Me, a 12-pack of Coors, a razor and a bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide

When I was in high school, I hadn't learned the importance of wearing flip flops in the high-school shower, and as a result I contracted a horrible case of plantar's warts on both feet. Like, to the point where the podiatrist saw my feet for the first time and just shook his head in amazement.

I'd have 15-20 on each foot, get them burned off, then they'd come right back. Fucking TERRIBLE pain. Took two years to get rid of them, because apparently they're a virus or something and the body needs to build up an immunity to them.

So in the meantime, my doctor utilized other ways to combat said warts aside from burning them off with a laser...digging them out with a scalpel by hand...acid...and yes, formaldehyde.

He actually have me a prescription for formaldehyde. I got it at the drug store, came home, poured it in a bucket and diluted it with a little water, and kept my feet in it for 30 minutes or so. It burned. And it didn't get rid of the warts.

 

HPV. Yes, that HPV.

 

But they were on my foot. Not my cervix.

 

Thank God for that.

 

Breakast sucks when you visit SportsJournalists.com.

 

Still, no foot sex. How are you going to break the news to your spouse?

 

You mean the ladies don't swoon when you show them your big bottle of formaldehyde?

 

I don't know what I was thinking. But here I am, sitting in my La-Z-Boy, with my computer on my lap and a big bowl of Cocoa Pebbles on my chest, and I think to myself, "Oh, this'll be entertaining." I didn't think about the repercussions.

 

No, they usually shudder because they think they're going to wind up being preserved in it, in a jar in my basement or something.

Stupid chicks.

 

Yeah. Not like that's ever happened before, right?