Testicles, Tests, and the Tyranny of the Mask.
From emphysema to eternal sleep, a sardonic journey through the absurdities of existence.
Well, last time I checked I was still breathing - though it was a while ago now.
You may be aware that I wasn't around to tap away at the keyboard yesterday, and my excuse, tiredness. Yes, basically, I simply fried my brain over the past few days and all I wanted to do was sleep. Though, not that I ever do in reality. Certainly not that anyone would claim to be a solid and nourishing sleep anyway.
My sleep tends to work in bursts, and now that my expiry date gets so much closer as time sprints on, you know - like my life depends on it, and I continue to loiter while waiting for my name to be called and directed to either the green zone for upwards where, I'll be greeted by celestial beings, or, the red zone, where there'll be no further need for central heating, my thoughts wander. Even though, in truth, I believe in neither.
As ridiculous as it may seem, the thought of my eternal spirit waking up every couple of hours instead of enjoying one, good, long, and well-deserved kip finally, does rather put me off death. Even though, conversely, death has many, many benefits covered in previous posts. Like, no bills to pay, idiot protesters to read about, warmongers, politicians, and the ever-increasing price of goldfish food. Or, possibly would be, if I had goldfish. The fact that, despite numerous ill-health inconveniences fuelling my sardonic wit as a form of self-medication, I'm still alive long after I ever expected to be, and, I'm either being continually punished or rewarded for it. Not forgetting there's still the possibility of a fatwah - given my piece only a couple of days ago, outlining the script for a musical called 'The Life of Allan' some people may have felt offended by.
However, getting offended by something is like choosing to step in dog shit instead of walking around it, and why, some five years later, people are still walking around wearing face masks absolutely beggars belief!
Remember the glorious pandemic era, where the only infectious thing was the sheer, unadulterated fashion of the face-covering. Five years on, and the mask, once a symbol of collective survival, has morphed into the must-have accessory for the chronically cautious and the theatrically germophobic. One can only assume these individuals have developed such a hyper-awareness of invisible airborne threats that they can now detect a sneeze on the other side of the planet. Or perhaps they've simply discovered the unparalleled joy of never having to smile at strangers again. Imagine the sheer, unadulterated bliss of grocery shopping without the risk of accidental eye contact!
And let's not forget the endless possibilities for personal expression! Is it a statement of deep-seated distrust in the common cold? A subtle rebellion against the tyranny of lip balm? Or perhaps a desperate attempt to hide the evidence of a particularly enthusiastic garlic bread consumption? The mystery deepens with each passing year, as the mask, once a temporary shield, becomes a permanent fixture for a few, a silent testament to the enduring power of… well, something. Maybe just a really, really persistent fear of dust bunnies.
I recall an occasion back then, when, being the proud owner of emphysema, I was summoned in to see the medics for various tests, where, of course, the strictest of rules were applied and I was forcibly masked up.
"Nurse", I mumbled, through one of those horrible bloody masks. "Are my testicles black?"
The nurse raised my gown, holds my penis in one hand and my testicles in the other.
She took a close look and said, "There's nothing wrong with them, John."
Well, as momentarily enjoyable as it was, I took off the mask, smiled at her and said very slowly.
"Thanks for that, it was lovely. But listen very, very carefully. "Are-my-test-re-sults-back?"
Now, I don't know if it's just me, or not, but the dulcet tones of muffled humanity still baffle. It's a delightful game, isn't it? Trying to decipher the pronouncements of a face obscured by a surgical mask. Each conversation becomes a thrilling exercise in auditory guesswork, a linguistic mime show where you're left to fill in the blanks, usually with the most catastrophically wrong assumptions. "Yes, I'd love a mumble mumble," they chirp, only to discover you've just agreed to adopt a hairless cat named Kevin.
Truly, the art of communication has never been so hilariously, frustratingly opaque. One can only hope that lip-reading classes become a mandatory life skill, or that everyone starts carrying tiny, subtitled speech bubbles.