A RASH OF RASHES

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I have to say that it was a first for me when my doctor looked me square in the eye and said, “Mike, you have to remember – where is your venison roast?”

Believe it or not, however, this actually made tremendous sense, put into context. But, alas, you will have to wait on gobs of backstory before you get to that context.

It all started a few weeks ago when I was getting ready for work. I had showered, and was moving to the next phase, which is putting on clothes. (Let me tell you, the folks at work HATE it when I forget that phase.) Anyhow, as I was getting ready to put my shirt on, my wife looked at me and said, “Ewwww.”

Now, while it is true that I am only slightly less pale than a gecko and that my physique resembles that of a sick flamingo, I can honestly say that my wife has never actually let on what she thinks of my Andy-Dick-like body.

So I asked her what, exactly, she meant my “Ewwww.” “What is that under your arms?” she replied, her nose still turned up.

I immediately swiveled towards the mirror to see what was shocking her. I had no idea what I was going to find. Based on her reaction, you’d think I was going to turn and see nude photos of Jesse Helms.

As I turned to the mirror, I saw the source of her disgust was not a disrobed senator (thankfully), but a rather unappealing rash (as opposed to all of those appealing rashes out there, the ones that people make into posters and all the kids hang in their lockers, like The Backstreet Boys). It kind of looked like my underarms were trying to qualify for planet-hood by adding rings. (Editor’s note: Folks, we’re sorry about this. We can only hope you were not reading this over dinner. You’ll have to forgive him, as he is, as best we can tell, an idiot.)

My first reaction came straight from the “Careful-This-Plate-is-Hot-School-of-Thought.” I touched the rash. I wanted to see if it hurt. And, much like the pre-warned hot plate, indeed, it did hurt. A lot.

As the day wore on, the pain grew worse. I finally relented and – can you guess what I did? Were you going to say “you went to the doctor”? Well, you must have forgotten that I am a guy, and must therefore first try some home cures. I figured that a rash under your arm can’t be that much different from other kinds of rashes, so I opted for some athlete’s foot medication. My wife, who wasted valuable moments of the day reading the label, tried to warn me that I should not use this stuff in the manner I had intended. I was not going to be deterred by the lack of entrepreneurial spirit shown by wife. It is my kind of inquisitive nature that had the foresight – nay, the vision – to combine peanut butter and chocolate. This could be the single greatest medicinal discovery of all time!

Folks, let me be the first to tell you – if you ever have an underarm rash, and you get the bright notion to dab a little athlete’s foot ointment on there, save yourself some time. Take an iron, turn it up to “Center-of-the-Earth Hot,” and apply it directly to your flesh.

About 30 minutes of intense screaming later, the pain began to die down. At that point, Mrs. Know It All came into the room and said, “So, you think you ought to go to the doctor now?”

I caved and went to my doctor, so that she could give me the “correct” diagnosis. She took one look at it and told me that I was having an allergic reaction to something I was wearing. I told her that the newest piece of clothing I had was about four years old, so I seriously doubted that. That is when she related the story of someone she knew who once had intense bruising on her leg. She asked the person what had happened. The response – no clue. It was a mystery bruise. Absolutely no cause whatsoever. Just appeared one day. Case closed.

Then, about two hours later, my doc gets a phone call. She answers, and the person says, simply, “Venison roast.”

“Excuse me?” my doctor replied, probably thinking she was getting an obscene phone call intended for Bambi.

“Venison roast. It just occurred to me that a few days ago, I opened my freezer, and a venison roast fell on my leg! THAT is what caused the bruising!”

That is when she said that she was sure I had worn something new recently, but it was just not jumping out of my memory. “Mike, you have to remember – where is your venison roast?” I sat there for a minute, thinking as hard as my tiny pea-brain could, when it hit me like a falling venison roast on the leg of my memory – “I got a new T-shirt last week!”

“Exactly,” she said. “He’s an idiot,” she probably thought.

She told me how I could easily and quickly take care of the rash. Sure enough, when I followed her directions, which included no longer wearing the T-Shirt of Searing Pain, the rash went away, and my underarms healed up in only a few days. So, the next time you have any problems in life, and you’re memory just isn’t cooperating, just ask yourself, where is the venison roast. And if it’s in your freezer, make sure to move out of the way when it falls.