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A radical blogs his wife's mastectomy. Thanks for the mammories.

2/26/2009

The difference between a contemporary radical's flop and the old sixties-type pad is that instead of the rooms being carpeted with nothing but stems and seeds, nowadays a thin white film of ground up oxycontin and vicodin covers everything. It got so bad that I had to borrow the hotel's Orek just to clear a path to the bathroom. And I ended up cramming half a bottle of my Adderall in the crevice tool just to keep the damn thing breathing. Right about then I figured it was time to go.

While maddmom dozed in the recliner I collected all of the left over pamphlets, dog-eard copies of Nozick and the macrame portrait of Ayn Rand madmmom made out of her leg hair. I stapled what I could to the walls in a rough outline of the dollar sign, then piled the rest into the garden tub, poured in the remains of the six bottles of rubbing alcohol we brought with us and was about to throw in a match when there was a knock on the door.

The knock startled me enough that I yelled to maddmom to get the damn door, she yelled back that 1, she can't use her arms, 2 she's stoned out of her mind, and 3 who the hell do I think I am anyway waking her up like that after all she's been through and can she get a glass of water and what time do we need to be at the doctor's and what the hell is all that dust on everything?

I didn't answer maddmom, but I did answer the door. Only to find a couple of Armani-wearing mortgage brokers selling re-fi's to support their German car habit. I told them that there was a bathtub full of credit reports but the power was out, so they'd need to rad by candlelight. As they started their low-speed shuffle though the clouds of narcotic powder, I collected maddmom, her pills, her bandages and her recliner, shoved them all into the back of the Kia and floored it. Only several hundred feet down the best roads your tax money could buy I heard the muffled "thump" that meant someone had just got to the Wilt Chamberlain analogy.

A quick stop at maddmom's plastic surgeon confirmed the fact that she was healing very well, and that I have a large and unsightly mole on my right cheek that could be fixed if I wanted. I told him that anyone can do a nice set of boobs, but that I'd wait until the Federal Government guaranteed quality before I let anyone take a scalpel to my face. You know, because they did so well with peanut butter.

Later that day, maddmom and her new foobs, my mole, and myself finally made it back to the McMahonsion where our tax deductions greeted us with open arms. We were glad to be home.

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