Monday, October 15, 2012

The Band Aid Beelzebub

You might not know this, but Band Aids are evil.

I did know that they're racist. Go on - type "Band Aids are" into Google and marvel at the results. And apparently that works both ways. Any search of "Band Aids racist" will bring up thousands of entries showing people liberally angry at the pink-peach skin tone of Band Aids. With this only outmatched by the anger of people alarmingly proud of their pink-peach skin who think anyone who advocates a different color Band Aid is not only the real racist, but should go back to where they came from. Or something. And if you think I'm linking to any of that crazy shit from Stormfront to show how mental racists are you can think again. On top of that this claims - without irony - that Band Aids are "start tattoos for kids." Now it's that sort of alarmism that makes my perfectly rational point about how Band Aids are the work of Satan seem silly.

Anyone who has spent any time with parents will likely have heard about the magical healing properties of a Band Aid. And how you can get them with all kinds of delightful patterns and colors on them. Yes - you can even get ones with this insipid bollocks on them.





 Then there are these things that are clearly aimed at teenage boys and actual grown men.



And just to prove how ridiculous the whole enterprise is I can prove that the demons involved in making Band Aids know what they're doing. How? Because you can even buy candy shaped like a Band Aid. As we all know 9 out of 10 kids prefer eating Band Aids to candy. Which might explain the menus at some of the cesspits the ranting bulbous-nosed swear-box Gordon Ramsey visits on one of his many very bad television programs. What could possibly go wrong?



Spend ten minutes in the company of Moms and you may well hear about how when a child - rigid with pain and convulsing in despair - has a Band Aid applied to them that they are infused with the secret magic contained within the adhesive that sedates them into a blissful state. That sticky residue (described here as "tape tuckies" - which isn't funny or interesting at all except for the fact that right below it is the joyful phrase "rectoplasm" in all it's glory) can evidently heal anything. But not because it has been developed in God's laboratory to numb pain, eradicate tears and bring smiles to a child's face. No it's because it likely came out of the Devil's willy and turns perfectly normal (ha!) five year old girls into raging dementoid lunatics who toss all reason out the window for their blood lust for a fucking Band Aid.

On Saturday my daughter jumped in a pile of leaves. In doing so a stick poked her in the neck. She felt it, but didn't actually notice it really. She did also slip on the driveway and get grit in her hand. That made her cry. I got that out, calmed her down and took her in the house. Only then did she notice the graze on her neck. And being five she didn't really understand that while she could technically see blood it wasn't actually leaking out of her. That's what a graze is after all. And like a complete idiot I happily agreed that this was one of those suitable instances where a Band Aid was appropriate. Now I was already aware that my daughter was irrational in this area. Like a good many accounts I've heard or read about kids and Band Aids you can avoid an awful lot of whining and gnashing of teeth by just giving them one. But my daughter - ever the modern independent woman - has taken it upon herself on numerous occasions to go upstairs to the bathroom cabinet and apply Band Aids to herself for the most pathetic of wounds. And I mean things like "my leg was itchy" or "I was picking my nose and the boogers poked my fingertip and it hurt, so I need one." Obviously I'd lectured her at some point about the frivolous use of them - and had even gone on at length about the cost of them as if they were $5 each as opposed to $2 for an entire box of 30.

And this is where my wife gets to gloat about being right (once out of all times ever is a cause for celebration after all...).  She told me that allowing this liberal use of Band Aids to continue would lead down a dangerous path. And how - when the day came that we would step in to point out that she was behaving like a drug addict licking a wrist covered in nicotine patches - that we would likely pay for allowing her to barrel headlong down that path in the first place. Which is what happened last night. After a bath the Band Aid fell off. Both her mother and I cheerily told her that she no longer needed one. At which point the crazed need for more sticky demon-juice from a Band Aid turned her into a mewling nutcase. She then ranted and screamed in a manner as ridiculous and pathetic as any of the woe-is-my-very-comfortable-white-middle-class-man-life shrieks of a 1990s American nu-metal singer.

I'd say she managed 90 minutes of screaming, "I NEED A BAND AID!!!" off and on in between the moments her mother and I could get her to shut up. She really was infected with the notion that if she didn't get one then something bad would happen. She would stop violently shouting and calm down somewhat and then be overtaken by a wave of emotion. But being five she could sometimes stop herself from actually repeating the phrase, "I need a Band Aid" but not prevent herself from basically just barking like a mentally ill dog. Proving - in my mind - that they really should be labelled as the Devil's Band Aids (although I understand from this that that particular name already has been appropriated for a more horrifying act).

In the end she ran out of steam and fell asleep. And this morning she hasn't mentioned them. But she will. At which point...






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