Dikeasaurus Rexi

I think mono is probably the best equivalent we modern day teenagers have to being put under a mystic spell, one with intense paralyzing, life-altering qualities that even the sweetest of mind-altering drugs lust after. My whole life went on sabbatical for about two weeks, which has been, needless to say re-fucking-donkulous. I'm struggling now to get things back on track, but its much akin the process of uprighting a train that derailed and charged into a depressing metaphor. Those sort of trains are extremely difficult to rehabilitate, as most of their juicy, crisp hulls have been cracked and eroded by pound upon pound of cylindrical simile pressure. The sheer weight of an extended metaphor is enough to drive a man mad when bolted to the base of his skull, but imagine yourself as a train, struggling to breathe in an already congested world of gears and shiny knobs, only to crashland in a world of literary destruction. That's the only situation comparable to having mono, and it's not even a logical analogy. Trying to imagine the afformentioned situation, even with all of my cadent, penetrating descriptions, is like slamming your dick in a door while slicing both wrists with the Gilette Mach 3 stapled to the side of your mouth. Believe me, a move like that takes class.

I don't want to make you sad about my condition, but it's fucking insensitive of you not to be. I don't care how casually you read this blog; any amusement you derive from it without polishing my ego or genitals would be considered an unbalanced, nay, unethical transaction, punishable by any true American court by death. Grand theft it is, the same kind of ruddy wheelings and dealings that one might perchance to witness upon entering a side alleyway of a Morrocan bazaar, not one of the few sacrosanct refuges of honest wisdom on the information superhighway. Your sickening display of deceit would make me gag, however, under my weakened conditions, such preliminary vomitory measures would indeed make chunks spew forth from my person, all over Elvira, my homemade computer. She doesn't deserve that kind of indignity. None of us do. But you call it upon yourself, gentle reader. For every box of Nyquil-Infused Chocolates I don't receive, you bring yourselves down to the commonest level of filth that stride the streets we fear to tred, the basest of debauched characters, the kind of scum whose feet even Christ would be reticent to wash. That's you---in a nutshell. And what a crusty, semen-blasted nutshell it is.

Of course, I forgive you. It's not in my nature to do otherwise. I'm a kind and benevolent soul, much akin to Francis of Assisi, a man who spent so much time fondling animals in the wild that the Catholic Church canonized him. Being men of decency, generally accepting of molestation of creatures smaller than themselves, the Church announced its newest saint to a flourish of venerating cries. "Hip, Hip," the crowd shouted, "Hip, Hip." The people of CatholicChurchTown were united in their agreement---men of great character love animals, whether spiritually or physically. It was at this time when the town's famous Donkey Wrestling Ceremonies were born, replacing the flash-in-the-pan public beatings of Spaniards. The DWC's as they were called, were soon overtaken by Donkey Beating Ceremonies (DBC's, for short), followed by the Donkey Loving Ceremonies, and finally, the Donkey-Spaniard and Friends Enjoyment Hour. At that point, the people agreed that they were beating a dead Irishman (a common CatholicChurchTown expression, dating back to the previous year) and that many of the Enjoyment Hours pandered to a blue, degrading perception of entertainment likened in recent years to the efforts put forth by Mad TV. The people of CatholicChurchTown wished and wished for a new passtime, one that would have enough staying power to delay the inevitable boredom suffered by their previous endeavors. Confused as to which direction to take on their new project, the CatholicChurchTownians realized that perhaps the only person to help them was the one who'd sparked their creativity to begin with: St. Francis of Assisi. Having been dead for near 200 years at the point of his canonization, the townspeople were quick to find that he was unwilling to help them. After desecrating his corpse and setting fire to the gravesite, the townspeople returned home, pouting and kicking soot into the eyes of their families.

After many days of sadness, a man rose from his peers to suggest an idea, one that he'd long kept secreted away in his pants like an oyster containing a human finger.
"Alark!" He shouted (as was customary, at the time), "My mind bursts forth with plenty!"
The townspeople crowded around him, handing him a carrot, as the microphone was long from being invented.
"Are your ears open to suggestion?" he asked, speaking directly into the carrot.
"They are!" the townspeople cried, waving their arms in the sign of a pentagram.
"Well then," the man began, "I believe that our minds and hearts seek something to be our focus! A guiding light who we can hold faith in, when paths become most narrow."
"Perhaps God might light our ways," suggested a small boy with a gammy leg, clinging desperately to a crutch.
"Bullshit!" cried the man, slapping the boy's crutch out from under him with the carrot. "Not in this town."
The people nodded in agreement.
"But who will be such a hero?" asked a fat woman.
"I will find him for us," explained the man. "I know I have the power within me to do great deeds, just like Francis of Assi--er---like another man, who once did great deeds."
The crowd cheered, but then a voice sprang forth:
"Who are you that would be so brave in spirit and slender in hips?"
"I am Belthweasel of the clan of Apes," the man replied, "and I mean to set the world right."

So, early that evening, after finishing his cup of sweet gruel, Belthweasel began his search for a hero. It took him forty-five minutes of wandering around his house in his underwear before he realized that he didn't care that much about finding a hero, and the gruel stain in his skirt was really starting to annoy him. Belthweasel was an ambitious man, but also, he did not enjoy doing things, or having to do things after he said he would do them, or the expectation of other people that he would do the things that he once promised them that he said he would do. It was after painting his toenails and pushing the cat around the house for a few minutes that Belthweasel realized that a solution to his problems was right under his nose.

Using his finest red peasanting pliers, Belthweasel cut the fence to his neighbor's front lawn and led their finest peasanting donkey out of the yard by painting a picture of an attractive female donkey on the back of his head and shaking seductively. After the mule was procured, Belthweasel grabbed his mother's favorite pancho and his ex-wife's gardening hat, and began the construction of the greatest hero the town had ever seen. After adorning the ass with the hat and upper-body-tarp, Belthweasel knelt before his creation, carefully minding the streams of urine pouring forth from its holy rod, and prayed--prayed harder than he had ever prayed before.
"Please," Belthweasel begged, "Please let them never learn my horrible secret."
Belthweasel wept into the night, for despite his hard work, his mother was a Spaniard.

The following day, the crowd gathered round Belthweasel's house screaming and throwing their feces, awaiting their hero. After many hours, Belthweasel came forward, dressed in his finest gown.
"Where is he?" they screeched. "Bring us Barrabas!"
"Silence!" he demanded. "Your hero is right behind you."
Turning in unison, the crowd spotted a visage, the likes of which had previously been reserved for the pages of myth or perhaps a sombrero advertisement.
"Behold," Belthweasel shouted, "Behold DONKEY HOTAY!"

Needless to say, Belthweasel was killed horribly. Yet, upon later inspection, it seemed that there was something inexplicably satisfying about Belthweasel's creation. It was a hero who was not people, yet dressed as people. In this way, the CatholicChurchTownians could relate to Donkey Hotay, but not enough so that they weren't fascinated by the color of his enormous p--pancho. Pancho. But of course, the townspeople were not willing to agree that Donkey Hotay was a hero simply because Belthweasel had claimed him to be. They decided to set a test.

The Mayor, after much deliberation, explained the contest of wits to the town.
"We will set a female baby inside a burning building. Should Donkey Hotay rescue the child, he will be dubbed a hero. Should he fail, he will suffer a fate worse than Belthweasel's. Excommunication from the Catholic Church and a one-way pass to Spain, land of God's mistakes."
The people agreed, and that evening, the ugliest baby in town was placed inside Belthweasel's home and the building set ablaze. Donkey Hotay looked on, saddened by the destruction or perhaps tired from prolonged urination. His truth thoughts are unknown. We do know that Donkey Hotay failed to move from his spot, safely thirty feet away in a meadow, until the fire petered out.
The townspeople were at first dismayed.
"The Donkey Hotay did nothing," they screeched, "He is no hero. He is no hero!"
But the wisest man in town stepped forward and spoke his mind:
"Perhaps Donkey Hotay failed to act, but perhaps his failure to act is the most heroic deed of all. There is no question that the immolated baby was ugly, but perhaps its ugliness was the result of being haunted. And Donkey Hotay saved us from the ghosts, but letting the baby burn to death."
"It seems plausible," decided the Mayor, "But why then did Donkey Hotay not dispose of the haunted child immediately? Why did he wait for us to act?"
"Because he is our guiding light!" cried the small, be-crutched boy. "He has come to show us the way!"
"Of course!" exclaimed the Mayor, punching the boy's throat for his insolence. "Donkey Hotay will guide us to victory!"

Over the next few days, the people threw a festival in Donkey Hotay's honor. There were streamers and goards and wine and it was generally considered one of the three best festivals of that month. Donkey Hotay was treated with berries and masturbation, and many lined up to service the animal in whatever way he might have required.

Suddenly, on the fourth day of the festival at noontime, a retarded man stumbled into town screaming. This was a common sign that Spain was up to no good. Peering over the town's hill into the evil nation of Spain, it was noticed that the Spaniards had constructed the most sinister device ever invented, one capable of capturing the wind's power, and hurtling it in a demonically rotational way.
"I've heard tell of this!" said the Mayor, "They call it a Taco."
"No, you fool," cried the wise man, "This is a windmill. It is Spain's way of thumbing its nose at the beliefs of the Catholic Church and our strict, anti-windmill doctrines."
"Then it must be stopped!" the Mayor declared. "Donkey Hotay, will you not fight for us?!"

The townspeople received no reply to the Mayor's question, but had Donkey Hotay been awake at the moment and not laying on a pile of the elderly, the people decided he would have rallied his spirits, lifted his front legs, and screamed, "TIME FOR THE DEATH OF A NATION!"

After twenty-four hours of planning, the townspeople pushed Donkey Hotay to the top of the hill leading into Spain so that he might gaze upon his conquest.
"Now go, my friend and lover," said the Mayor, "Fight for the good of CatholicChurchTownLand!"
And with that, the Mayor gave Donkey Hotay a mighty shove, a shove that would be remembered forever in the annals of history. Donkey Hotay stumbled forward, then regained his balance, then lost it again, stumbled some more, broke two his legs, toppled on his side, rolled slowly down the hill, smashed against some jagged rocks, began vomiting uncontrollably, and plummeted off a cliff into the nearby river. He was never seen again.
The townspeople sat in silence for a few minutes. Then, slowly a resounding cheer filled the air!
"Donkey Hotay!" they shouted. "He has saved us again! The windmill is haunted and will poison the Spaniards crops! Hip Hip! Hip Donkey Hotay Hip!"

To this day, the town of CatholicChurchTown still celebrates the proud memory of Donkey Hotay by celebrating the anniversary of his festival and publicly beating a descendant of Belthweasel, most likely a Spanish one. In this way, the memory of the hero lived on and the townspeople never more longed for something to fill their hearts with song. They had found it. And it would never leave them.

So, I hope you see that having mono can make you depressed. It can make you feel that the people who read your blog have deserted you. But never fear, gentle friends, not when the spirit of a hero lives on to guide us and strengthen our hearts. When you are saddened by disease or hunger, just remember: Somewhere, in the depths of your soul, there is a Donkey Hotay urinating in all of us.