Friday, January 13, 2006

Drinking Urine....?

This morning is the first time in about 2 weeks that I haven’t needed to scrape my tongue (“Tounges” to the illiterate). Whilst running my usual route last night (just under a mile) I realised that I was practically sprinting it. So it’s time to up the ante and double the length of the route. I’ll need to go carefully as so not to accidentally intrude into Hash House Harrier territory.

http://www.chihhh.org.uk/

They’ve taken down the photo’s from the HHH home page, but briefly, they depicted scenes of drunken male bonding ritual preferably best kept strictly within the bounds of the male locker rooms in some far away place somewhere. I aim to retain my "manlove" virginity.

Meanwhile, Adam writes again mentioning urine therapy. Needless to say, I shan’t be doing this – I’m far too middle class. There is also a strong inbuilt genetic mechanism in me that that just screams, “Nooooo!” and so for the same reason, I won’t be eating poo either. I’ll leave that past time to rodents, rabbits and neurotic dogs that belong to neurotic owners (give them more protein for God’s sake!)

Years ago before the days of NHS Direct, I worked as a staff nurse in Casualty. One of the pleasures working there was taking the help line phone calls from members of the public who’d phone the department for advice. About a quarter of the calls would would be from the genetically impaired, or people with no “common sense gland” and or overdosed on stupid pills, that would render staff incapable of keeping a straight face. Of the more serious calls, the vast majority involved an “ingestion of substance” – someone who’d taken the wrong medication by mistake, a child who’d taken one of mum’s contraceptive pills, someone who’d swallowed petrol whilst siphoning it to fill the mower and so on.

As the staff-calls to the Toxicology Centre would often repeat a call made on a previous occasion, a logged advice book was kept by the phone. Nearly every possible “ingestion of substance” variation was accounted for and so advice could be quickly dispensed from a quick perusal of the book.

On the front cover of this legendary book in great big letters was a simple line of advice that reflected the frequency of the event.

The line of advice was simple enough (the squeamish may wish to look away):

“Recently laid dog excrement that is not furry with white hairs is not considered toxic to the young children who eat it.”

It took me weeks to not feel sick every time I looked at that damned book.

So it may not surprise you though to learn that I do have some experience with auto-urine therapy. I did taste my own urine as a child before I had developed any revulsion regarding the matter. I didn’t drink it, just dipped my finger into my stream and dabbed it onto my tongue. I did the same when I got my first spot. As a teenager, I was never afflicted with acne par se, but rather I’d break out in random purulent welters that would grow to the size of a small hippo. Just as one sceptic volcanous boil would go, another would begin to appear elsewhere. They lodged around my nose mostly, or if there was an important teenage social gathering pending, on my nose, forehead or middle of my lip. I wanted to test the theory of “sugar causes spots” and so burst one and tasted the exudate. It didn’t taste sweet. Actually, it didn’t really taste of anything much.

The acne began when i was about 18 and continued up until last week. I am now almost spot free.

It was about 10 years ago that I met Curious George. Curious George was an interesting blend of musical genius, emotional immaturity, anger and insight. At age 52 and a devotee of alternative medicine, he looked easily 15 years younger. Curious George had a plan to live forever. One day, at age 40, he sat down at a piano and with no previous musical experience or training whatsoever, suddenly found that music just flowed from his fingers. One time I was watching him play and it was as though a spirit took over his body and would play the music through him. George would sometimes go into such a profoundly altered state that afterwards he would be amnesic for what he’d played and would have to lay down for the rest of the day in order to recover.

During one visit to my tiny bedsit flat, Curious George who hated doctors, asked me what I’d recommend to help his fingers. In recent weeks his fingers were becoming increasingly arthritic and he was finding that it was painful to play the piano. At this stage in his life, he owned an electric piano linked to a computer program, so that the music he’d spontaneously create, or channel from the demons, would be both recorded on audio and digitally onto music sheet. I still have no doubt that Curious George is one of the modern day, undiscovered, musical geniuses. Music student of future generations to come will discuss and study Curious George’s work.

To help safeguard the studies of this future generation, I pulled out a recent copy of Nexus Magazine which had a feature on “Auto-Urine Therapy” and its effectiveness in treating autoimmune disorders such arthritis.

Curious George didn’t hesitate – I handed him a glass, he popped next door and came back supping half a pint of the Golden Drop. Within a week, his arthritic fingers were completely normal again and George has been drinking a glassful a day ever since. The girls do tend to avoid him though.

So I’ll stick with my Tesco Value herbal brews.

I’m non-toxic.

2 Comments:

Blogger bobodhi Homeworld said...

Ahhhh.... Yeeeeuch!
in fact... double Yeeeuch!

5:59 PM  
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