Abscessed With Medical History

The chances are fairly slim, but if I were ever to have something named after me, I would prefer a star in a galaxy far, far away — or a postcard-inducing beach — rather than an abscess.

Doctor Strangelove demonstrates Alien Hand Syndrome (wthellokitty.tumblr.com)

I’m sure Sir Benjamin Collins Brodie was a rather pleasant chap who liked patting puppies and drawing unicorns — and by all reports was an outstanding surgeon and physiologist. However, it is an interesting way to be remembered — some poor buggers’ abscess sticking out of his shin being named after you.

Fascinating is it not? Learned medical practitioners devoting their life’s work to science, resulting in their name being solemnly invoked many years later by a poker-faced specialist diagnosing you with Schnitzler Syndrome. Sadly nothing to do with crumbed chicken, this is a rare disease characterised by chronic hives first scratched away by a French dermatologist (according to Wikipedia, so it must be true).

The honour roll of eponymously named medical conditions is rather enlightening.

Bright’s Disease sounds actually rather cheerful, named after one Richard Bright — turns out it is a not overly tremendous chronic nephritis of the kidneys — that was suffered by the author of Dracula, Bram Stoker (there’s one for your next lull in conversation).
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Speaking of those blood-filtering organs (note seamless Dracula segue), Brewer Kidney has nothing to do with drinking copious amounts of amber fluid; George Emerson Brewer knocked the top off that one.

Alliteration buffs will applaud Horton’s Headache, though sufferers of those bastard cluster headaches named after Bayard Taylor Horton will no doubt ask them to keep it down a bit.

In closing, Doctor Strangelove Syndrome is rather gripping — for the fact that it is named after a fictitious fanatical doctor in a classic film, and is otherwise known as Alien Hand Syndrome — where your mind believes it has a hand of its own — or something.

That could come in handy drawing unicorns.

©Steve Williams 2013

America — land of the free, home of the loud

Dear people of America…

I love your country. It has given us so much: wardrobe malfunctions, the Ferris Wheel, the pop-up toaster, chocolate chip cookies, Elvis, windscreen wipers and cheese-in-a-can.

But one question, why are you so f’ing loud when you travel?

By “loud”, I’m not talking about the blinding-white sandshoes, mismatched migraine-inducing clothes, stupid hats and mandatory “fanny pack”.

No, I’m talking about loud as in volume.

Is it really necessary for entirely unsuspecting, innocent people in a hotel lobby / restaurant / bus / train / plane / cafe / whatever / wherever to hear absolutely EVERY SINGLE WORD OF YOUR CONVERSATION? Really?

I realise it’s a well-worn, overused, hackneyed, clichéd stereotype, but seriously, you people are living it — loud and unfortunately very clear.

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In closing, I hope the star spangled banner continues to wave o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave et al, but can you just keep it down a bit?

Thanks.

PS, If you’re travelling to a country where English isn’t the first language, speaking at restaurant staff at the top of your voice won’t instantly make them fluent in “your language”.

PPS, The “h” in the word “herb” doesn’t need to be silent.

PPPS, The word “fanny” has a somewhat different meaning in other parts of the world.

©Steve Williams 2013

Subway – A Case of Foot in Mouth?

I think everyone needs to calm the hell down.

A firestorm was unleashed on the good burghers at Subway after they suggested that the word “foot” in their famous “Footlong” sub is “not intended to be a measurement of length” and is merely a “descriptive name”.

The one on the left may or may not be the foot in question

Fair enough. Which bit of that don’t you get? Who would reasonably expect that something called a “Footlong” would actually be twelve inches in length? That’s just being pedantic.
Maybe they should also clarify that a “sub” isn’t a naval vessel designed to operate underwater.

Subwaygate” — I’m surprised the usual adding of the prefix “gate” to any controversy hasn’t been done in this case — fired up when some smartarse Australian kid actually measured his sub and discovered that it allegedly pulled up an inch or so short. Who takes a tape measure to a sandwich shop?

It all depends on how you define the word “foot”. Surely assuming that his lunch should actually be twelve inches or thirty point something centimetres is a bit of a stretch. Maybe they were inferring a human foot size. That would give them a bit of scope —  “a foot” could mean anything from an NBA size gazillion to one of those unfortunate victims of foot binding.
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Do you seriously expect to believe everything that an advertiser or company tells you?
Next you’ll automatically assume that something “made in Australia” actually is, rather than in a foreign Victorian style sweatshop (the era, not the state), or a “low fat” product isn’t chockfull of sugar.

Seriously, haven’t you realised that an asterisk at the bottom of a newspaper ad or the words “conditions apply” in a radio commercial translates to “everything you just read or heard is complete bullshit?”

No onion on mine thanks…

*This article may or may not contain false indignation.

©Steve Williams 2012

An open letter to Hugh Jackman

Dear Hugh,

Ok, I get it… you’re an outrageously talented, actor, singer and dancer,
Hollywood, Broadway and TV über-star.

The ugliest photo I could find (courtesy paulcush.com)

You are an incredibly devoted husband to Deborra-Lee and loving father to Oscar and Ava.
A generous philanthropist, you support and raise awareness of numerous charities and community projects. You’ve been voted the “Sexiest Man Alive”.

Your mantelpiece is groaning under the weight of awards including an Emmy and two Tony awards, as well as Theatre World, Broadway Audience, New York International Independent Film & Video Festival, Australian Film Institute, Film Critics Circle of Australia, People’s Choice,
Teen Choice and Scream awards and now a Golden Globe. You might be adding to the collection with an Oscar.

You’ve hosted the Oscars and Tony Awards to critical acclaim. You’ve played (in no particular order) characters as diverse as Wolverine, Jean Valjean, The Easter Bunny, Van Helsing,
The moment orgasm is achieved, an erection fades away, as the muscles tighten up, stopping the blood from entering the penile organ. lowest price for viagra Generally people we tend to run away from all types of tests and cheap levitra canada even don’t want to face any doctors, start using cheap Kamagra from now. Some studies speculate that 7% of all cialis discount cheap babies born with low birth weight may be attributable to assisted reproductive technology. It is said that having erectile dysfunction issue is not with the veins but it is the malfunction of the smooth muscles in the erection chambers, which allows blood to pass in and stay in the viagra for cheap prices chambers. The DroverCurly, Peter Allen and even a bloody penguin — and that’s just off the top of my head. You love footy, play the piano, guitar, violin and practice yoga.

The perennial nice guy, your dazzling personality and laconic Australian humour shine through in every interview and appearance. Everyone loves you, there are no skeletons in your closet,
you don’t try and run over paparazzi or throw phones at hotel staff.

I hope you realise just how much you make all us other Aussie blokes feel totally worthless and inadequate. Congratulations on the Golden Globe, you bastard.

Regards,

Steve Williams

©Steve Williams 2012

*This piece was published in the sadly now defunct The Punch by news.com.au