Orange Rhymes With: Lost: Tonsils and socks

Illustration by Casey Kleeb

I recently wrote pieces of a humor column while in a horribly altered state after the removal of my tonsils and other fun things. This is not that column.

That column has been banned by the Federal Communications Commission for containing some of the most lewd, vulgar and incredibly longwinded and confusing metaphors this side of Amsterdam.

But, in an effort to avoid wasting all of my medically-high musings, I’ll use this column to decipher some of the greatest hits of my Christmas delirium.

Take for example this little gem I found illegibly scribbled on the inside of my new “Lost” DVD box set: “Remind me where I hid the magic socks that healed my throat tonsils.”

Yes, “throat tonsils.” I was not well.

I can only assume that note was in reference to the fantastic hospital super-socks that had built in traction to prevent me from busting my ass while I did the “dead fish flop” across the room after recovering from anesthesia. I distinctly remember excitedly pleading with the nurse to let me keep the socks after the surgery.

This is rather odd in retrospect because I have absolutely no recollection of where my hospital gown went or how I got my pants back on. That pants thing should really stop happening.

Sometime after my recovery I was eventually able to locate the “magic socks” nestled deep within the back corner of my underwear drawer, wrapped around an aging bag of catnip. Because that makes perfect sense.

The next semi-profound thought came through the creation of a Microsoft Word document created at the height of my madness that I inexplicably copied to my desktop 25 times.

In bolded text in the center of the page laid a message that begged me, “Tell your economics professor that he should teach a class on the economy of ‘Lost!’”

Given that I’m rather attached to my current major and non-catastrophic grade point average, I think I’ll keep that nugget of wisdom to myself. Additionally, unless we’re planning to study the exchange rate of four mangos for every one plot hole on Lost, I doubt would have had enough material to fill a semester.

There was a great deal of clean-up to do after my recovery as I decided to rearrange all of my things and hide them for myself to find in the future.

Skimming over the incoherent journal entries, supposedly witty one-liners and poorly Photoshopped images of David Hasselhoff flying on a sloth; the last truly great remnant of my experience was found scribbled on a napkin tucked under my medicine bottle.

On that napkin is what I guess was an early revision of an Orange Rhymes With column.  I say guess because it was a napkin filled nonsensical profanities, song lyrics about narwhals and what appeared to be a preemptive eulogy for Charlie Sheen.

I also seem to have blown my nose with it at some point.

After some deliberation and a brief consultation with my therapist, we concluded that it might just be unsuitable to print. It was promptly given a Viking funeral with the highest honors I could muster.

I lit it on fire and flushed it down the toilet. It seemed like a good idea, probably because the medication wasn’t quite out of my system.

So here I am tonsil-less, many pounds lighter and endowed with the incredible ability to slip between the bars of jail cells and zoos.

I’ve spent approximately zero time preparing for the new semester, and I have no idea where my magic socks have gone.

Do not to worry, because I’ve never been one to let the stress of a new semester overwhelm me.

Now to find those socks.

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