Hypothetically Speaking . . .

. . . . . . . . Because Humor Matters

Mam, I Swear It’s Not Herpes … Really!!!

Written By: Humor Mike - Aug• 23•10

One of the best things about having a blog is that you can vent about whatever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want. I guess a blog is kind of like a spouse except your blog won’t eventually divorce you for a younger, more updated model, or call you to ask you to delete various messages because its wife went through its phone and may be contacting you. That rarely ever happens with a blog. Anyway, as those of you who keep up with my entries are aware, I sometimes have issues with acne. When the pimples decide to launch a mutiny on the Bounty, I have absolutely no control over when or where that battle will take place, or how many casualties there will be. The only thing I can guarantee is that the battle will be of immense proportions. I mean, all this time astronomers thought Pluto was a planet when it turns out it was just one of my pimples.

Anyway, against my better judgment, the other day I decided to launch an all-out attack against one that sprouted up on my lip. I know that it is recommended that you don’t pop them, but this zit could have easily taken a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records. It was so colossal that I thought about wearing some form of mask so that I wouldn’t be arrested and placed in isolation or sequestered off onto a private island until some form of cure was developed. After the deed was done, I celebrated my victory against the zit and went on with my night. However, the following morning, the pimple retaliated by becoming very red and inflamed. In a fit of delusion, I assured myself that it was going to be ok. No one would even notice it. I mean, who would really be looking at my top lip that hard? And isn’t that shallow of me to just assume that out of everything going on in the world, someone would give my lip, of all things, a second glance? Seriously, who do I think I am? It’s not like I’m Justin Bieber or somebody. I didn’t have any video or photo shoots scheduled that day. Geez. The nerve of me.

A few hours later while I was at work, aside from the tingling sensation I felt every now and then, I’d completely forgotten all about the blemish. That afternoon, my HR manager stopped by my desk to ask a few questions. After we’d finished discussing something very important…like American diplomacy or something, his eyes zeroed in on my lip. As if I were psychic, I knew exactly what was coming. “Is that herpes?” he asked. I could have died. In fact, I think I did die. After explaining that it was obviously just a pimple that I’d popped the day before, he eyed me suspiciously, ended the conversation, and fled to the safety of his office as if my zit was threatening to reach out and touch someone. After being asked that exact same question several more times throughout the day, I became so self-conscious that I wanted to extend my hand and start each conversation with, “Hi, I’m Michael. And no, it’s not herpes.” Instead, I decided it would be a lot easier to just buy a t-shirt or bumper sticker that read, “Silly rabbit, it’s just a pimple.” Unfortunately, there is no such thing. Thus, I’m using my blog to tell my two readers to spread the word—although I probably shouldn’t use the term “spread” when referring to either acne or herpes.

Speaking of pimples, on a completely unrelated note, you guys are going to be so proud of me. I’ve been hitting the gym. Actually, I’ve been in the gym several times over the past few months, but I’m not sure if I can count the times I only went to use the restroom, or the times I went to steal paper towels because I’d run low. However, if we only count the times that I physically used the equipment for something other than to lean on, then let’s see … five times a week … four weeks … ok, I went once. Hey, you have to start somewhere. Starbucks wasn’t built in a day. Anyway, so I’m at the gym and I’m lifting … ok, playing with the dumbbells, when I get this crazy idea that maybe I should try bench pressing. My momma always told me that I could do anything I put my mind to. Well, after a 20-minute pep talk and some vigorous stretching, I’m happy to report that I did successfully move the 125-pound weights a few inches before succumbing to extreme exhaustion. Actually, I’m not sure if I really moved the weights, or if it was all in my head. Regardless, I’m giving myself an A for effort and I’m sure that next time I’ll be able to lift the weights completely off the rack. Believe me, if I can do it, you certainly can too. Except you should probably start with a 5-pound weight and work your way up slowly. Everyone isn’t as strong or as physically fit as I am and I don’t want you to hurt yourself while aspiring to be like me. I look out for my readers.

Moving on, about a year ago, I did a blog entry on turning 30. Admittedly, the article was a tad bit dramatic—which totally isn’t my style—and it chronicled my preparation for a walker, wheel chair, and my joining an assisted-living community. I may have even touched on the joys and wonders of being able to order senior citizen discounted coffees. I probably also mentioned the aches in my knees when it rains and my buying stock in the Ben Gay Corporation to ensure that they’ll always keep the arthritis ointment coming. As proof of my belief that I’m old and decrepit because 30 is the new 80, a 26-year-old recently confirmed what I believed to be true all along. Forgetting my age, he explained that he was in a hurry to accomplish his goals “because at 30 you’ve already lived your life.” Thus, as I stare down the barrel at 31, it was probably a huge shock for the 26-year-old to see me, a senior citizen, without a cane and breathing without the assistance of a respirator. If you ever want to find out how ancient you really are, just ask someone a few years younger than you for a true assessment. Oh yeah, and if you happen to be over 21, you may just want to go ahead and look into burial plots. I’m just saying. Tomorrow isn’t promised.

In other Michael news, because I’ve recently devoted an entire day to watching old reruns of Top Chef, I’ve now decided that I want to learn how to cook. Trust me, I’m sure that I can sauté a mean Cheerio if I would just put my mind to it. Imagine a dish named after me. The Michael, or La Rochelle, or pickled Williams. As a matter of fact, why stop there? I wouldn’t have to just have a platter named after me. I could open my own restaurant. I’ve already got the theme all planned out. Picture this. An all-you-can-eat Hamburger Helper buffet. I’m going to give you a moment to let that marinate. See, I already know the cooking terminology. Genius, right? I’m surprised no one else has come up with this idea already. I could start off small with like a little stand in a park somewhere. Maybe near a school. Children love Hamburger Helper. Then I can expand and go global. I could put McDonald’s right out of business!!! That does it. I’m turning in my two weeks’ notice right now so that I can be an entrepreneur. I could rent a billboard in Times Square. And who knows, maybe Oprah, Barack, and Julia Roberts will show up at my grand opening. Look out world, Michael Rochelle is on the rise. If I were you, I’d go on and make reservations now.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.justmichael.net
Find me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1

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