Wednesday, April 11, 2012

The Savannah Crud

Treetures, from the show Ugly Americans, doin' it.

If you have ever visited/lived in Savannah during this time of year, you may be familiar with the sickness that some of us locals get: The Savannah Crud, or The Crud, for short. It is a horrific disease that plagues those with allergies in the area, and it is the fault of that tiny crap that we breathe in everyday. Some call it pollen, I call it tremen (tree semen), and it hangs everywhere during the spring, thanks to the Pro-Life Live Oaks that grow on street-sides in the Historic District and everywhere-the-fuck-else. It is the bane of my existence in this city, and I will be happy to leave it, because I'm really getting tired of wanting to stab myself in the face just to release the vat of snot that has been brewing in my nasal cavities. 

To be curt, it is as if the trees are having an orgy and they have bukaki'ed their tremen all over my face.

I hate it.

My face feels as if, during my slumber overnight, it transformed from that pretty, moon-shaped mug of mine into a giant Stay-Puft Marshmallow filled with green and yellow brain jelly. My throat feels like I gave the Devil a blowjob. My eyes, under the pressure of my sinuses pregnant with a high-viscous entity comparable to that of Slimer from Ghostbusters, water uncontrollably. My ears, filled to the drum with that gruesome, globby, green shit have lost about half their abilities, and because of this, I've been yelling at people inadvertently like an old man who does not realize that his grandchildren stole the batteries from his hearing aids. In other words, imagine someone giving you a Wet Willy and forgetting to take their fingers out. My neck hurts, I have a fever, and I slept on a towel last night, so that my pillow may be spared the snotification. 

I want to die. Please.

My remedies for these face-swelling allergies are limited. Benadryl gives me seizures, Over-the-counter allergy medications, with or without the "D" at the end, fail to work, and neti pots scare the crap out of me ever since my mother told me that there are parasites in the water that can get into your brain-cave. What the hell, Mom? My only options that are socially acceptable are to eat local honey and honeycomb, hover over a pot of boiling salt water, or live in a sandcastle on the beach. I can't afford the honey, I will burn myself, and I don't like when sand gets in my britches. My stubbornness and overall awkwardness have closed the doors to a socially acceptable remedy, so I can only imagine that something else can work at a much cheaper price, such as filling the toilet bowl with Epsom salts and giving me a swirly. 

So if you see me, walking around aimlessly, complaining a little bit too loudly about this Treegasm that is happening, and you don't want to murder me, please be so kind as to either throw acid in my face, give me some better tissues than my rug-burned nose can afford, or give me a line of mouthwash to snort. I would really appreciate it, because decapitation is looking really good right now, and I can't do it by myself.

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