Anotherday, Jesterary 9, 40 A.B.

    Like many women, my wife has a chin.  Unlike most, she now also has a small lump on the underside of it.  Although it feels smaller than a pea to me, she swears it's actually at least the size of an old AMC Pacer.  In my estimation, it's silly to bother the medical establishment with a swelling so insignificant.  My wife, on the other hand, thinks something must be done before the thing starts honking or attempts to parallel park between her ears.
    In olden days I suppose we'd continue to debate the proper course of action until the growth in question either shrunk to insignificance or got big enough to go out into the world and fend for itself.
    Thank goodness we now have the Internet to guide us.

    I'm not sure exactly when or where my wife first met Dr. Anthony online, but I'm sure glad she did.  Now, instead of wondering how much we should worry about neon blue urine or the acquisition of Russian Berlitz tapes by the voices in my head, she can just log-on and get expert advice any time of the day or night her doctor friend isn't busy taking the temperature of the various adult chat rooms.
    Thank goodness she managed to get hold of him Friday night before she mistook the cat's laying on her stomach for the Pacer's having slid down her throat and crashed into her spleen because of bald tires.

    "You probably have nothing to worry about," Dr. Anthony assured her after deciphering her sob-distorted description of symptoms.  "In all likelihood, it's just an ingrown tooth."
    "But I have enough trouble flossing as it is!" she typed furiously.  "How am I ever gonna get that damn waxed string past my 36DD saliva glands?!"
    "Well, if you're lucky, it'll actually turn out to be a parasite's nest egg," he hastened to allay her concern.
    "WHAT?!?!" I heard her type even from the porch of the neighbors where I was busily trying to save them from having to read a newspaper I had no proof they had actually paid for.  "What kind of parasite?!?!"
    "Parasite?  Silly me.  I meant to say 'rogue fingernail'," he corrected himself.  "Sorry, but I first learned about those two problems in medical books shelved so close together in the library, I still sometimes confuse 'em."
    "How could a fingernail get all the way to my chin?" my wife demanded to know.
    "It's really nothing more than a really bad ingrown nail," he patiently explained.  "The nail simply ingrows so much, it actually pulls itself out by the roots and goes floating through the body.  A friend of mine once had one end up on the top of his skull.  After that, whenever he came across a problem that really stumped him, he didn't have to raise a single finger to scratch his head."
    "What else could it be?!" my wife asked in desperation, fearful that her fingers would find something much worse to do in the face of difficult problems if they didn't need to scratch her head.
    "Well, the absolute all-time most common thing a lump under the chin turns out to be is an ectopic pregnancy precipitated by an especially errant sperm, but if that's the case, you probably would have felt it kicking by now," he revealed using his best graveside manner.
    "I DO have a new eye tick!" my wife exclaimed.
    "Is that bad?!?! IS THAT BAD?!?!"
    "No, no - sorry.  Just learned that the temperature of the adult chat room I'm in is decidedly hypothermic.  Need to go rub some snow on my ego before frostbite sets in.  BRB."

    "Well, at least you know it's almost certainly not a Pacer," I tried to console my wife this morning as she continued waiting bleary-eyed for Dr. Anthony's return.  It having been a mild winter, no telling how far he might have needed to go to find the snow he was looking for.
    "What if it really is a parasite's nest egg?" she muttered without taking a single eye off her screen.  "What if it's one of those missing Y2K bugs that's decided to reproduce just inches from my only mouth?!"
    "Guess you'd finally stop worrying about that silly little chin hair of yours only you can see, eh?" I took a wild stab.
    As she tore into me, fang and claw, I made a note to myself to ask Dr. Anthony how one might convince all her teeth to become ingrown ones, and all her nails new residents of a place far, far away from her fingertips....

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Just Might Be Guaranteed To Every
Hurting Man And Hypersensitive Woman
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(©Now by Dan Birtcher over the sounds of his own screams)