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I subconsciously played with a rubber band on my wrist, pricking my forearm hairs. "I know this isn't what you guys want to hear at four twenty on a Friday", I started in, trying to charm these ancient office dwellers, "but I seem to be having a little pineal gland problem."
"Pineal gland?", Mr. Stanopolus said, his expression suggesting he had been brought up on a diet of unripened lemons.
"Think so", I replied quickly, trying to keep the up-beat rythym working with me.
"Are you sure?" He said, squinting at my general zone, but not really at me.
"Well, It's not a pituitary problem, and it sure as hell isn't the hypothalamus."
"How do you know?" said Ms. Mumph, from behind her copy of The Post. I hate the fucking Post.
They had experience with this, these old-ass skeptical bastards. They were tripping me up, to prevent me from ruffling their otherwise streamline daily schedules.
"Good question”, I set in, rooting my feet into the linoleum, "As it happens, my melantonin count is low and my tryptophan is all over the place. Yesterday it was at 12, today it's at 290."
"290. No. Impossible", Mr. Stano spat out sharply.
"You tell me then, I volleyed, handing him the EIP printout."
"290. Jesus. It’s at 290”, he said. “You'd have to go to ICP."
"ICP doesn't take pineals", I said confidently, having had spent half my lunch researching this very point. Panicked, Mr. Stano and Ms. Mumph sent me through to the Provost of Glands, Mr. Sugar.
"Well", Mr. Sugar said, after grazing his nose across my sheet, "You've definitely got a problem here in that region of your brain. But the level of melatonin in the blood rises and falls on a daily cycle. The peak levels obviously occur in the wee hours of the morning, so we can assume this is a lower than average count, and you had your first test during the late afternoon, so naturally, it will be lower."
"I'd really appreciate it if you would just cut through the diagnosis here and just fix the problem. I'm - I just can't think straight with this."
"I understand. I used to be in your shoes too, or something like them", he said cryptically.
"OK. You didn't here this from me”, he said. “but the truth is, the pineal gland has no known function. If you just take that rubber band you’ve been wearing on your wrist (you forgot about that, didn't you?) you’ll find the pain will subside."
"And that's it?"
"That's it. That will relieve the pain."
He had the well practiced look of honesty about him, and the smiling corners of his eyes made me want to believe him. Well, having no known function to you, I thought. It’s the psycho-metaphysical link between the soul and the body, you cock pimple, Mr. Sugar. I knew he was full of horse shit. But at the time, the social pressure, the difference in our status, my lack of ability to deal with conflict- all these little things built up and caused me to shake his hand and thank him. Some people would have probably whittled him down to the real truth, but I guess I'm not of the right constitution for that.
Date Written: October 29, 2004
Author: Benny Maniacs
Average Vote: 3.625
11/5/2004 John Slocum: Up your ass, qualcomm, that's where all the boys go.
11/5/2004 qualcomm: and what if they do, john? i really don't think that's any of your business.
11/5/2004 John Slocum: except that you're hogging all the little boys. Share and share alike.