Made of Money

When I was at Acadia, this dude named Scott Pike lived on my floor.
A real wiener from Bedford, Nova Scotia.
A town I would eventually familiarize myself with and copulate in.
We boys, in our towels in the showers, made fun of Pike endlessly.
Because his girlfriend, in neighboring Cutten (or, colloquially, Slutten Cutten) bought them walkie-talkies.
It was the most ludicrous thought to us.
At her endless beckon call.
No decisions for himself.
"Breaker, breaker, which sweater should I wear to dinner? Over."
And so on.
Now, with the advent of the Blackberry, all dudes are Scott Pike.
And they're in front of me in line at the coffee shop.
"No...they don't have any blueberry muffins.
...Well, they have carrot, and oatmeal chocolate chip, and..."
Not only is this a damning thing for men everywhere.
But cancer is also still winning.
Still.

I have lost loved ones to The Big C, just like everyone else.
As a society cancer is tough for us.
But humanity just couldn't stand to make its popcorn on the stove top anymore.
Humanity couldn't hear:
"He's in the shower, call back later," anymore.
Business deals need to be made.
Talk and shower at the same time.
So everyone gets cancer now.
I don't want to seem insensitive, but haven't we given cancer enough money?
How much money has been raised?
How many hikes and walks do we have to go on?
How many chocolate-covered almonds do we have to sell?
Cancer research has received gagillions of dollars.
It's time for results.
Okay, there's chemotherapy.
Results that don't require wigs.