Dandruff

Ah yes, Dandruff. (Or Pityriasis simplex capillitii, if you want to be an asshole about it.) This is a condition that makes your scalp a winter wonderland of dead skin, fungus, and other things you find in food at P.F. Changs.

Look at you, you sexy bastard. You'll have to beat the vagina away from you with a stick.

The guy who's going to end up sitting with me on the 7-hour flight.

Just The Facts

  1. This is quite possibly one of the most horrible curses that all the gypsies you secretly enjoy killing can smite on you.
  2. That shampoo you use doesnt work, and the hat isn't fooling anyone. It's 90 degrees out, asshole.
  3. I tried to write this article without making any snow references. So far, I have failed twice.

The curse, AKA, why you are, and will remain, alone.

This is truely one of the most horrid conditions on the planet. In my expert opinion, I place it among the ranks of being a ginger, a prostite, a douchebag, or someone who watches Jersey Shore. (The last two go together, like HIV and AIDS.) Why do I place dandruff among the ranks of greasy citrus trolls? Allow me to pitch you a scenario.

You are on the subway. After the fat, vomit crusted homeless person leaves, god rewards your suffering. The female embodiment of perfection walks onto the train, and shyly, looks around. Out of all the other people on the train, she sits next to you. Over the course of the long trip, you strike up a casual conversation which eventually leads to flirting. Her stop comes, and she gives you her phone number and a wink. Just when she gets up to leave, she turns her head, you start to inhale, and you get a mouthfull of thick, rich, head-salt. Your eyes bulge in shock, your pupils dialate, and you may even shit yourself a little. You try to scream, but no sound comes out. You convulse violently in terror, attempting to get it out of your throat hole. Outside of the train, you see your salvation. A popsicle stick stuck to the grainy pavement. Its a long shot, but its your only hope of survival, you crawl out of the train just enough to reach it. You jam the sticky, and oddly greasy object down your throat, to puke out the scalp-sand that just raped the upper half of your digestive system. Just as the acid begins to work its way up, the train doors shut, and drag your pukeing corpse a mile and a half to the next stop. All of the retired people, retards, and rapists inside the train just stare blankely with shock and mild amusment.

Assuming that you are Jesus Christ, and manage to survive to whole ordeal, would you call that girl? Probably not.