I have a horror of becoming addicted to pain medications, yet, I also have a horror of actually, you know, being in pain. Six years ago, I had sciatica so excruciatingly painful that it reminded me of a toothache. But further south. And extending down my leg as well.
I was prescribed Demerol because nothing was touching the pain. I took one, passed out, and woke up screaming an hour later. I quickly and astutely surmised, because I’m fabulous that way, if I relied on this drug to manage my pain, I would be in a world of trouble.
Somebody mentioned medical marijuana to me. It really didn’t make a lot of sense, because I thought that a person under the influence would just zero in on the pain, but I was willing to try anything non-addictive.
I got a note from my doctor that stated I was being treated unsuccessfully for unmanageable pain, and the local compassionate society set me up with my first delivery. Some of the names of the herb being offered were The Hammer, The Sleeper, The Munchies, etc. Different strains had different uses. I chose The Hammer. I have to say that after taking it daily for a week, my pain subsided to a degree that I only needed to take it weekly. By the time I enrolled in geek school, I was getting protective of that last surviving brain cell, and went off it altogether.
One of the side effects of this drug is that you see the funny in just about anything. Matters not if you are being rude or making others uncomfortable, oh, no, your mirth, it cannot be contained. Or explained.
I still remember visiting a friend’s cottage, and talking with some younguns around a campfire. One of them was a proud young puppy, just embarking on his career.
He told me he was going to Hamburger College.
And I lost it.
I actually registered the offense he took to my reaction, but I Could.Not.Stop. No, I couldn’t. I tried. Really.
He even explained the prestige of a youngun employed by the Scottish-named fast food place going into the management program called Hamburger College, so that I would grasp the enormity of the situation.
It made me howl louder.
I actually felt bad. I knew he was trying to convince me that this was not ridiculous to him, but rather, a source of pride. I knew he was offended by my mirth.
Each earnest explanation had me laughing harder.
I became rather embarrassed because I couldn’t stop. Tears were rolling down my face, and I was gasping. I left.
It’s been six years since that time, and the sciatica healed up nicely.
Also? I still crack up when anyone says “Hamburger College”.
Note: I was running the bathwater, and crankily picking dark hairs off the soap that Ass Burger Boy swore he wouldn’t use because body wash was more hygenic and less gross, when a knock on the bathroom door forced me to stop the running of the water to hear.
The question: Hamburger College?
The answer: Not a cracking up. More like a Bah, Hamburger.
