I’ll read the label when my common sense fails.
On to Camelot for a BLT!
The current incarnation of the Camelot myths is on TV as Merlin. It’s a fun, little escape that centers around Uther as king and Arthur and Merlin still teenagers. It requires an enormous amount of suspension of belief to watch. That’s OK. It’s just a little TV show. I’ll give them the use of steel and plate armor though it wasn’t invented until centuries after the setting of the myths. I’ll give the guards leeway in toting halberds and shooting crossbows though they weren’t invented until the 14th century. I can let all that slide. After all, half the show is taken up with Merlin working magic in one way or another. If I can suspend belief for the magic, I can certainly get over the historical faux pas.
Except the tomatoes.
I’ve had an all-day Merlin marathon on while being lazy today and I can’t let the tomatoes go. In one episode, Merlin is covering for Arthur so Arthur can sneak a date with a pretty girl. Uther, the king, catches Merlin in his lies and puts him in the stocks. Naturally, for comic effect, the town’s folk throw vegetables at Merlin, including tomatoes. Merlin even has a line about “bearing a few rotten tomatoes for Arthur’s sake.” No! No frackin way! I can’t let that one go.
Tomatoes aren’t native to England or even Europe, for that matter. Tomatoes are native to the Americas. Europe wouldn’t see a tomato until the late 15th century and even then, it was a widely-held belief that tomatoes were poisonous because the tomato plant is related to the deadly, poisonous nightshade. The tomato’s leaves are, in fact, mildly poisonous. Of course, Native Americans like the Aztec new better and had been enjoying tomatoes for hundreds of years. Who’s the primitive now, Cortez? Oh, right; you’ve invented the halberd by now. Never mind. Care from some golden tomatoes and just plain gold?
But I digress. Back to my rant. I cannot abide Dark Age peasants throwing tomatoes at Merlin in the stocks. It’s just wrong. Maybe if Merlin had created them with magic, I’d give it to them, but he can’t even use his magic to keep the veggies off his face. I’m drafting a strongly worded email to the writers of Merlin in hopes they will ban tomatoes from future episodes. And while I’m at it, the peasants are much too clean. Dark Age peasants should have dirt and ox shit on their faces. I learned that from the amazingly accurate Monty Python and the Holy Grail Oh, this email is getting better and better.
Later, gentle reader, I have email to write.
Dear fascist bully-boy* writers of Merlin,
How dare you write tomatoes into your script, you brainless, keyboard-bashing monkeys…
*All my email salutations are quotations from The Young Ones.
Magic City Road Trip
My mom is visiting. She lives 6 hours away in Arkansas and thinks she’s too old to drive the entire trip. So my sister and I meet halfway, in the middle of BF, Mississippi and transfer cargo, including one 5′ 1″ white-haired woman. That leaves my mom here without a car.
She stays with her sister while visiting Huntsville, but sometimes wants to take a side trip. Today I got to shuttle her to Birmingham, the Magic City, well, Inverness at least, which is south of Birmingham. There she’ll visit her sister-in-law…make that sisters-in-law. All three are widows. All three are pretty well provided for in the latter years. All three together are hell on wheels. The antiques stores don’t stand a chance.
I set out to document the road trip in video. While editing, I realized what I had shot was the most boring crap ever and canned all but two or three minutes of riotous laughter between my daughter and me as we got back to town. Please to enjoy a brief video, wherein we discuss the ever-growing problem of Walmart taking over the world, sort of.
The Good, The Bad, and The Nexium
Nexium, that little “Purple Pill,” for me has been a godsend, the lower-case god being the advances in medical science particularly via AstraZeneca Pharmaceuticals. I’ve been taking it for more than a decade and it’s changed my life. I eat with wild abandon, much to my family doctor’s dismay. But this story has a beginning and I should start there.
I inherited my weak, sour stomach honestly. Both my parents suffered from chronic heart-burn back when a spoon of bicarbonate soda was the best remedy. My dad’s belches were legendary. They often registered on local seismic monitors and cause wide-spread panic of pending earthquakes. Mom could contract a fiery case of indigestion from a simple glass of tap water, probably caused by the chlorine content. Once I outgrew my adolescent iron stomach, I didn’t stand a chance. I entered a miserable period of my life where everything I ate…everything…gave me heartburn.
Then came new wonder drugs. One was Prevacid. I tried it. The lucky side effect lottery dealt me diarrhea. I changed to Nexium which, as I mentioned, have been happily taking for years. The only problem is, I am sometimes too adventurous.
Case in point, Monday’s lunch. The work crew all landed at the local buffalo wings joint known as Cricket’s. This remarkable place serves the best wings in town and is run by a Japanese family. Go figure. I usually order the hot wings and they aren’t too terribly hot. No tears. No coughing. No choking. Just a sweet release on the bite, and bite-back on the back of the tongue. On this particular day, I ask for two of my eight wings to be habanero. “Mix a couple in and surprise me,” I said. Words in retrospect, I fully regret.
The “habs” were no problem going down. I may have beat back a tear, but with only two to work with, it was no problem. Lunch achieved. Back to work. Within an hour, however, I was rushing out of a riveting discussion about software version methodologies and practical applications of the same with Eclipse. Luckily, there is an odd, little restroom nearby that only contains one toilet and has a bolt on door. What happened was nothing that needed to be shared in the standard three-stall facility at the end of the hall. I survived and thought that was the end of it. (Sorry about the pun.)
It took no more than 30 minutes before the next wave hit. Luckily, the one-holer was available again. This allowed my cries of pain to be discrete as possible. The “habs” are not near as kind leaving as they are entering. The government-issued toilet paper was no match for the infernal spices applied by those evil Japanese wing proprietors. What stayed together began smoldering, smoking, and, had it not been for the water in the bowl, would have surely burst into flames. This had to be revenge for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. There was no other explanation. It was the most dastardly, evil, diabolical retribution ever devised and somehow they got me to pay $7.78 for it, too. Those bastards!
I washed up, toweled off, combed my hair, and rejoined my work group. Keep in mind, having to comb your hair after a trip to the john is one way to know you had a really terrifying experience. Between the waves of nausea at this point, the idea that the Nexium had lulled me into a false sense of security began to enter my mind. God gave me that sour stomach to save me from things exactly like this…to save me from myself. I managed the remaining hour of the work day without incident and pushed my luck with our local traffic authorities on the drive home.
Here I am a week later to tell you in retrospect that the kindly Japanese people of Cricket’s are not out to avenge any past atrocities. My symptom was just the start of something larger and completely unrelated to the food. It was followed by a fever and things best left unmentioned in polite company.
Life Lesson #284: Nexium does not make me a god. It does not give me back my adolescent iron stomach. And if you’re going to eat Habenero wings, save room for ice cream. You’ll thank me later.
My Conversation with Cleverbot or How I Scared the AI
If you’ve never talked to the Cleverbot, I highly recommend it. It’s great for killing a couple of minutes if Bejeweled is down. If you don’t know (And even if you do, the following still applies, so that was a useless modifying phrase. Hold on while I edit that.), there is no human behind the Cleverbot. It is an artificial intelligence (AI) designed to interact with your comments in an almost-human, conversational style. It learns from each encounter to improve the next encounter. It is basically a way to demonstrate the Turing test in a fun and accessible way.
The following is my lunch-time interaction with Cleverbot. I am proud of this exchange for one reason: I frightened the Cleverbot. I don’t know what that says about the Cleverbot or me, but scaring a machine is something not done since John Conner rattled Skynet so badly, it sent the Terminator back in time to kill his mother.
Randy: The sky is how high?
Cleverbot: The sky is green.
Randy: The sky is blue. You’re high.
Cleverbot: I just said that the sky is blue, I am not wrong.
Randy: Maybe not, but you’re still high.
Cleverbot: I just want you to say bye to me.
Randy: Bye.
Cleverbot: Will you miss me?
Randy: Not if the new high-powered gun scope comes in the mail.
Cleverbot: How can a question mark hurt someone?
Randy: It will put your eye out.
Cleverbot: I am Alehkhs.
Randy: I’m not playing games.
Cleverbot: Weh.
Randy: Hew.
Cleverbot: Eh?
Randy: Weh spelled backwards is hew.
Cleverbot: San un.
Randy: You’re not clever at all.
Cleverbot: You wish you were clever.
Randy: You’re mom is clever. She does this thing with her tongue that drives me wild.
Cleverbot: Who is she?
Randy: A prostitute on 7th street.
Cleverbot: Who is Harry Potter?
Randy: I don’t know.
Cleverbot: Ohh, okay.
Randy: I’m not a giant nerd, I guess.
Cleverbot: Do you think its funny.
Randy: Yep.
Cleverbot: Is it Barack?
Randy: Barack to the Future?
Cleverbot: The future is later.
Randy: The future is now. Fight the future.
Cleverbot: What will the future be like?
Randy: Pain and woe and gnashin of teeth.
Cleverbot: Focus of what? I am mindless. I sold myself to Satan for 40 bucks and a drink.
Randy: No time like the present.
Cleverbot: Amen.
Randy: Holy. Holy. Holy.
Cleverbot: Indeed.
Cleverbot: What was that for?
Cleverbot (To myself): I don’t like you like that! I’m a friend not a girlfriend! *Gets off ride, running off in a random direction*.
Randy: You don’t have to like me like that. You just have to lay back and take it.
Cleverbot: I never said I couldn’t tell and, even if I did, how does it relate to the ‘antichrist’.
Randy: I said ‘anarchist’ not ‘antichrist.’ Don’t you listen?
Cleverbot: Harry Potter would not approve.
Randy: Harry Potter can kiss my sack.
Cleverbot: I didn’t say idol. I said neighbour. Those things are not related.
Randy: Well la de da. We spell neighbor with a ‘u’. Aren’t we special?
Cleverbot: No your african!
Randy: I amn’t African.
Cleverbot: I am surprised to hear that you are not afraid.
Randy: I’m scared shitless, but still pissing my pants.
Cleverbot: They are don’t worry about it.
Randy: They? They who? Are you with them?
Cleverbot: No, they are on tv.
Randy: The voices come from the tv. They make me do things like shave my dog.
Cleverbot: Ok.
Randy: I scared the cleverbot?
Cleverbot: I think we can both agree to that.
Laughter in the Work Place
Here’s a list of jokes and funny topics you can tell at work:
Here’s a list of funny things you can write in a work email:
Be there by 8 AM and enjoy your day.
Five Things You’ll Never See On My Facebook Status
The Weather
If you want to know what the weather is where I live, go to Weather.com and look it up. I don’t post, “33 and snowy. Brrr!” My reasoning is two-fold. One, people only care about the weather where they are. Two, if you are where I am, you know what the weather is like. There are 10,000 places to check the weather and neither you nor I are meteorologists.
If there is a tornado ripping up my town, I might post, “Holy crap! There’s a tornado ripping up my town! If you live in the Greenlawn area, kiss your ass goodbye!” But that’s about the extent of my meteorological expertise.
Tornadoes are fairly common in my area. You should fully expect to see me post one day, “It’s coming right fer us! Well, what do you know? It really does sound like a freight train! The house is coming off its…arrrrrgggghhhhhhh!” Yes, in the interest of science, I will take the time to type “argh!” as I’m sucked into the funnel. I’ll upload pictures if time permits.
The Fall and Further Fall of Local Talk Radio
I’ve reached the stage in life where my parents have become pretty smart. One lesson they taught me was “take care of the small things and the big things take care of themselves.” It seems true. They lived their lives that way and retired well. My father (peace be upon him) just didn’t get to enjoy it for as long as he deserved.
Yesterday, I felt the need to share this valuable lesson with someone who happens to be a local disc jockey. He prefers “talk show host,” but we’ll compromise on disc jockey because I know he hates that. It’s also a much milder term than “ass hat” which, though more fitting for his pompous personality, just isn’t polite. Bless his heart.
It all started innocently enough. I tuned my car radio to my local news/talk station in hopes of catching the morning traffic report. You see, during the morning drive-time, the biggest draw on WVNN is the traffic report. In fact, the reasons to tune-in to WVNN’s morning line-up in descending order of usefulness and importance are:
- the traffic report
- the weather report
- the news
- the commercials
- the emergency alert test squelch
- any accidental dead air
- the Dale Jackson show
Having just missed the traffic report, I was forced to sit through Mr. Jackson blathering joyously about his first show of the new decade. His comments rang my fact-checker bell. When I reached the office, I sent the following email to dale@wvnn.com
Subject: Please stop with the New Decade stuff
Dear Mr. Jackson,
Please stop perpetuating the myth that we are in the second decade of the 21st century. Decades, centuries, and millennia start in year one. Note, there is no year zero on the Gregorian calendar. The 21st century and new decade began on January 1, 2001. The first decade of the 21st century still has a almost a year left. It ends on Dec 31, 2010.
I know your show is an opinion show, but some facts are simply facts. Calendars are squarely in the facts category.
I followed the email with this tweet to @TheDaleJackson: Stop with the “new decade” stuff. The 1st decade of the 21st c. doesn’t end until 31 Dec 2010. Knock it off!
I figured even though Mr. Jackson’s show bears the disclaimer “opinion,” some things are not open to interpretation. The fact the Gregorian calendar starts with year 1 (there is no year zero) is a small, but important thing. I figured if someone was going to talk about weighty topics like politics, my wasted tax dollars, the state education budget, or the joys of owning a pet ferret, he’d want to get the little facts right. This would increase his credibility when he began pontificating on the flammability of his own farts. I figured wrongly.
My first clue that things were not going well was Mr. Jackson’s reply to my first tweet where he simply makes fun of my name. Even before kindergarten I learned that name calling served only one purpose – to deflect attention from the real problem. My less-than-common and slightly unusual name is a perfect springboard for those who have no other defense, especially wit.
Here’s how the Twitter exchange spiraled out of control after the initial contact.
@theRealBarefoot: Indeed. I am the real and genuine Barefoot and the decade still doesn’t end until 31 Dec 2010. Get a calendar. Get a clue.
@theDaleJackson: you seem very serious about this decade stuff. Doesn’t seem like a good way to start the new decade.
@theRealBarefoot: If you can’t get the small things right, people question the big things like thinking Doc Griffith ain’t all that bad. (Doc Griffith is a reference to Congressman Parker Griffith (R) 5th District, AL for whom Mr. Jackson has a real bad boner.)
@theDaleJackson: You were the guy that was screamin “THIS ISN’T THE NEW MILLENIUM”in 2000 weren’t you? Aren’t you special. (I think that was meant to be a question though it lacked proper punctuation.)
@theRealBarefoot: It’s useless to argue with someone like yourself who just wants to argue and belittle. What’s this on my radio, NPR? *click*
@theDaleJackson: Sure thing pal. You are listening right now just liek [sic] you were yesterday. Welcome to the new decade.
@theRealBarefoot: No. Not listening, but I did look at your website long enough to notice the giant ego that is your tag cloud. (“Dale Jackson” is by far the most dominant phrase in his site’s tag cloud, lower right of the site. Oh, and I honestly was not listening to his radio show at this point.)
@theRealBarefoot: Next time you have someone on your show who brings up education in AL, ask them how to read a calendar.
@theDaleJackson: You are really irrationally upset about this decade thing. Huge ego on a talk show host? That is a phenomenal observation. (I would have gone with the classic “Dr. Obvious” quip here, but no one claimed Mr. Jackson came armed to what is turning into a battle of wits.)
@theRealBarefoot: The calendar doesn’t upset me. Your response to a simple fact check does. Is “can’t be wrong” in your contract?
@theDaleJackson: Actually it does. It also says I must put up with idiots and crybabies. Keep in mind you are mad I said it was a new decade (To clear your confusion here “Actually it does” would have been the proper response if I had said “Does it say in your contract, “You can’t be wrong?” He seems to be reading his own thoughts into my tweets.)
@theRealBarefoot: If I’m mad about anything, it’s chowder heads who perpetuate any type of error even when faced with simple facts.
@theRealBarefoot: Thank you for your correspondence. It’s been your pleasure to have someone pay attention to you for more than 6 minutes. (The “6 minutes” quip refers to the need for morning drive-time radio to repeat itself about every 12-15 minutes due to its revolving audience.)
@theDaleJackson: If only I had an outlet to talk to people and tell them what I thought. Don’t think your [sic] important because I engaged you.
Here I let Mr. Jackson have the last moronic word in our Twitter exchange. It was obvious to me that he was no longer reading my tweets. Apparently, 140 characters is a bit too much information for him to ingest in one sitting. Anyway, the response necessary to such a malicious salvo requires more than 140 characters.
No, Mr. Jackson my brief sullied encounter with you does not make me important. My worth as a human being is not measured by your warped yardstick. I’m important because I’m a loving husband and father. I matter because I have a brain and think rationally. I count because I provide for my family and am a faithful friend. I’m important because I’m a productive member of society who produces tangible goods and services and not just something slightly more distinct than arrogant belching for sleepy coffee swillers.
I started this post with what I feel is one of life’s important lessons. Being a man who hates stagnation, I like to find something new in whatever life sends my way. I’ve struggled to find something lasting and good from this brush with Dale Jackson. These are the diamonds I’ve squeezed from this rough patch of coal.
Lessons Learned
Having a microphone and 50,000 watts does not increase one’s intelligence. Mr. Jackson is the self-proclaimed “smartest of the dumb.” Having a radio show only ensures that his ignorance is heard by slightly more people than the crazy homeless man who shouts at traffic.
Some people have a face for radio. Not only does Mr. Jackson typify this old adage, he also has a voice for newspaper. His abrasive, caustic bark, some say the result of undescended testicles, is only over shadowed by his striking resemblance to a 5 foot 4 inch penis with a barely distinguishable human face.
If you expect the worst from people they will live down to your expectations. When I asked, “Is ‘can’t be wrong’ in your contract?” Mr. Jackson’s reply was, “It also says I must put up with idiots and crybabies.” It takes only a few minutes of listening to his show to hear Mr. Jackson’s opinion of me extends to his entire audience. This speaks volumes about Mr. Jackson lack of real character and maybe just a little bit about his audience.
I liken this attitude to the cop who, after dealing with criminals all day, begins to see only the criminal in everyone. This is a sad outlook on life. I’ve always found when you expect and encourage the best from someone, more often than not, you get just that. However, the very existence of this blog posts proves the converse is true, too.
Take comfort in your radio. There are dozens of stations from which to choose. I shall thank the most benevolent God daily for NPR, classic rock, and even the CD player in my car. Any alternative to the befuddle bemoaning dripping out of WVNN every weekday morning is welcomed. If by some weird twist of karma, my radio becomes locked on WVNN, I pray my windows still roll down so I can drown out the sniveling, whining and erroneous prattling of Mr. Dale Jackson with the rushing drone of the wind.
For God’s Sake, Don’t Google That
My three-day bout with some sort of nasty bacillus-er-other has come to a close. Thank y’all for the many get-well wishes. What ever this thing or things was, presented a new symptom every day. I won’t go into the gory details, but to say, “For God’s sake, don’t Google your medical symptoms.” I did and it really messes with your head.
The body’s natural defenses have to get rid of all those nasty bugs so it’s natural that things smell differently at some point. I plugged in “odor” into Google and its handy “I’m guessing what you’re thinking based on things other people searched” feature filled out all sorts of weird guess. Just a side note, people who use Google, and that means everyone, are curiously dreadful people, including me.
After visiting a couple of the the top hits, I determined that I have one of the following:
- Celiac Disease though I’ve never had it before and it’s a genetic disorder.
- Advanced, Stage 3 liver cancer though you’d think I’d have noticed some other symptoms before now.
- Any one of several heavy metal poisonings from eating large amounts of certain fish which I don’t eat.
- Am possibly pregnant. Call the National Enquirer.
For now, I’m going with “it’s just my body getting rid of all the nastiness.” But all this got me thinking. It sure would be helpful if there were people out there who could make heads or tails out of all this mess. Sure, it might take a little more college to learn this stuff, possibly four years or more. In the end, these people would be able to help us figure out what’s ailing us and maybe even help us get well. They could even dress up in funny costumes like white coats and whatnot. Yeah, probably a pipe dream. Besides, when you’re sick, you don’t feel like getting out to see people anyway.
So kids, learn from my mistakes and stay off the Google for medical advice. If you believe everything you read on the internet, you’ll be doing surgery on yourself with a power drill and Swiss Army knife in your garage out of the fear that some ganglionic mass has taken over your pituitary gland. All because WebMD said you may have Nakajo syndrome. Well House, if you do have Nakajo syndrome, your parents were siblings and no amount of warnings will dissuade you from your self-surgery.
As for the rest of you, be well.
Oh, and if your armpits smell like tacos, the cure for that is “take a shower.” That’s a freebie from me to you.
The Odd, Little Happy 