My last taco for a week
First of all, a big thank-you to Tammy, who sent me a bunch of excellent hats and a Neil Gaiman book and some wacky Canadian chocolate bars (Eat-More? What tha?) all the way from British Columbia. You’re a peach!
Meanwhile: Monday, I am sorry to say, kicks off another chemo week for me. As usual, you can expect posts and emails to be nonexistent, or irregular, or at the very least stupid for a few days while the poison knocks me on my entire milky-white ass. My oncologist has thrown everything she’s got at my predeliction for Xtreme Kweez, but in the end has thrown up–pun intended– her hands and deemed me A Puker and that’s all there is to it.
Speaking of pharmacology: if you’re like me–and of course you are–you can’t turn on your computer these days without reading about some nutjob pharmacist who won’t fill some poor schmo’s prescription because it would kill the Baby Jesus. I just read at Pandagon about some asshole who, anecdotally, refused to give a woman her fucking Valtrex because "God is punishing you for your sin."
When exactly did pharmacists morph into a tribe of insane judgmental godbags storming the countryside, refusing to pharm? Has the profession been infiltrated by fetus-lovin’ drugophobe terrorists whose ultimate goal is to stop entirely the flow of medications to sick people? Because, as Shakespeare’s Sister astutely points out, how do they know God has stopped at merely sticking women with herpes for the crime of getting laid? What if He sometimes issues, say, cancer as punishment for other, non-pussy-havin’-related misdeeds? "And if he does," she wonders, "how do the pharmacists know whose prescriptions to rip up and whose to fill?"
The answer is: naturally God rewards his adoring pharmy minions with what they want, so he skips over the boring shit and only tells’em about the lurid sex lives of unclean women. And it’s a damn good thing, too, because I suppose you might say I’ve committed some pretty sinny acts in my day, such as hubris, and gluttony, and coveting my neighbor’s wife, and if the pharmacists knew that God had given me cancer to punish me for this stuff, I might never get my stool softeners.