If you're over forty, you probably know what I'm talking about when I say "skin tag." If you're under forty you likely don't have a clue. Also if you're under forty you never call your mother, and you never write her either. Get off my lawn you ungrateful brat.
Back to skin tags.
In case you don't know, a skin tag is kind of a benign epithelial tumor sort of thingy that can be tiny and almost unnoticeable or it can be a honking mushroom-shaped, multicolored behemoth that looks like the alien life form from Garvoc 2 in the Kloovian Galaxy. That's the kind I had. It wasn't your normal, run of the mill skin tag. No, sir. This puppy was a monster.
This skin tag hung off the side of my neck like a second head. It was so big I had to buy an extra ticket for it when I traveled by air. This sucker was so massive I had to put pants on it every time I went for a walk or risk being arrested by the decency police. It was so enormous that when I threw the ball for the dog to fetch, she'd bring it back to the skin tag. When I drove down the street I had to open the driver's side window and let it hang outside. The people behind me thought I was signaling for a left hand turn. This was one big-ass skin tag.
It was ugly too.
How ugly was it? It was so ugly that when I walked down the street, security cameras swiveled away from me. When I went in to shave one morning the bathroom mirror had shifted position so it faced against the wall. This skin tag was so ugly, children who saw it ran to the nearest clown for comfort. The NSA refused to read my email because they were afraid it might be catching. You get the picture?
It had to go.
After numbing my neck up and slapping his Swiss Army knife against a sharpening steel several times, my doc got a better look at it and said, “It's got veins in it. You need to have a specialist do this.”
I had no idea they had skin tag specialists, but he convinced me he'd find one. Sure enough, the next day I got a call from his office. I was scheduled two weeks later with an ENT doc.
If you've been paying attention, you'll remember that the skin tag was on my neck. It wasn't on my ears, my nose or my throat. But he hadn't set me up with a Proctologist, so I figured, what the hey. I went to the appointment. After filling out multiple questionnaires and a cursory office visit to justify additional fees, I was escorted into a small operating room and told to sit on the operating chair. Yes, chair. Not table.
I got more injections of local anesthetic and the ENT doc got out her own Swiss Army knife. I have to say she worked quickly and caused me relatively little pain. In fairness, I have to add that she did not work alone. She kept a nurse close by her side. Why, I'm not positive, but it seemed that her only job was to catch the skin tag once it had been cut free so it didn't crash to the ground and injure the doctor's foot. But that's speculation, of course.
So that's pretty much it. The ENT doc did a good job. The wound healed. Children were once again free to roam around my neighborhood without fear. The NSA resumed monitoring my email. The only problem is that leaving the story here makes for a lousy ending. So I've been thinking. I could spice this up with some funny anecdotes about my vasectomy. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff that went on there. The prostate biopsy was a hoot too. A million laughs.
I'll think about it. I'll come up with something. Something you'll enjoy. Something that will make reading this post worthwhile. I'll get back to you as soon as I have it. Really I will. Almost certainly, probably.