Tuesday, August 22, 2006


In Which I Write My Epitaph...

Well, apparently I've exhausted every other possible opportunity for self-injury, because over the past four days I ended up sick. Again. I ended up injured and in pain. Again. And I ended up having an unexpected stay in the hospital. Again.

Why? Because I was suffering the toxic effects of multiple poison spider bites.


If my life is a comic book or a sit-com, I think it's time to hire a new writing staff, because it's never good when an episode repeats the same plot, you know? But there it is.

I noticed them Thursday night after getting out of the shower. Three mosquito-sized bites--two on my upper left thigh and one high on my hip--that itched like a wool sweater in a sauna. But unlike mosquito bites, they didn't just itch, they hurt like hell. As though needles--or teeny-tiny teeth--were still stuck in the bites. Also, they were bright blood red and WAY big.

By Friday morning, the three bites were joined by new ones: a constellation of four on the same leg, two big ones and two little ones, just above the ankle bone.

And, just because it's me we're talking about, there was also one--the biggest one of all--resting on my lower left buttock (just to the right of a little mole that, until today, only about 7 people ever knew existed). And it's a bite which none of us really needs to see.

I found some Benadryl cream to slather on my leg and hind parts, but it was useless. It actually hurt to put on clothes and having the top of my shoe rub against the ankle bites was pure torture.

So I dug deeper into the bowels of the medicine cabinet and found a prescription cream containing what looked like a lot of benzocaine. Being immune to novocaine, I often don't get the full effect of topical anesthetics, but thank God this cream worked well enough that I was able to cinch a pair of trousers over myself and hobble to work.

Along the way, it dawned on me that these had to be spider bites. After my last experience I had learned a great deal about spiders, such as the fact that many people are bitten in their sleep, often under their clothing (mosquitos generally can't even bite through socks unless they hit a hole in the weave, and I don't even want to meet the mosquito that can bite through the two layers of clothing I wore that night in order to score a goal on my butt). But I had more or less convinced myself that I was somehow immune to spider poison after my last encounter. Which is, of course, as stupid as supposing that surviving a cobra bite now renders you immune to rattlesnakes.

Well, you can guess what happened: by mid-morning, all the benzocaine had rubbed off and I could barely walk. My left leg wasn't swollen but the bite sites had all gone from itchy to just plain mad-bastard painful. Then my assistant--an EMT when she's not looking out for me at work--told me I looked awful: pale and sweating and on the verge of collapse.

Naturally, I drove myself to the nearest ER, on my lunch hour, figuring I could just get an antibiotic shot and maybe some lidocaine underwear or something. The triage nurse, however, seemed less interested in my spider bites, and more excited by the fact that my blood pressure was 175 over 103, and my heart rate was up above 200 beats per minute--which may explain why I was feeling so jittery on my drive to the hospital.

Next thing I know, I'm first in line for a room. Then I'm on an exam table They draw some blood, but even before the results are in, they're hooking me up to an IV and slapping an oxygen mask on me.

"Whahroodoon?" I asked through the mask.

"Just relax," one of the nurses said, although she didn't appear relaxed, as she took my pulse and blood pressure and started asking me about where the pain was. I pointed to my left leg, but she just saw me pointing to my left side and I think she thought I was talking about my left arm. Because then she got really excited and grabbed a phone off the wall and paged someone from cardiology. I heard the word "tachycardia" which just means a heart rate of more than 100 bpm.

But then the nurse who told me to relax said the initials "M.I."

Which of course stand for "myocardial infarction."

A.K.A. a frigging heart attack.

Which sounds like a terrible way to end tonight's entry, but I have to tell you my reaction and maybe then you won't feel so bad when you see those hated dots of ellipsis.

I just laid back on the bed and started laughing. And it wasn't from too much oxygen. And it wasn't a denial response to the suggestion that I was suffering a heart attack. It was simply the idea that, of all the ways to die, I just might get to die from a spider-bite in the ass. And in a flash I could see my grave. And I started coming up with all these epitaphs for the headstone.

For example, this one, to the tune of the old Spider-Man cartoon:

Magazine Man
Magazine Man
Took a hit in the can
Will the Web miss him now?
Or notice that he's...what?...hey!...OW!
Look out!
He sat on a spider, man!

Or my personal favorite, which was, simply:

He met his end. And so did the spider.

So, while you're waiting for the next installment--in which I promise you I do NOT die--I invite you all to write my epitaph based on this incident. Surely you can come up with something better than mine. C'mon, give it a shot. I might even award a prize for the best entry.

Assuming I'm still alive to do it...

Here lies our Magazine Man
Of whom we were all a big fan

In his blog it was written
By a spider he was bitten

And no more is he "The Ass Man"
Oh, good God, MM. Here I *finally* think that you had a semi-safe vacation for a change, and what happens? I hope you have good medical insurance, but I'm sure you do, or your policy would have been cancelled by now. BTW, hiring an EMT for your assistant was a brilliant move on your part. OK, here's my attempt at an epitaph:

Here lies Magazine Man,
He'll be truly missed by all of his fans.
Even if he had a hairy ass,
Noone can say that he didn't have class.
He never lived his life in a rut,
It was ended by a spider bite on the butt.

There once was a Man of the Mag(azine)
A bite on his rear was the gag
'Til his ticker went quicker
And his blood got much thicker
And they carried him out in a bag.

Sorry. That was morbid.

How about...

Here lies the Magazine Man
No, it wasn't the ass strep.

I'm going to bed now.
Here lies the bod
Of a bloggin' god
Whose stories brought readers en masse
But sympathies lie
With that venomous spi(der)
Cuz it had to get up on his ass
I don't think anybody is ever going to be able to beat "He sat on a spider, man!"

And I'll never be able to hear that song again without thinking about you sitting on a spider...
It is too early in the morning and I haven't had enough caffeine yet to add my epitaph contribution, but I am sniggering at the whole affair, and am glad you can laugh at it, too. And that you are still with us to even laugh!
My mother sat on a scorpion in the bathtub. We were in hysterics as she was on the phone with Dial-A-Nurse... Telling her that there was NO WAY that we were going to suck the poison out... She ended up putting meat tenderizer on her bum.
I visited my uncle's lake house this weekend. Sunday night I awoke in such pain and itchiness I almost ran screaming around the house. I am covered in bites just like yours all over my legs from the knees down (13 on my left leg, 6 on the right). I assumed they were mosquito bites, but I was wearing jeans all weekend. No exposed skin. I've been popping Benadryls like they're Flintstones vitamins. Now I'm more than a little concerned.
My eyes!

You know I just had to "peek" at that extra picture goodness you put into the story. I don't think I will ever be the same.


No witty epitaph for me yet. Trying to channel one a la Disney's Haunted Mansion. So far, got nothin.
...the FUCK?!? I'm eating breakfast here!
Sometime after night had fallen
Did a spider come a callin'
When it bit him in the "can"
'Twas the demise of Magazine Man.
Honestly, how could you have an epitaph that doesn't end in a cliffhanger?

Something like:

This was a man with a real gift for getting injured, but the way he died was really unusual...
time to get serious. I too am seriously allergic to bug bites, in my case it's wasps.

Things I have learned:

Never assume you're immune. You may have no reaction one time, and die the next, from bites that seem identical.

Get an epi-pen(ask your doc fmi) but dont expect it to make you allbetternow. it's only first aid to keep you alive till you see a doctor.

If you have trouble breathing call 911.

An ambulance medic-type told me you can never take too much benadryl in such situations.
jesus christ on a crutch, man, the shit that happens to you is unbelievable. maybe heather's right and you don't exist, and the ghost writer that came up with this whole thing is sick of you and planning to kill you off. didn't stephen king try to kill off richard bachman? or wait, maybe i'm thinking of 'misery.' probably a good thing you have a secret identity.

now i have 2 competing songs playing in my brain - spider man, and that one about black widows in the privy. thanks.

i really need more caffeine before i try this, and kindly remember that i'm an engineer, not a word smith but here goes:

here lies mm,
husband to hls,
father to art lad and the brownie,
chittering ape to blaze,
word god to the blog-o-sphere,
you'd think he'd have learned
over years of medical oddities
when to head for the hospital.
at least it wasn't the ass strep
that finally did him in the end...

hmm. you'll need a big stone. or a really small font. at any rate, i hope you recover quickly and have good drugs in the meantime.
Ok, really, the "peek" was completely uncool. I now need to take some 60 grit sandpaper to my right temporal lobe!

Seriously, wow, 175 over 103, that is scary! Maybe it's time we got you a suit of armor.

As for an epitaph, how about:

Here lies the Little Shit.
Known as the Mag Man,
Until he got bit.
Of ellipses he was a big fan.
Giving his readers a fit,
till a spider got him in the can.


Once the Blog Master,
till his heart beat faster.
Another vacation wasted,
when his butt, the spider tasted.


Though the man got stuck in a cave
He tried to act very brave
A small bite on his ass
Is what caused him to pass
He lived the life of a knave
But his hairy ass, he should have shaved

This is too much fun.
here lies a man of words-our friend
a spider met him, in the end.
his story's done, this word master
he's gone to the great here-after
to sing with angels-i think not
all he left us was . . .
Never say "bite my ass" to a venomous spider...
Okay, now that's I've puked up my breakfast and washed my eyeballs with the emergency rinse we kep at work, can I just say how much fun I'm haveing watching people work mention of your Chia Pet Robin Williams Hairy Ass into your epitaph? My God, I love you readers, even the ones who think i'm a tool. Time and agin you save the day.

Least I know what to give the kid for Christmas now: one of those electric shears like sheep farmers use. Jeesus!
Seems to me the most appropriate epitaph would be:

"In which I finally kick the bucket"
Magazine Man.
Lived Life on the Web.
Died because of it.

That's the best I can come up with this late in the game.
BB- you crack me up! I love when you visit!
There once was an odd but true story,
Written not for adulation or glory,
Our hero's palpitations
From arachnid's salutations
But his ass, oh my EYES, sweet baby Gorry!
"in Which I..."

The Brownie and Artlad's poor Dad,
Got sick from some bug bites he had.
They bit his behind
Thinking he wouldn't mind,
But he did, his reaction was bad.
This is my first ever attempt at a Shakespearean sonnet. Advance apologies for incorrect meter and too many hairy buttcheek jokes:

You'd find his name somewhere on the masthead
You'd find him taking pictures of his ass
Never a dull time in that life he led
Of course he got bit on that hairy mass

He shared his adventures on his website
We read intently and spewed our coffee
He was never good at winning a fight
But his stories made us say "hee hee hee"

A spider came and got him in his sleep
Writing sonnets are hard and this one sucks
Magazine Man gave us a good 'ol peep
Of his left butt cheek that someone should pluck

Now this must end because my work does call
In short, please now do not show us your balls


My sonnet kinda sucked, but I vote for My Dog is Chelsea's poem...that was funny!
Magazine Man
May 23, 1968-August 22, 2006

Loving Husband, Father, Blogger

Died Tragically Rescuing His Family From An Avalanche Of I AM THE SEX MAN! Books

Well, as luck would have it, I've been on a limerick kick all day long, so the friendly invitation was excitedly accepted. Here are my contributions to your epitaph collection:

Magazine Man wrote articles so witty,
But the way the that he died was so shitty.
He got nipped in the sitter,
By a nasty black widder,
And passed humming the spider man ditty.


Magazine man wrote articles so deep,
But having been bitten by a spider during sleep,
He got itches and sores,
He couldn’t wear drawers,
And his last words were, “Wasn’t THIS cheap?”

FUN post!! I'm glad you weren't bitten by those evil narsty BAD BAD brown ones with the violins on their backs, that hide in closets and old shoes.
My favorite epitaph so far is cmhl's :) Although I do like BB's line "Chia Pet Robin Williams Hairy Ass", and feel that it should be worked into verse somewhere.

(Man, that nude scene from The Fisher King is burned into my retinas.)

MM's epitaph, as written by Blaze:

Here lies The Man, father to The Girl.
...how did I get here? all of a sudden I'm looking at some man's hairy thigh, I think it's his thigh...until he gave a description, I though the elastic was around his waist and I was looking at a torso, a hairy torso...then I see an ankle, a hairy ankle...then I clicked on the link...AARGH...
no ideas for your epitaph...but maybe take the advice from a nursery rhyme next time you tangle with a spider:
Little Miss Muffet
sat on a tuffet
eating her curds and whey,
(what are curds and whey, by the way?)
along came a spider,
that sat down beside her.
so she beat the hell out of it with her spoon.
Question: Did you ever find the spider?
When milk turns, it separates into two parts. One part is sorta solid, that's called "curd" or "curds". The other part is sorta liquid, and that's called "whey".

Now, they make cheese from curd, but I don't know what they do with the whey. Why would you eat it? My bet is that you don't, and that the rhyme just worked better with both.

However, after a quick check of the dictionary, it turns out that they use whey to make crackers and livestock feed. Yum!
Come, be welcome and sit beside this resting feller;
Loyal husband, father, and Master Story Teller.

Once you’re comfortable, please do not fear,
If the Magazine Man whispers a story in your ear;

Loved by many for his sarcasm, humor and wit;
Pant-loads mourned when by a spider he was bit.

Upon leaving, he would make but one small request,
Sign the comment section and be marked as a guest.
He was biologically redundant anyway...

Our MagMan a spider did bite
As he slept on a warm summer night.
He thought he would die
As it chomped on his thigh
And his butt, which was hairy and white.

"He had an attack of the heart"
They on his medical chart.
The true cause of death?
He took a deep breath
And choked on his Big Brother's fart.
sorry that last one should read

"they wrote on his medical chart"
Beloved Husband, Doting Father
His Ass Was The Bob's Big Boy Of Spiderdom
F**king spiders!
oh my gosh, I can't believe I just saw your butt!!

I'm still giggling....

I've been on travel all week so I haven't had a chance to read your blog, glad to know that you're still up to the same old crazy MM stories. I can't believe you could have died from a spider bite on your ASS!!!
Oh Dude, you have tarantula ass!
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