Lights!!! Action!!! The Aristocrats!!!Cancer!!!

The Aristocrats is set up with a guy pitching an act to his agent, weaving a complicated and very often disgusting tale of debauchery, with layers of comedic one-upmanship, piles of repulsive detail, additions of insult upon injury. Essentially, the goal of the joke is an attempt to out gross and break all known barriers of decency, ultimately ending with the agent asking the question:

”And what do we call this act?”

The Aristocrats!!!

I thought of this yesterday when my rehab instructor commented to me for about the third week in a row, “Dennis, you look so tired.”

It was said innocently enough, and she was only showing concern, but something broke inside me.

I said, “Well, it could be the cancer.”

Not exactly the Aristocrats, but certainly a conversation ender. A profile in passive aggression. And funny enough, it became a conversation starter.

Well, the cat’s out of the bag.

Of course I’m tired. Actually I had no idea why I was feeling so tired for about 6 months. It wasn’t until little Lump spilled his rotten beans that I now have an actual reason for feeling so tired. I thought I was just getting old. Which I am. We all are. Every day a bit older, a little more forgetful, more fragile, less certain. Vision blurring, hearing loss, a feeling of displacement, increasing sense of foreboding and mild nausea.

Yesterday, I was at a trade show doing my sales thing, trying to be a professional. I made a comment about how the EPA determines the MRL (Maximum Reside Level) for pesticides. It may surprise you to learn that the EPA does not have independent studies, but instead relies on the pesticide manufacturers to set their own limits. The agency appointed to safeguard the environment, gives control to the very companies who profit from the sale of said pesticides. The lesson here is if we are what we eat, then we are a certain percentage pesticide. And while some of it gets pissed away, some of the toxins accumulate, concentrate, to later emerge as a cancerous butterfly.

Part of my job is to review pesticide reports to ensure our organic food is, well, organic. The amount of pesticides that are tested fill about 10-20 pages. You are looking for the two words, not detected. My boss wanted to interview me about this for Instagram. I did the clip, but my God, I looked crazy and half dead as I disjointedly rambled through my rant. My vanity got the better of me later, and I texted her to say that we could do a better version tomorrow. And secretly I hoped she would get distracted and forget all about it. Part of my insecurity was vanity, but honestly, I scared myself as well.

Is that really how I look?

I’m not usually one of those “keep it to yourself guys”. I can be private, but I have limited secret keeping abilities. I try to view most things in life as potential learning experiences. We can only get better I say to myself. We must accept incremental improvements, and not expect cake after every meal.

But then the bloody dam bursts. As Popeye used to say, “I can stands so much and then I can’t stands no more”. And then I feel bad for losing it. I have a hunch that I might be losing it more over the coming months. A sort of a “being in your sixties is like living in the Sixties-you just don’t give a fuck” kind of thing. My normal boundaries are being redrawn like a gerrymandered salamander.

I have always been afraid of expressing anger. My Father, Vesuvius, regularly blew his top in our house growing up. He was never violent, but he was usually loud. Often insensitive. Never afraid to say what he thought even when not saying what he thought was the more prudent thing to do. He never gave any indication that he was holding anything back, but who knows. Perhaps he did hold it back. Perhaps it would have been worse if he didn’t hold himself back.

Anger is like an iceberg. 99% of it lies beneath the surface of the water, submerged, waiting for the occasional Titanic to cross its path. Submerged anger is like planting seeds for future inflammation, clog dancing, and dare I say, cancer. I say that with no medical expertise, but if the shoe fits….

“You want that in a pump or a loafer?”

There is something about holding in your anger that nurtures further suppressed anger. Anger breeds anger. Does repressed anger breed cancer cells? There is a definite link between Type A personalities and heart disease. The Bible states in Proverbs 14:10, “The heart knows its own bitterness, And a stranger does not share its joy.”

I discovered that Gilbert Gottfried had a podcast. I will be checking these out. Here is a classic with Beverley D’Angelo.