Surgery. It's a miracle worker. It's the Anne Sullivan to your Helen Keller. If you ever have some kind of life threatening issue or just woke up one day, looked in the mirror and felt ugly, surgery can save you from your life-threatening or social life-threatening problems. Aside from living a healthy life and exercising, surgery is really the only chance you have against a premature death and/or obesity. And who's got time for that shit?
Plus, plastic surgery really is the only hope to fix ugly people. Being admired for your looks is something that landing your awesome, high-paying dream job, having respect and admiration in your community, or having those meaningful and fulfilling friendships and relationships can never substitute for. Just look at what happened to Frankenstein's Monster.
Tomorrow morning, at approximately 10/9 central, I will be "dropping" high levels of anesthesia and letting a man I've never met take a sharp object and carve me up like a jack-o-lantern.
A surgeon is pretty much the only stranger that almost everybody will trust to handle sharp objects around them. Well, a surgeon and that
random cosmetology student who assures you she knows what Adam Levine's
haircut looks like and then proceeds to give you a "Blake Shelton" because she only saw The Voice once and didn't realize who was who.
My procedure tomorrow has a 1 in 15,000 mortality rate. And to be honest, I really don't like those odds, since my Mom has always told me I'm special and being 1 out of 15,000 seems way more special than 14,999 out of 15,000. I'd feel a lot better if the mortality rate was like 300 out of 15,000. Because those 300 people would probably just be stupid hipsters who died just to be weird and different. Good riddance.
If you couldn't guess the procedure I'm having done just by the mortality rate odds, then you're probably too stupid to be reading my blog anyway, but I'll just go ahead and tell you. Tomorrow morning, I'm getting a Tonsillectomy and finally getting my big, fat, Greek tonsils out (They're not Greek, for the record). And you know what they say about people with big tonsils...they suck at playing Chubby Bunny.
I've always had the wrong idea of what tonsils actually look like, because the first
time I heard about them was in Little Giants when Junior is telling Ice Box about how his cousin and her boyfriend use their tongues to kiss and he throws out the phrase "tonsil hockey." I will forever imagine tonsils as skinny little
hockey sticks, rather than the big globs of lymphoid tissue they really are.
Even if I survive this procedure though, there are still a lot of unknowns. Am I gonna be able to hit Christina Aguilera-type pitches? I'm talking full vibrato and everything. Will I be able to do that cool, sexy, put a whole popsicle on a stick in your mouth, and then pull out the bare, popsicle-less stick? Will I finally actually sound like Morgan Freeman when I do my Morgan Freeman impression? I already think I pretty much have the best white person impression of Morgan Freeman out there, but people have told me it's awful, so whatever, maybe this will help.
I'm hopeful that everything will go well (and that having my tonsils removed will finally get me down to my target weight for my beach body this Summer). But as I think about this looming Mexican stand-off with death, I feel it is important that I leave my last blog and testament, so that, If I don't make it, my final wishes be fulfilled.
I, being of sound mind and sexy body, do hereby say any legal jargon necessary to make this blog effective. Just throw it in there like a madlib or something:
If I end up in a vegetative state,
[1] My wish is that they will remake Weekend at Bernie's using my body as the "Bernie" character. It should not be a direct remake. But it should essentially be Animal House meets Weekend at Bernie's. My body will play the role of a fraternity president, and the only good apple in a house full of partiers and date-rapists. Our fraternity will be come under Panhellenic review (you can tell I have no idea what I'm talking about when it comes to Greek life), because of all these allegations, with the chance of losing our Greekdom. The character I play will accidentally die at a raging party when he finally lets loose just before the "Big (Feta) Cheese" comes to do the review of the fraternity. Being the only responsible one, I agreed to meet with him and show him why we shouldn't lose our life-sized John Stamos bronze statue to those dicks from Sigma Chi and should not be dis-Greeked from Greek life. And that's when you just do Weekend at Bernie's shit with my body.
[2] It is also my wish that if I become a vegetable, I am never to be used in a "Harlem Shake" video, unless upon the sudden cut where all the weird stuff happens, somebody is desecrating my body in the foreground. Like a stripper just dry humping my vegetable body in bed. And I should also be dressed up in a vegetable costume for some witty social commentary. Preferably a carrot or broccoli.
[3] If it is possible, I would like some of my still good sperm to be jarred and saved and used to create a baby, so that somebody can tell a kid his father was a vegetable. I would then be able to consider myself the literal inspiration for Onion Dad. "Just a single father with BO, trying to find love and raise his family. Onion Dad, coming this fall to network television." #OnionDad
[4] I would like my veggie body to be visible in a porno. And I would also like to be credited by my porn name, either Baby Carrots or Rigor Mortis, depending if I'm brain dead or just plain dead.
[5] Because I am a vegetable, it is also my wish that a vegetarian will be forced to eat some of me. Please Youtube the results so future generations can see how big of pussies vegetarians are.
If I die,
[1] I would like to be half buried and half cremated. I don't really care which halves.
[2] Regardless of whether these are actually my final words or not, I would like my last words to be something climactic, like "I said it once, and I'll say it again . . . ." Dead. So everybody's wondering what I was going to say. That way, I can have like, a thousand different final words all based on interpretation.
[3] I want my funeral to have a choreographed dance number akin to My
Chemical Romance's music video for Helena. I'm serious, if you can't
fucking dance or learn dance moves, do NOT come to my funeral.
[4] I will leave $1000 of student loan money to the first person that spits on my grave. $2000 to the person that knocks that motherfucker out. Do not come up with some scheme where, oh I'll hit you sort of hard to make it believable and then we split the money. I will know, and I will haunt you forever. Which reminds me, I would like to be a ghost for a few years. So I need some like unfinished business here on Earth for my spirit to need closure on before I can pass on to the other side. If somebody can really wrong me in the next 24 hours so that I can not forgive them and have that be my thing, that'd be fantastic.
[5] And I would like everybody I know invited to an event where all of my personal belongings are raffled off lottery-style to them. A winner will be chosen for each item, and then the items will be burned right in front of their faces. These are my things. Not yours. And if I can't have them, nobody will.
I'm pretty sure that's it, but I wanted to let you all know something important in case anything really does happen tomorrow. I hate every single one of you.
