Hello Darkness! The Official Blog of Helen Keller

Each and every year, I’m induced by others at some point to try and run for cancer. I’m told I’m a horrible person if I don’t head out into the wild frontier of my neighbourhood to solicit donations. Ultimately, I’m usually met by false shows of “goshdammit”; people have already donated to another prospector in this, the donation Klondike. I’ve considered tearing down their mailboxes while they sleep their smug sleep for a suitably weighty donation of brass, but the cancer folks are as insistent as they are ungrateful that cash it is. It’s tough fitting that many unwanted dented mailboxes down a sewer unnoticed.

Since I can’t get too many donations from strangers, either at their house or my other unconventional way of angrily shouting at them from my kitchen while they drive past the house despite the frantic waving of a donation form, I turn to rationalizing not doing it. It makes me feel better and the empty donation forms with their brass mailbox escorts usually provide a sympathetic ear.

Who runs for cancer? Don’t run for the fucking thing. I’ve called at least two people who know doctors and we all agree; running for cancer is just about one of the dumbest things you can do, aside from catching your dick in a run-away horse-carriage. Run from cancer! What are you going to do the other way once you finally catch up to cancer there hotstuff? Put your wasted youth playing Street Fighter to good work by giving it a jump kick, sweep kick, fireball combo? Bullshit! It knows that one.

Instead, put on your little Saucony’s and run the fuck as far away from cancer as your little kettle-pins will carry you; over hill and dale, through mountains, across deserts and into the Glade of Butterscotch Safety. There’s just one catch though: shut the fuck up about it. Don’t go foolishly lauding yourself for such a brilliant escape, only to give your position away to cancer. Firstly, it doesn’t like people much in the first place and secondly, you’ve gone and actively scorned it. Now, in a rather dickish move, you’re rubbing its nose in your escape. Run from the cancer and then hide. Much like the annoying singing frog in the Warner Bros.’ Cartoon, this little gem is only for you. So, pack some fucking Doritos, run the fuck away from cancer and then shut up and eat some Doritos. If for some reason, you have a pang of altruism and let somebody else run away with you, don’t be the least bit hesitant to knock that mouthy fucker down if he gets all loud and boastful in the glade. Fuck him. You did him a favour and he went and screwed it all up. Now he’ll have cancer AND a busted lip.

For those out there that assume that pharmaceutical companies have long held the patents and other such miracle cures, only to be withheld from the public so that even more riches can be amassed by a select evil few, I invite you fuckers to break off from the main pack and run in a dumbass convoy towards the houses of the CEOs. As you vault over the 30’ high wrought-iron spike fence after swimming in the moat of kitten tears, don’t pause to look at the calcified statues of the Brazilian soccer team which crashed there so many years ago. As you head up the gilded driveway, the laser turrets may become activated; fuck it, that’s why you’re in a group so bob and weave and keep away from the slow or the fat. Scurrying past the flaming hedgemaze to the safety of the front stoop, gather as many convoy survivors as possible to help you bash down the protected Californian Redwood doors with the genuine Bald Eagle veneer. Don’t bother trying to use the mailbox as a battering ram; it’s in my kitchen. Viva le Dayseedo!

Once the interior is breached, you can dispel the spirit guardians which attack you as you leap from stone column to stone column across the bottomless chasm by reattaching the skull to the proper skeleton on the other side. This allows them eternal rest from the chains which bind them. Usually, CEOs are lazy and don’t bother to remove the delivery person’s uniform after the successful sacrifice to the Demon Lord Azghah-al-Aruul, so it’s child’s play to match up UPS, Purolator Courier, Dominos etc uniforms with their hats.

In the damp mossy underground vaults, you should be able to find the CEO and the rest of his coven swimming in the river of cancer curing drugs that flows underground from one CEO house to the next. Provided you have ample silver to successfully pierce their enchanted hides, you should be able to expel them from God’s earth by severing their heads, burying the bodies upside down and staking a picture of Ellen Degeneres to their grave. You’ll have accomplished teaching those shifty CEOs a lesson, and you’ll have had a fun little adventure too!

Anyway, with my rationalization speech done to the audience of donation forms and mailboxes I should be heading back out into the well-plundered wasteland of potential donors.

When do you plan on being home next?