Tag Archive for: humor

I See Your Breast and Raise You a Penis: A Word Game

breast versus penis word gameToday, the United States Preventive Services Task Force released its recommendation that women begin routine breast cancer screening at age 50, instead of 40. It has based this on the modest benefit of mammograms versus the harm of overtreatment.

First, let me explain that the study’s idea of modest benefit is a fifteen percent reduction in breast cancer deaths. That number sounds kind of good to me. If I were one of those women, I’d be one hundred percent happy with that.*

And the harm of overtreatment? Cancers might be removed that would have grown too slowly to kill the women in which they are detected. As you can imagine, this is a real drag for insurance companies who have to pay for the procedures when they would be happier to spin the Wheel of Fortune and bet their customers will die of natural causes. And since insurance companies are for-profit organizations, that’s exactly what they do when insuring us.

The other egregious harm the task force cites? Can mammography kill us, as cancer can? No, but unnecessary tests can cause anxiety. Isn’t it so much better for us just not to worry our pretty little heads about it? After all, only fifteen percent of our mothers, sisters, and daughters will be saved. What a tough choice.

According to one statistician, although this will save billions of dollars in health costs, “the money was buying something of net negative value. This decision is a no-brainer. The economy benefits, but women are the major beneficiaries.” I’m no number cruncher, but when did a fifteen percent reduction in mortality have a negative value?

So, what I’d like to do is play a little word game with a New York Times article published on this subject. Wherever there’s a mention of women and breast cancer, I’m going to substitute something else. See if you can tell where:

Overall, the report says, the modest benefit of the exam — reducing the dick cancer death rate by 15 percent — must be weighed against the harms. And those harms loom larger for men in their 40s, who are 60 percent more likely to experience them than men 50 and older but are less likely to have their balls fall off, skewing the risk-benefit equation. The task force concluded that one death by cock rot is prevented for every 1,904 men age 40 to 49 who are screened for 10 years, compared with one prick withering for every 1,339 men age 50 to 74, and one fatal phallus for every 377 men age 60 to 69.

But the new report conflicts with advice from groups like the American Cancer Society and the American College of Radiology. They are staying with their guidelines advising annual knob screening starting at age 40.

The cancer society agreed that man-o-grams had risks as well as benefits but, he said, the society’s experts had looked at “‘virtually all” the task force and additional data and concluded that the benefits of annual exams starting at age 40 outweighed the risks of unnecessary dickectomy.

Private insurers are required by law in every state except Utah to pay for a chubby checker for men in their 40s.

But the new guidelines are expected to alter the grading system for health plans, which are used as a marketing tool. The message for most men is to forgo ensuring their johnsons aren’t killing them if they are in their 40s. In fact, even though exams are of greater benefit to older men, they still prevent only a small fraction of dick cancer deaths.

Researchers worry the new report will be interpreted as a political effort by the Obama administration to save money on health care costs.

Of course, Dr. Dingle Berry noted, if the new guidelines are followed, billions of dollars will be saved.

“But the money was buying something of net negative value,” he said. “This decision is a no-brainer. The economy benefits, but men are the major beneficiaries.”

Do you doubt that if the above were true, there would be a million men brandishing pitchforks and torches marching on Washington right now? You know the answer as well as I do. I’m just being a tease.

P.S. On a serious note, check out this study on digital mammography funded by the National Cancer Institute and published in 2005. Digital mammography is much more accurate in detecting breast cancer in women under 50 and in older women with dense breast tissue than traditional mammography. It saved my mother’s life. I may need it to save mine someday. But even at high risk, my insurance will not cover the computer-assisted exam. The superior technology exists, right now, to save more women. Why isn’t it recommended? Because it’s a lot more expensive than telling us not to worry or to wait to have the inferior test. Statistically speaking, we’re not worth it.

*Update 2018: As it turns out, I was one of those women. In June of 2012, at the age of 47, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was caught early because of a digital mammogram that showed enough detail for a radiologist to see a very small tumor. I’m lucky that my insurance covered the more sensitive test. If I’d had to wait until age 50 to get it, I could be dead now, and my little word game would just be a sad coda to my smart-alecky life. I’m happy it didn’t turn out that way.

Copyright Notice 2018 Magick Sandwich

Magick Monday Manscaping Tutorial

Here at Magick Sandwich, we are committed to the social construct known as pube grooming.

We are proud to see that Gillette supports this cause with its online instructional videos for men. It tells men how to shave their faces, backs and chests. But “How to Shave: Shaving Down There” is our hands-down favorite.

“When there’s no underbrush, the tree looks taller.” Wow. That’s subtle.

Oddly enough, for sheer balls, you’ll have to watch the ad that Schick Quattro for Women is running on televisions across our great nation. Stop over at Bee’s Musings to see the incredible shrinking bushes. I have to say I understand the one cropped to a landing strip and the inverted triangle, but the round and square ones? Kinky. Also, where was the topiary that gets pruned to nothing a la the Sphinx? (That’s completely bare for you laymen out there.)

Schick’s website’s tagline is “Because you never know what might happen between shaves.” Yeah, don’t let that spontaneous standup assignation with a busboy in the restroom at Red Lobster catch you unaware. Pubic stubble? Now that would be embarrassing.

More personal care items:
Fart Filter: Product of the Week
Scrotal Deodorant Wash: Product of the Week

Copyright Magick Sandwich

Armageddon Time

Magick Sandwich is experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by.

I guess it was inevitable that something on my computer would become corrupted. Look who it’s been associating with all these years.

While we are metaphorically stuck between floors listening to The Girl from Ipanema, I suggest you check out the Manhattan Airport Foundation, an organization devoted to converting Central Park into an airport. Complete with architectural designs, proposals for incorporating some of Olmsted’s original works into the concourse and support from environmental groups, it is well-done and a hoot to peruse.

It presents itself in every way as a legitimate site, save for the fact that its offices are located on the 58th floor of a 57-story building. No doubt, many of the more than 85,000 people who signed the site’s petition aren’t in on the joke. You can also hop on the shuttle to its Facebook page and check out the many seemingly earnest supporters of converting Central Park into an airport.

I always thought it would make a great water slide. Six Flags, are you listening?

Prelude to a Love Story

Tomorrow marks the twenty-first anniversary of my first date with my future husband and the fourteenth anniversary of our wedding. We got married on the seventh anniversary of our first date. Marrieds, all together now: awwww. Singletons, puke at will.

But today holds a special significance for me as well. Twenty-one years ago tonight, I was hanging out with my friend Christine near South Street Seaport, chatting excitedly about my upcoming date. We were in a little seating area in front of a bank on Fulton Street, and there were many other people enjoying the night air around us. Those seats are long gone. The topography of that street has changed many times over.

As was usual in the late 1980s, there were scads of yuppies getting drunk in the open air of the Fulton Fish Market. Two of them stumbled up the street and decided they would pick us up. I suppose we should have felt lucky that they chose us. One of the masters of the universe was red-faced and wavering as if the sidewalk were a balance beam. The other, slightly less soused, did the talking.

Christine and I were not in the mood for this interruption. I’m not sure how the conversation devolved to the point where I invited him to “whip it out,” but it did, and he generously acquiesced. Unfortunately for him, whiskey dick cuts across all social strata. His penis drooped between thumb and forefinger like a sad little mushroom cap.

This was too amusing not to share, so I turned to the others sitting there and said, “Look at this! This guy’s showing us his dick!”

I should mention now that Christine had the kind of throaty, bawdy laugh that made all heads turn. It ground activity to a halt in restaurants, blotted out the dialogue in movie theaters and made people fervently hope they were not the target of her mirth.

So at this particular moment, she let loose with a boomer that echoed off the surrounding buildings. This caused everyone around us to crack up as well. The poor guy had at least a dozen people laughing at his diminutive manhood. Wisely, he put it away.

At this point, I advised him that it wasn’t so bad because I was sure he wouldn’t remember any of this the next day at his cushy Wall Street job. He replied, “I’ll make a thousand dollars tomorrow.”

And then I uttered one of the best lines I have ever said: “Oh, yeah? A thousand dollars a day won’t make your penis bigger.”

Needless to say, the gentleman was none too pleased with my statement. He looked for a moment like he would lunge at me. I was trying to gauge his drunkenness. I knew I could easily knock down his friend, who continued to sway, smiling dumbly, apparently thinking things were going well.

Instead, the guy called me a f**king c**t. I find it thrilling to be called that. When a man (or woman) unleashes that word, I know I have hit my mark. My grin must have caught him off guard. After a little more salty language, he lurched away, pulling his friend by the arm. Neither one spilled a drop of the beer in their plastic to-go cups. A few minutes later, a cop walked by, too late to witness the tableau, too late for me to press charges. While carrying an open container of alcohol and flashing is illegal, being a bitch is not. I love this country.

Years later, I related this all to my mother-in-law, finishing with “…and that’s the last penis I saw before your son’s.” She laughed. True story.

Copyright Magick Sandwich

A Peeve

peeve smelly facial tissue
Facial tissue that smells bad: Why?

The manufacturer has to have some idea that you’re going to be using it under your nose.

Why not make sure it smells okay? How hard can that be?

Laws of Selection?

Magick Sandwich Maxipad Mayhem
You’ll often find at least two women surveying this aisle, unable to find their preferred kind. It’s like a menstrual IQ test. Some use game theory, teaming up to locate each other’s style, be it thick, thin, long, winged, scented or singly wrapped.

A product this personal inspires brand loyalty, but are all these permutations necessary? Can individual requirements be that different? I hope it goes without saying that you should not send your man on this errand. That constitutes cruel and unusual punishment, without a doubt.

Copyright Magick Sandwich

Sandwich Fixins #7

Refrigeration broke down on the Magick Sandwich delivery truck and all the yummiest stuff got spoiled. So it’s back to salt and ketchup packets today, as we give you another handful of fixins:

How much waste is created in the making of those high-minded recyclable shopping bags? They’re everywhere. Do you think Rite Aid cares if they’re made in China through child labor? Does Whole Foods ensure the resulting toxic run-off doesn’t end up in our water supply? The regular plastic ones are still made, too, and thanks to their high percentage of recycled material, they have to be doubled to keep from breaking two steps out of the store. Yeah, this is working.

At what point will we admit that these pathetic efforts are like putting a band-aid on an avulsive wound? It might make us feel better but the patient is still bleeding out. Of course, the earth will rebound once it has shaken us off like fleas from a dog’s back.

*****

On a related subject, I’m getting sick of environmental groups saying that Americans use too much toilet paper. Here I draw the line. Isn’t it enough that we use recycled paper that gives us a spa-worthy exfoliation of our collective ass cracks? I don’t need Sheryl Crow or Laurie David or Joe Treehugger inviting themselves into my bathroom.

I also don’t want to stand downwind of them. When they sit down, do they crunch? I wonder how much waste water is generated from the extra detergent it takes to remove all those skid marks. From where I sit, the amount of toilet paper I use is just enough.

*****

Note to autoerotic asphyxiators: don’t forget the lime! You bite down on the lime at the moment of climax to wake yourself up before you die. I saw it on an old episode of CSI. You can get a lot of useful information from that show.

The world might still have David Carradine and Michael Hutchence if only they’d had a small wedge of tangy citrus. Or a spotter.

*****

I am viscerally creeped out by John Travolta’s hairline. It gives me goosebumps. Does he use a stencil and spray-on hair in the front? Or is he the first human Chia pet? It could be a Scientology thing: maybe that’s how they all look on Xenu‘s home planet.

*****

Overheard in the post office:

“They call it settling like with cereal so they don’t have to give you a full box. Or like you have a bottle of Snapple that isn’t completely filled. They say it needed air. But they’re just ripping you off.”

That guy should be in a think tank somewhere. Then “they” should fill the tank with water and leave him for dead.

*****

I’d like to end the week with a pet peeve. Please feel free to add your own.

Why do fancy restaurants grind pepper and dust my pasta with Parmesan? Are they adding value to my dining experience? Do they think I’ve never done this myself or won’t do it properly and thereby ruin the chef’s work of art? Are they trying to dictate how their dishes are garnished? Or maybe it’s a cost-saving measure, à la McDonald’s Ray Kroc: don’t give them condiments unless they ask for them.

I happen to be a person who likes a lot of pepper and grated cheese, so I’ll have that poor waiter grind away over my plate until he has carpal tunnel syndrome and other patrons are staring at me, judging me crass, low class, piggish, as if I’d ordered a steak at Peter Luger and asked for A-1 sauce. Or had a cheese souffle at the Plaza and covered it with ketchup.

My feeling is this: once I’ve ordered, this is my food and I can do whatever the hell I want with it. If that happens to mean I use a lobster as a dancing puppet at Oyster Bar—true story—then so be it. Leave the fixins on the table and step back. The fun’s about to begin.

More fixins:
Sandwich Fixins #4
Sandwich Fixins #5
Sandwich Fixins #6

Copyright Magick Sandwich