I Hate Cancer

There. I said it. I hate Cancer. Don’t like it one bit, and no one can convince me otherwise. 

Moreover, I don’t have it, and never will. That’s just my thing.

What are the benefits of Cancer? None. Even I have some redeeming qualities. I can smoke and drink pretty well. Eat pussy and call it Domino’s or Chung King or whatever. That’s pretty cool. And, I still fuck like a tender bull. But, I hate that Cancer.

Not just because it kills people we love, it steals our enemies, too, making it harder to get our hate on. It’s peacock cocky, that Cancer. Button-popping boaster.

I don’t like how it distracts from more salient issues, like necrotic spider-bites and self-immolation cults. Keeps us from noticing social wasting, and internal organs failing from fright alone. 

It’s always cancer this, and cancer that.

Cancer runs interference against guys with Detached Eyeball Syndrome, and women whose vaginas turn inside out, then slaps between their knees like fleshy bell-clappers.

Vaginas-to-Giant-Uvulas should have their day in the sun.

Fuck Cancer for grabbing all the attention, when there are dislodged eyeballs and reversible vaginas bouncing around everywhere!

Cancer-Cancer-Cancer. It’s on our skin, in our blood and brains, lungs and bones, up our collective asses.

The Cancer blossom’s dormant, today; it shouldn’t be everyone’s middle name.

Even the neighbor has Cancer. We used to enjoy snarling at each other over the fence. The bastard. Now, he wears a hoodie and quietly tends to his koi pond. Wisps of silver-yellow hair betray his head and circle him, while I smoke, and look away. Or look, and smoke away.

But again, I can’t stress this enough: Enough with the Cancer.

Not when Elephantiasis still turns testicles into giant burl picnic tables in Zaire. Anyone up for a hot dog and a game of cribbage? Not when elective shock treatment is on the rise, and Suicide holds the left shoulder of the tortured, tighter than any virtue or vice. Let alone the genocide du jour.

Cancer is a sign-spinner. It keeps our attention, so when someone we truly love is sliced in two in traffic, when gigantic things explode, or children are dismembered… We don’t lose our minds over it.

Spectacular, unusual, souls and civilizations crumble, you bet: The unfathomable distance.

Back to Earth. We’ve always got our Cancer, and life goes on. It’s safe, comforting. We get it. It’s Cancer.

I hate that about Cancer.

And cancer’s all, “Who, me?”

And I’m like, “Yep! Outta’ my way, Cancer. I’ve got a date with flesh eating bacteria… Twins.”