hippie My wife has a hippie friend, Carol, who I mock relentlessly. She never gets tired of touting natural remedies, and every month she has some miracle cure that’s straight from that dumb slut, mother earth herself.

The one and only time she ever babysit one of my kids, my daughter scraped her knee, and she used her goddamned hippie voodoo on her. She put lavender oil on the wound and wrapped it in what I assumed was a non-sterile bandage she made from some other recycled piece of crap.

I knew the medicine wasn’t going to be effective when my daughter said it didn’t hurt when it was applied. That’s why when we got home I scrubbed it with Ivory soap and doused it with rubbing alcohol. Her screams let me know the medicine was effective, and all of those harmful microbes that infested the cut were dying painful deaths.

The only recurring health problem I have is dry scalp, and I have treated it the same way since I was a kid. When my scalp feels really dry, I turn the water all the way to hot and really just scour the shit out of it.

I figure I remove the entire outer layer of skin, and if there isn’t at least some blood on my fingers, I know I’m being a giant pussy and need to scrub harder.

Unfortunately, this tried and true remedy magically stopped working about three months ago, and I was desperate. My wife had told Carol about it because women are congenitally incapable of not discussing each family’s health problems, and she gave me some Manuka honey to try.

Since I love honey, I ate some of it, smeared some on my scalp, and I’ll be damned if in a few days, my skin wasn’t as good as new. I just wish it had come from Africanized bees. Maybe then my package would have gotten bigger, too.