Another Thing They Won’t Tell You About The Beetus

April 24, 2012

Let me stick you, I'm diabetic.

After you’ve gotten your dodgy A1C results and the doctor sits you down like he or she does it every day and says, “you are diabetic,” they tell you about how you’ll have to check your blood sugar.

They tell you how you won’t be able to have one-person cryfests while hogging down a pint of Ben & Jerry’s (they don’t say the part about the cryfest, but…).

They have their nurse tell you about the amazing number of carbohydrates found in a single plateful of mashed potatoes (who knew?) or a large order of fried rice (isn’t Asian cuisine synonymous with healthiness? Those people (oops! those people, sorry) live forever. Not to stereotype).

The nurse will give you helpful hints about living a life that is technically not supposed to include concentrated sweets. Honey is a concentrated sweet. Which is bullshit, right? It’s bee spit. How could bee spit, which is natural, be anything but healthy?

“A lot of patients,” she (or he) will say, “enjoy to put ground-up tree bark on their thimble-sized pancakes made out of packing peanuts (which are low in carbohydrates, as long as you don’t go overboard (read: more than a little person’s handful)).”

He or she, the nurse or male-nurse, will be just chock-ass-full of helpful hints like this.

To which, of course, you’ll be like, “please just leave me alone in a room full of sandwiches made of maple-syrup soaked waffles with apple pies and German chocolate cake in the middle, and let me die with dignity.”

Buck up. There’s hope. What they don’t tell you, because they don’t know, is how having the beetus is a free ride to asstown. As in, the beetus will get you laid. Properly, soundly, and often.

It seems counter-intuitive, I know. Why would anyone want to make the two-backed beast with a the beetus sufferer? I don’t know. As a beetus sufferer myself, I wouldn’t want to get humpy with a beetus sufferer.

But as Ty Cobb used to say, “I don’t have to know how it works to know it works.” Good old Ty.

True, he said that about getting what he wanted from women and ethnic minorities by gut-punching them, but still.

If you’re in a group of people and are hoping that someone will go home with you, just wince in pain and beg everyone’s pardon. You’d love to stay, but your beetus is acting up.

You will not go home alone.

The beetus can be a conversation starter, as well. Ladies (and maybe some fellas) love riddles. “What do I have in common with Wilford Brimley?” You ask them. They will express shock when you reveal the answer.

“But you’re so young. And you don’t look like an out-of-control sugar addict.”

“I know,” you say, shaking your head sadly. “Sometimes it’s just a bad roll of the genetic dice.”

Maybe that’s what it is. The tragedy of youth curtailed. Maybe people who are lusty in the pants for people with the beetus get the sense that they’re being provided the opportunity to sleep with Kurt Cobain, River Phoenix, that Corey who died.

Knowing that you could, if you don’t carefully monitor your diet and exercise, turn at some far future point into a insulin-dependent diabetic, who in turn could lose limbs or eyesight if you don’t keep up with that, it makes them feel closer to the fraught immortality of fragile youth. Or maybe it’s the irony of the immortality… of fragility and fraughtness.

It works, is all. Trust me.


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