First things first, I wanted to tell you how much I love your medicine. Your product is the best weapon I have ever found in the fight against coughs and colds. In fact, nothing else even comes close. But as grateful as I am to you fine folks for everything you’ve done *for* me over the years, I think we need to have a little chat about something you’ve started doing *to* me recently.
Let me tell you a little story.
It all started back in October of last year when I found myself stricken with a horrible bug. I was coughing, I was stuffy, I was aching. You name it, I was probably doing it. So as I always do when situations like this arise, I reached for my trusty bottle of Buckley’s. And as usual, relief was quickly at hand. I wish that was the end of the story. Oh how I wish that was the end of the story. But sadly, as I would soon learn, it was not to be.
Fast forward to a few hours later. Your hero, [that would be me], decides that it is no longer feasible to ignore the call of nature. I slowly crawl out from under my blanket and gingerly make my way down the hallway towards the bathroom. Once there, I set about doing the typical restroom business when it suddenly occurs to me that something is amiss. For a split second I wonder if perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me, but after some careful reflection I realize that no, something is most definitely wrong here, and what it is isn’t hard to figure out. What is somewhat puzzling however is why it was happening. Had I been poisoned by Carin in the climax of an evil plot to take over the blog and the riches that come with it? Had I somehow swallowed battery acid in my sleep without noticing? Or was this just a particularly nasty flu that would stop at nothing to make my life a living breathing hell? It had to be one of those things, and my money was on either Carin or the flu since I don’t much care for battery acid. I find it bitter and the texture really isn’t to my liking, so that was out. I know that’s kind of an odd statement coming from a guy who drinks Buckley’s, but that’s neither here nor there so I’ll move on.
“Carin,” I whisper at the top of my lungs. Hey, my voice was gone, give me a break.
“What,” she replies.
Are you attempting to carry out an evil plot to take over the blog and the riches that come with it?”
“What,” she says again. “You’re telling me that thing actually makes money?”
I laugh for a second before doubling over in a fit of painful coughing.
“What would make you think that,” she inquires.
“Well,” I begin, “how can I put this delicately?” I pause for a moment to gather my thoughts before continuing. “I took a piss just now and something that’s gone through me is burning the bejesus out of my wang and I’m trying to decide if it’s you trying to off me or this goddamn flu just finding another way to fuck with me.”
“I think it’s the flu,” she says, “go back to sleep.”
And go back to sleep I do.
A few hours later it is once again time to evacuate the citizens of Bladdertown, and much to my delight, nothing hurts that didn’t hurt before I walked in. that sure did suck before I think to myself, but at least it’s over now.
Again, I wish that was the end of the story. Oh how I wish that was the end of the story. But sadly, as I would soon learn, it was not to be.
More hours pass, and with them more liquid. I count my lucky stars that nothing is seriously wrong with me or my wedding tackle. Time for some more Buckley’s, I eventually decide. Again, sweet, sweet relief quickly comes over me.
But speaking of sweet sweet relief, I soon start running into problems once again, and I bet you already know what they are, don’t you Buckley’s? You’re smart people, I’m sure you’ve got this figured out by now. Eventually I did too after going through a few of these no Buckley’s no burning cycles, and that leads me to only one conclusion. I hate to say it, but my suffering is your fault. I don’t want to believe it, but there’s no way to explain it away. You Buckley’s, with your pyromania in a bottle, have decided to use the foreskins of the world as your very own personal firey playground of horrors. Come on Buckley’s, just admit it. You can’t hide it any longer. You had to know that one day somebody would get wise to the sick goings on in your factories. You had to know. We men don’t take our penises lightly, and a few of us are pretty good with patterns. Your scheme was bound to unravel eventually, it was just a matter of time.
And I’ll tell you another thing. You’re lucky it was me who noticed this, because most people would waste no time filing an improper labelling lawsuit against you. And you know what? They’d probably win. I looked at your little why does it taste so bad website, and there was no mention of the Liquid Clap that you’re using to play your twisted game of char the wiener. Not one single sentence warning the innocent consumer of the scorching death waiting to strike in every bottle. But don’t worry, I’m not going to sue you, and I’ll do my best to make sure nobody else does either. I’ll settle for one thing. Knowing why you did this. What were you hoping to gain? Were you out for revenge? Do you suffer from rod rage and feel like this is the only avenue you can use to express your feelings? What is it? It’s ok Buckley’s, you can talk to me, I’m here to help. I won’t give up on you. You’re my favourite cold medication. there’s no way I could quit you. Just promise me one thing. If you insist on trying to disfigure people’s genitals while you attempt to come to terms with whatever your problem is, consider marketing some kind of humpable Aloe vera so that those of us who want to support you in your time of need can try to ease our pain too.
Good luck Buckley’s, I’m rooting for you. I want you to get well. I know that staring down your demons can be awful, but trust me, it works.