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Sunday, December 9, 2012

Double swear

I might have invented some new swear words today.

Before you freak and panic - I didn't really.  In my house, "poopy butt" is a swear word.  Yep, we're hard core.  Now back in the day (while I was an unregenerate sinner) I liked swearing so much it was pretty much a hobby.  I liked swear words so much, I used them even when they didn't make any sense.  That was okay since I just put them in a string one right after the other for maximum enjoyment of my total depravity.

Today, if I were a swear-er, I would have won the World Series in swearing against a drunken, angry, grumpy old sailor, hands down no problema.  Instead, since I am not, I usually say the word "swear".  So if I get really  mad and have a self-control meltdown, I might sound like this, "Oh my swearing swearness, swear, swear!"  I find that saying the word swear is just as helpful without the calories.  Now I totally do not advocate that you do this, I am just laying out the horror that makes up my life for all to see so that you can understand the depth of my upset-ness.

Why?  You sayeth.  Pray tell, Daisy, what could possibly be so horrifying?

Three elements: my family, poison and deception.

Now I know you're already thinking back to me saying how I'm so ultra-dramatic that this is something like my kid ate a McDonalds french fry.  NO.  Worse.  WAY WORSE.  And if you know me personally, this is almost like one step before murder so you know it's serious.

Here's how it all started...

I woke up this morning with a sore throat (third day in a row).  My mother is in town and she came in the kitchen to ask me how I was feeling.  I said, meh, throat still hurting.  She said, "Ya know whaaat - you should use that stuff that Dad has.  It kills the sore throat right away."  I asked her what it exactly was, she said she didn't know, just the old stuff from the old days.

What is this stuff, you ask?  It is this spray that has been in a bottle in the medicine cabinet for the last at least 35 years.  I am not exaggerating.  Probably longer.  No, for real.  It's from the 1950's.  (Red flags for keeping something that long, yes, I know, but it pales in comparison to what I'm about to tell you.)  My Dad sprays it on his throat if he gets a rip-roarin'-climb-up-the-wall-sore-throat.

So me, being me, I get the name of it and look it up.  It's called merthiolate.  I say, "Holy cow, Mom, you don't even know what it is and you've been using it forever!"  She replies that back in the day (50s, 60s), if you got strep throat, they didn't give you antibiotics, if you got really bad, you had to go to the hospital and they would paint something on the back of your throat.  She was guessing that it was that stuff.  SO IT MUST BE JUST FINE.

Let's just imagine the worse case scenario.  What could be the worst possible thing that you would ever come in contact with?  Like EVER.  Like on the whole stinkin' planet.  Take a look at the word: merthiolate.  What are those first three letters?

Holy SWEAR!!!!!  

It's FRICKIN MERCURY AND SODIUM.  Also known as thimerisol, also known as the reason for 99.999% of all autism in the United States today, also known as the only heavy metal that implodes brain neurons at levels smaller than minisculemicronliters, also known as you have to call haz-mat and write a public report if you spill one drop, also known as the stuff in thermometers that if broken, you can pretty much evacuate your houses for twelve years and burn it down to fix the problem.

Now.  My Dad is Rambo.  He carried a quartered elk up and down a mountain over several miles (that's a couple hundred pounds a shot, folks), he slalom waterskis at 66 years old from a jumping start behind his boat, and while riding his dirtbike through the woods on trails one day, a stump went through his leg and opened it up so far you could see shin bone - he rode home and suggested that perhaps he might want to go over to the hospital in the same tone if he were to ask if someone wanted to have pizza for dinner that night.  This is the person from whom my siblings and I learned to be tough since anything we did to ourselves would be met with, "Is it bleeding?  Is it broken?  Then quit crying! (optional: or I'll knock you into next Tuesday/or I'll give you something to cry about.)"  This was the guy who, when I brought home my first real boyfriend, had a deer carcass laid out on the kitchen table, blood up to his elbows and a knife fourteen inches long in his hand.  This is the same guy who taught me how to shoot and handle a rifle, shotgun and handgun; ride the dirtbike (that he used to puncture his leg); drive a manual transmission; change the oil; throw a ball (the real way, not like a lame girl with a broken shoulder); and to be mostly fearless.


I would like him to be around for at least another 40 years so I encouraged him to please for the love of God never touch that stuff again.  In fact, I said, don't dump it in the drain and poison your well, maybe just check if FedEx sends things to the moon or Mars.  No, f'real.

So here is my problem.  Who the swear thought it would be okay to suggest people use mercury topically (or internally)?  And perhaps they might like it if I would come over to their house and experiment on them and their family?  Maybe I have a few pieces of lead for them to try on, don't worry, I am pretty sure it even has some copper, too, and if you're looking for trace minerals I've got some saltpeter all up in the mix.  Were the eugenics "scientists" so excited that they had a whole giant baby boom of a population that they couldn't even wait to get their sick little evil hands on 'em and try out a whole bunch of experiments? That's sure what it seems like from over here and it ain't cool (see, told you I was disturbed!  An "ain't" has made an appearance!).

If you know someone who lived in the 50s in America, ask them if they've ever used merthiolate.  Apparently it was "in every medicine cabinet in the nation".  There was another one called mercurochrome that was always right next to the merthiolate, double mercury, yes please.

I'm going to tell you again, just one more time...please.  Please read your labels.  If there isn't a label, look it up.

You never know what's in there!

Peace, love and you better check yourself before you wreck yourself if you think you're gonna mess with my Rambo Dad,
Ms. Daisy 

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