You may want to sit down for this. Ready? Okay. I HAVE
TINGLING THIGH SYNDROME. But hold on… everything’s going to be fine.
Okay… okay… stop crying already. It’s not that serious. Look,
you’re… you’re hyperventilating. Breathe into this bag. Seriously,
this is getting annoying. I’M NOT GOING TO DIE! So get it together for
the love of Christ! According to doctors, Tingling Thigh Syndrome is
completely curable—that is, if I choose to pull off my
pants.
Let me explain: For years I have suffered from a mysterious
“tingling” sensation in my thigh—as if a phantom cell phone was
vibrating in my pocket. I attributed this phenomenon to one of two
causes: (1) thigh cancer, or (2) since my groin is a squirrel’s nest of
sexual energy, my thigh was the recipient of “runoff” or residual
horniness. Remarkably, however—and this rarely happens—BOTH
of my theories were completely wrong!
According to a story I read on MSNBC.com, what I actually have is “Tingling
Thigh Syndrome” or in technical doctor-y terms, “meralgia
paresthetica,” which refers to a tingling or burning sensation in the
thigh when undue pressure is applied to the lateral femoral cutaneous
nerve. So what’s causing this pressure? NO, IT’S NOT MY PENIS (which
was my first guess, too)… IT’S MY TIGHT JEANS!
Apparently my skin-tight trousers not only are accentuating my
God-given gifts but also are putting my thighs to sleep. Therefore, the
obvious solution to my malady would be to take off my pants, right? OH,
YOU WOULD LIKE THAT, WOULDN’T YOU?
Well, let me tell YOU something, Buster Brown! There is no way in
H-E-double hockey sticks that I’m giving up my painted-on pants. Why?
Because I care about the mental health of the freaking world, that’s
why! In case you’ve been living underneath a rock or something, my ass
has often been referred to as a “honey-baked ham” and my “sweet ‘n’
juicy” and “deemed a model of structural perfection by the department
of mechanical engineering at MIT.” Now how do you think the world would
react if I were to peel off the jeans that perfectly encapsulate the
awesomeness of my hindquarters and begin wearing the same, ugly baggy
pants sported by frat boys, circus clowns, and the clinically insane?
IT’D BE ANARCHY, GODDAMMIT! ANARCHY!!
(Oh, while we’re on the subject of medicine, you should totally
check out a new “dramedy” debuting this Monday at 10:30 pm on Showtime
titled Nurse Jackie. It stars Edie Falco—Carmela from
The Sopranos—as an ER nurse who goes to bizarre lengths to
ensure her patients are treated right, while simultaneously maintaining
her addiction to prescription pain meds. It’s funny and dark and makes
those other hospital shows look like a colostomy bag full of old-person
gravy.)
Now where was I? Oh, yeah! ANARCHY!! So unless I’m
planning on doing some serious porkage, these nerve-damaging jeans are
going to stay right where they are, doing what they do best, which is
to say making my junk look like a million bucks, decimating my sperm
count, and cutting off all feeling below my testes. I’m doing it all
for you, world! Hope you appreciate it.
