An Alabama Fairytale.

For those of you who live in Alabama, you may have had enough already of this story. Or maybe you’ve been avoiding it and waiting for the overview. But I’ve had a lot of people – locally and not – ask me “what exactly happened down there?”, so I felt it my duty, since I have read pretty much every article about it and a good chunk of the impeachment report, depositions, and exhibits, to write it out as a happy little story for all of you.


Once upon a time in a State far, far, away, the people elected a Grandpa for Governor.

The State had been plagued by scandal and corruption and sending Governors to jail, and they wanted to try something different. So Grandpa Gov – a Deacon, Sunday School Teacher, Dermatologist who had clearly never once been so vain as to use any youth-renewing items on his own skin, and doting husband of 45 years to the Sweetest Southern Lady You Ever Did See, became the supreme ruler of The State.


Everything was fine and dandy. Grandpa Gov was kindly and wore his ill-fitting khakis, scoffing at those who suggested he dress like the Governor. He interacted with his staff as if they were his equals and his dearest acquaintances. He continued to teach Sunday School at his home church and would often discuss his Sunday School lessons with his staff. Sure, he looked ever-so-slightly like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons, but he was so down-home and innocent that you hardly noticed. Yes, 2010 Grandpa Gov was the heart-warming trustworthy man that The State needed.

A few years went by, and Grandpa had a couple Grandpa goofs as non-career politicians often do. But overall, he was forgiven by his state because hey – at least he wasn’t getting thrown into the slammer. I mean – he wasn’t even taking a salary as Governor – so clearly, Grandpa Gov was delightfully incorruptible.

Then along came New Girl. No one knows exactly how or why or who was behind her appearance into the fairytale land of state government, but oh, are there theories. Theories that, if printed, would be considered libelous. So use your own imaginations. But what we do know is that he met New Girl and her husband at Church. And gave them both jobs at The Capitol.

New Girl competed in Miss State many years prior, and now had three kids. But New Girl was still young. New Girl was pretty. New Girl was good with the flattery.


Before long, Grandpa Gov started dressing differently. All of a sudden, he had suits that fit. He walked with more authority and more than a little bit of pride. He demanded deference to his position and quit chit-chatting with the staff. And, perhaps most odd, he became the flippinest-floppinest Governor ever on his reelection campaign positions – right after being soundly reelected.

(How about a few hundred million of new taxes?)

(How about a state lottery?)

Yes, it seemed that Grandpa Gov had been replaced by Slick Gov. Or someone had attached some puppet strings to Granpa Gov’s old shoulders.

And then the rumors started.

Nasty rumors.

Open rumors.

Seems like the entire capitol city knew about it.

And apparently Grandpa Gov / New Girl’s Church knew, as they both got their memberships revoked.

Surely not! Not Grandpa. He was such a good husband! Loving and kind and doting and all that. And have you seen his wife? She’s the most delightful, joyful looking little southern lady you ever did see.


She’s basically Tweety Bird’s Granny but with better hair.


But as more rumors flew about Grandpa Gov’s misdeeds, all of a sudden the likeness to Mr. Burns became more obvious. And the possibility that New Girl was actually into Grandpa Gov just seemed nonexistent. Clearly she had some devious motivations.


And then, less than a year after his reelection and soon after their 50th wedding anniversary, The Sweetest First Lady You Ever Did See….

Filed for divorce.

What. The. What. Governors don’t get divorced while in office.

Rumors started becoming very thick. Now the entire state knew what was up.

But it wasn’t until six months later that the people of The State got to hear the truth.

And I do literally mean HEAR.

Right after a previous employee came out and said that indeed, Grandpa Gov and New Girl had been getting it on, a CD of Grandpa Gov’s disgusting phone calls were dropped, behind a gas station, for the press to blare loudly.

No one in The State will ever be able to scrub this from their ears, no matter how hard they try.

Because no one wants to hear Grandpa say…

When I stand behind you, and I put my arms around you, and I put my hands on your breasts, and I put my hands (
unintelligible) and just pull you real close. I love that, too.

It was The Lord Above that blurred that unintelligible bit. He knew The State could only take so much.

It didn’t take long for it to come out that it was actually The Sweetest Ex-First Lady You Ever Did See who had made the recordings, simply by “going on a walk,” but leaving her phone behind and recording – it took less than a minute for Grandpa Gov to ring New Girl.

Nor, once the tapes leaked, did it take long for Grandpa Gov to finish completely trashing his kindly reputation by denying the relationship – saying it was just dirty talk – nothing actually happened.

Uh, yeah. Because Governors call me all the time and say things like that just for fun – and I let them – politics and usual here.

New Girl resigned to “spend more time with her family” (although her husband kept his $90K government job and she seemed to still have credentials to come and go as she pleased – for “consulting”, which is apparently what the Grandpas are calling it these days), and there were many more details over the months, but let’s bullet point a bit for sake of time.

  • The State Attorney General promised an Impeachment investigation, because it seemed that Grandpa and New Girl used state resources to aid and protect their dalliances. (They especially seemed to like state plane rides…ew.)
  • But then, A State Senator got put on the short list to be the National Attorney General…
  • And The State Attorney General suspended the Impeachment Investigation in high hopes…
  • And The State Senator did get the National Attorney General Gig…
  • And Grandpa Gov promoted that State Attorney General to Senator. A gift, if you will. No strings attached, obviously.
  • Magically, for just a second, everyone said “What Impeachment? Nobody said anything about an impeachment. Nothing to see here.”
  • But I guess the rest of the AG office was jealous that they didn’t get rewarded so they picked back up the investigation.

And things got boiling.

A little after a year after the trauma of The Tapes, Impeachment rumblings started happening. And furthermore, the State Ethics Commission found probably cause that Grandpa Gov violated the state ethics law and the campaign finance law, and would probably be in super big jailtime trouble.

Grandpa, meanwhile, continued to say “Nope – didn’t do nothin’ – won’t resign. I won’t I won’t I won’t!”

He fought hard to keep all the proof from coming out into the public’s view, but he lost.

And two weeks ago, an entire website dropped – with a thick report and some serious exhibits of Grandpa’s misdeeds.

As it turns out, Grandpa didn’t understand The Cloud. And he didn’t at all realize that his texts on his Government-issued iPhone were duplicated on the Government-issued iPad that he’d handed down to The Sweetest Wife (now Ex-Wife) You Ever Did See.

And she, again, kept the receipts.

We got to read along as New Girl tried to hide her frustration at Grandpa Gov not knowing how to use his burner phone…


We got to see when Grandpa Gov first learned how to use the Emoji Keyboard…


And a combination of the both.


And most traumatically, we got to see New Girl pen The New State greeting.

Move over, “Roll Tide.” Move over, “Hey y’all! How you doing?”


From now on, expect residents of The State to yell out that greeting. And you better believe there’s already a cross-stitch pattern.

Screen Shot 2017-04-19 at 2.56.51 PMSomebody please put this on a throw pillow for me.

And I made this for you, so that you can always remember Grandpa Gov as he wanted to be remembered…

Bless Our Hearts and Other Parts

But by far the most gaggable moments were when New Girl had to bring God into it – presumably when they started getting caught and were just sooo sad about being mistreated.



(Based on that last text, New Girl missed out on reading huge swaths of the bible (like, say, The Ten Commandments) where God highly recommends not messing around with other people’s spouses.)

All of the above conversations were interspersed with vomits like this…


So much ew.

Sadly, we also got the text message to The Sweetest Wife You Ever Did See where Grandpa Gov accidentally called her by New Girl’s Name. Then tried to just move on.



…And then deny that anything at all was going on when trying to convince The Sweetest Wife You Ever Did See to come to his second inauguration.


I cannot imagine how The Sweetest Wife must have felt dealing with all this. But kudos to her for keeping her head and the proof, therefore being completely responsible for the undoing of her husband’s grotesque misdeeds. As it should be.

But Grandpa Gov didn’t think The Sweetest Wife was “smart enough” to have compiled information on him, and so he assumed that her Chief of Staff was actually behind it all. And so, after a few nasty threat-laced conversations with Sweetest Wife’s Chief of Staff (including telling her that he was Governor and everyone “bowed down to his throne”), she found a rock through her house window and her car vandalized, incidentally right around the time she was giving a deposition to the Ethics Commission.Screen Shot 2017-04-11 at 4.44.46 PM

Yeah. Um. That escalated quickly, Grandpa.

Other “gems” from the impeachment documents included this description of New Girl’s office rearranging…

Screen Shot 2017-04-11 at 4.44.21 PM

And what New Girl had the nerve to tell the Sweetest Lady’s Chief of Staff…

Screen Shot 2017-04-18 at 10.00.24 PM

Why is there a Mr. Burns screenshot for every Grandpa Gov move. It’s as if it was sent to us as a prophecy.


And this, which was submitted as a typical day on Grandpa Gov’s calendar – the one he quit letting The Sweetest Wife You Ever Did See have access to – and the one for which everyone in his office knew exactly what “Hold Time” was –

Screen Shot 2017-04-11 at 4.43.52 PM

Let me do the math for you. That’s one hour and forty five minutes of actually being the Governor and four hours of Hold Time. What do you do for Four and a Half Hours?

Mayberry and Chill, one can only assume.

There’s so much more to this story, such as

  • The Sweetest Wife coming to the Capitol to take a picture of “The Love Bench” in the courtyard,
  • While trying to justify moving Wanda’s Desk (which happened to be too close to Grandpa Gov’s office for comfort,) Grandpa Gov explained that he was pretty sure Wanda had “a thing” for him. Pretty sure Wanda threw up in her mouth a little.
  • When confronted by a dear friend and State Trooper about “the situation”, Grandpa Gov asked him to go break up with New Girl for him. Which he did. But then Grandpa Gov walked in the room and told her “it’s gonna be okay – nevermind.”sterilebackground
  • Grandpa Gov’s sons attempted to trick him into getting on a plane so that they could have him tested for dementia, due to the extreme nature of his personality change. Let’s hope it can all be blamed on dementia, but more likely it’s blamed on Viagra: the tool that lets men be tools for decades past their ability to run fast enough to flee temptation. (Drug companies should really hire me to write slogans for them.)

But we don’t have time for every detail here.

So let’s jump to the happy part of this Fairytale.

On one fateful Monday, the Impeachment hearing began. And Grandpa finally saw that he could deny no longer. So by the end of the day, Grandpa Gov had negotiated a resignation, which included this mugshot and a booking into the county jail.


Just as was prophesied.

Bentley Burns Mugshot

You win some (not being put in jail on much worse charges), you lose some (your wife, your house, your beach house, your state retirement, your security detail, your job, your dignity, your kid’s respect, your….oh that’s long enough.)

There was an hour between the resignation of Grandpa Gov and the swearing in of his replacement. And that one, glorious hour was The Fairytale for The State.

For one, amazing, delightful, fantastic, dreamy, carefree hour, The State was ungoverned.

And that was the best governing they’d ever had.

And for that one hour, everyone lived Happily Ever After.

The End.

You Can’t Go Back.

Chris and I started dating in 1999. It was a previous century – quite literally.

I was 17 and he was 23 and neither of us had much money or culture. As such, our most elaborate dates happened at The Olive Garden. There was only one Garden Of Olives in town at the time, and everyone knew that it was the epitome of fine dining. Situated outside of our biggest mall, it was a culinary delight with their endless breadsticks that were infinitely tastier with the addition of a vat of Alfredo dipping sauce.

The first time Chris took me to The Olive Garden, I knew he was a keeper. Okay – I already knew that but to treat a lady with such delight and luxury as The Olive Garden – I mean – I felt like high society.

We’d regularly wait two hours for our Chicken Scampi and Tour of Italy, sitting out on the front porch with dozens of other anticipating diners.

As we grew up, got married, and had kids, our tastes changed. We learned the beauty of local food, unique restaurants, recipes other than typical chain food. And the fact that our former favorite vat of Alfredo sauce most likely contained at least 18,600 calories.

We rarely go to The Olive Garden anymore, and when we do, perhaps once a year, we go to a newer one nearer to our house. It’s in a quieter location and has a totally different feel to it than The Olive Garden of our youth.

But Saturday night, we had just attended a House Show. Our good friend Ashley was singing with Corey Nolen. It was a magical night – the show that forever changed the way we looked at Ashley, because now we knew that she was born to sing sad, tragic country music. (The album of this fantastic music is currently available for free on NoiseTrade, if you’d like to experience it for yourself.)

It was sentimental, emotion-delivering, and gave us all the feelings.

We had waited to eat until after the show, which ended at 9:30 half an hour past the time that most of our favorite places had closed. On a whim, because we were somewhat nearby, and we were feeling all those feelings, we decided to return to the place of our youth – The Olive Garden – the original one, the one we’d left unvisited for at least a decade.

We walked in and the place looked deserted. The waiting area was empty, the bar looked like no one had inhabited it in five years (and was that an olive tumbleweed?), and the two hosts looked bored and a little high. The highest host slunk in front of us and motioned with one shoulder to follow him. As we were passing by a section, another diner yelled for the host’s attention. He impatiently waved them off and continued to our table.

Maybe we should have taken that desperate attempt for help as a red flag that perhaps the service wasn’t on par that night. But we were in sentimental land, recalling fondly our early dating days.

We sat down in a section that was empty except for one large table – a family birthday party with three small children, one being a screaming infant.

…Seemed odd for 10pm, but whatever.

Oh – and the vacuuming man.

There was an employee forcefully running across every inch of our section with that manual crumb catching broom thingy.

Vink, vonk. vink, vonk. vink vonk vink vonk vink vonk.

As we studied our menus, I willed myself to not be the first person to mention the annoying repetition of the crumb sweeper. I’m too high maintenance. It’s 10pm at night. Ignore it, Rachel.

After no less than five minutes of the growing-in-passion vacuuming, Chris was the first to break. He put his head down and started laughing.

So I leaned over and whispered to him.

“It’s like The Olive Garden has no pride left. They’ve realized they’re no longer at the top and they’re just living it.”

He agreed.

But then, an exceptionally bouncy waitress pranced over to our table. With the excitement of working at the most trendy restaurant in town, she took our drink and appetizer orders.

We sighed in relief. At least someone in this place was aware of the concept of customer service.

A few minutes later, she returned with our salad and breadsticks, then skipped away.

It was at this moment we realized that our High Host had not given us any silverware. I flagged down Happy Waitress and told her the news.

She sighed loudly and headed off to get us silverware.

…Except instead, I saw her chasing High Host down the ramp to the kitchen giving him the silverware business.

We stared at our salad, which ironically we found to be devoid of olives, and waited to have our utensilless status righted.

Ten minutes later, High Host Number Two delivered. We could only assume that Bouncy Waitress and High Host Number One were still discussing things in the kitchen.

As we divided our salad the way we always did (he gets the peppers and croutons, I get the tomatoes and olives except that the olives were invisible this time), Chris pointed out that there seemed to be a bit of uproar behind him. I looked up. Every server and manager in the store was crowded around the cash register, which apparently was not working correctly. We heard grumbles and complaints that the system was down.

As our evening wore on, we began to realize that our poor peppy waitress was just like that one person in the group project in school. She was trying so hard, and doing everyone else’s part to boot, but no one else in the restaurant seemed to be doing anything that faintly resembled a job.

…She apologized to the table next to us that she couldn’t find the bartender to make their drinks.

…She apologized to the second large table sat in our section that got sat with multiple children (who does this at 10:30pm?!?) that they also didn’t get silverware.

…Our food took approximately two eternities to be delivered, long after the breadsticks, Alfredo boat, and salad were gone.

…And when it was delivered, my Scampi had the distinct odor and taste of burnt animal. And, considering the love that I’d been witnessing from the restaurant staff, I was more than just a little afraid to eat it.

And then there was The Loud Crash.

The sound of a dozen dirty plates and glasses hitting the floor and shattering filled the restaurant.

In my line of sight but behind Chris’ head, there was a bus bucket that got dropped. Or thrown. Or shoved into the person in front of him then dropped on her toes. Or something.

And then there was The Explosion.

The waitress facing the busboy that had just dropped/thrown/shoved the bus bucket began yelling. Loudly.

“Are you gonna hit me?? You gonna hit me in front of all these people?? GO AHEAD AND HIT ME THEN!!!!”

I watched as he ran to the back of the restaurant and another employee grabbed the angry waitress’ arm and drug her out of the front of the restaurant.

Chris and I looked at each other and mouthed whoa.

The entire staff once again gathered, no one working, all recapping what had just happened.

They broke up and random staff members went to each table to fill us in on exactly what had occurred and why – because they don’t believe in leaving diners in the dark at This Olive Garden.

“You see, she’s been accusing him of stealin her tips and she finally got fed up with him.”

Our waitress reappeared, still bouncing, but immediately sensed that something had gone down.

She asked us about it.

“Okay – what did I miss? Everyone’s talking but I was in the back getting drinks and it took FOREVER. What just happened?”

After being filled in, she blamed the large table with the large drink order for making her miss all the fun.

Something between loud laughter or wailing wafted through the air. Then it started up again, only farther away. This time we were pretty sure it was wailing, and we were left to assume that the screaming waitress had just gotten fired (confirmed later by more employee/diner gossip.)

By now, we were well past ready to go. We asked Less Happy Than Earlier Waitress for boxes, and she disappeared to get them.

Apparently boxes were as hard to come by as silverware, because she didn’t seem to be returning.

After five minutes, another waitress came by. “Are you guys all right? Do you need anything?”

Actually we’d like a box and would like to leave before there’s any [more] workplace violence, thank you.

“Hmm. I’ll check on those boxes for you. By the way I’m sorry about what happened earlier. I was the girl who broke up the fight.”

Awkward silence. Should we thank her? Offer her the room temperature butt of our breadstick? Congratulate her? We didn’t know.

More minutes.

Frightfully Forcibly Happy Waitress finally found some boxes. “Thank you for dining with us tonight!!”

We got up to leave and she said “Oh! Wait! You don’t have a bag for your boxes.”

“It’s okay. We can carry our boxes.”

“No!! I HAVE TO GET YOU A BAG. They’re just right over here.”

“Really…we’re fine…we’d really just like to leave now.”


She was losing control of her restaurant. She sensed it. But she was NOT giving up on her duties in this class project.

We grabbed our newly bagged food and sprinted out of the restaurant before any disgruntled ex-employees returned.

When we were safely outside, we looked at each other in awe.

“And to think we used to wait two hours for that place.”

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On Visiting The Knife-Happy.


I’ve noticed that there are two types of 30-somethings.

Those that have a regular visit to the Dermatologist to get every millimeter of their skin scanned for abnormalities and are constantly mentioning what they’ve recently had removed,

And those that have never visited a Dermatologist.

I’ve always been in the second group. Not because I have anywhere close to perfect skin, or dislike doctors, but because I have been in denial that I’m in my 30s for some time and would rather believe that I’m an invincible teenager with no skin fears.

This is not to say that I haven’t forced my husband to go and get a bump removed when it started to morph into something that made me feel uncomfortable. But he’s older than me. It’s time he starts thinking about his skin.

Also, I see enough variety of doctors thanks to my Dysautonomia and compromised immune system and stupid wreck that I really just don’t have room in my life for a relationship with a Dermatologist.

But finally, after fighting bravely on my own the war against a pesky shoulder rash for…wait for it…five months (including religiously applying two different prescriptions I already owned)…I decided that I should most likely plan my first date with the Dermatologist.

Over the years, I have asked my friend that is most solidly in group #1 of 30-somethings for her Dermatologist’s name on countless occasions, always intending to grow up and go. I’d even had it pulled up in a browser on my phone for a couple of months. So I scrolled through and found the tab, and gave them a call.

“Yes. I’d like to schedule an appointment. I have a rash that won’t go away.”

“Okay. Would you like a full body mole check while you’re here?”

(Sounds like a nightmare within a nightmare within a nightmare, but might as well get all the services for my co-pay…) “Sure.”

“Okay…the first available appointment is…..June 10th.”

“Um, well, you see, I have a rash….”

“Okay. Without the full body mole check, the first available is….April 20th.”

“Um, well, you see, I have a rash….”

“Okay. Well, if you’d like to see a nurse practitioner, you can come tomorrow.”

“That will work.”

I knew that “tomorrow” was too short of notice to get a sitter for my kids, so I bravely decided to bring my little homeschooling troupe with me.

I mean, I just have a rash. How gruesome could it be?

On Tuesday morning, we arrived and got settled into my assigned torture chamber. The bubbly nurse and nurse practitioner overflowed their joy all over the room as my eyes darted back and forth, looking for blood spatters on the ceiling or suspicious moles stuck to the walls.

Things had happened in this cell. I could feel it.

My rash, unfortunately, was at a dormant stage – of course. It has come and gone for five months, getting much worse when I was on an antibiotic for something else. At one point, it swelled up and looked exactly like the symbol on the old USSR Flag:


(Which happened a mere two days after I blogged about Mr. Putin’s Sexy Wall Calendar. Coincidence? I think not.)

But at this moment, it just looked like a bit of dry skin. It still itched, but Nurse and Nurse Practitioner couldn’t see how very itchy it was and how very communist it had recently been.

“Hmm…just looks like overly dry skin to me. You need to use moisturizer within four minutes of getting out of the shower and here – I’ll prescribe you a stronger cream to knock it out. But let’s look at this bump over here…and this one…oh and this mole in your armpit!!”

They began to circle my shoulder area hungrily, clucking at all of the various bumps and discolorations. I was a DermaVirgin, and they were taking great pleasure in all of the various offerings of my as-yet un-cut-on skin. It hadn’t helped at all that I’d been honest on my medical history form – they saw that my dad has Ocular Melanoma and their frenzy only heightened. “Melanoma is melanoma. You’ve got a first degree relative with Melanoma. We need to check all the things. Melanoma melanoma MELANOMA!! You don’t mind not having any flesh remaining, right?”

Okay they didn’t ask that last question but it was implied.

“We need to take a biopsy of that…and that…and let’s just take off that mole real quick. It won’t need stitches. These will just be slightly pink marks – like you cut yourself shaving. No big deal – it’ll just take a minute.”

A tray magically appeared with three jars (the kind you’d see shrunken heads floating in), three flexible blades, a shot, and a bunch of gauze and blood-soaking apparatus.

And nobody asked my opinion.

I mean, call me old-fashioned, but I think I deserve a minute to consider the fate of my armpit before they slice a crater into it. Maybe I held a fondness to my armpit mole.

They shot me up in all three places to numb the areas so I wouldn’t be fully aware of their carvings. Then, with the quickness of a NASCAR pit crew, they buzzed around me, sliced and diced my arm, back, and armpit, dropped my former pieces of self in their jars, and covered me with band-aids before I could see what they’d left of me.

I did catch a quick glance at their blood-and-guts covered knives, though, and knew that “it will just be a pink spot – like if you cut yourself shaving” was as much a lie as The White Witch promising Edmund an endless supply of Turkish Delight.

The kids and I escaped the Dungeon of Human Samples, but not until after they’d scheduled that “Full Body Mole Check”, leaving me seriously fearing my future fashion statement of Swiss Cheese Flesh.

Thanks to those numbing shots, I was really feeling quite fine, aside from the mental stress, and it was a beautiful day, so we went on a hike in the woods with friends. It was as if nothing dark and demented had occurred that morning.

There were waterfall discoveries,


And boulder throwing,


And rock-climbing,


And cave-dwelling.


I felt great. It was a lovely day. The dermatology visit was squarely behind me.

…Until the end of the hike. When things began to sting. Shots only last so long, after all.

I went home and peeked under my bandages. I gasped at the deep craters that were now a part of who I was. These were not slight pink marks. They were more like someone decided to journey to the center of my body and began digging a hole, then gave up and started somewhere else, then gave up and started one more place.


Over the next couple of days, the abysses were greatly uncomfortable, especially the largest one that happened to be in my armpit, and especially especially when I ran. Sweating profusely into a giant white pus-filled crater is not really something I would recommend for fun and amusement.

By Thursday, the holes named Shoulder and Back had dried up and become less like bubbling cauldrons and more like nice, dry moon craters. But Armpit did not. It began to grow, taking up more real estate under my arm, and developing a nice swollen, red shoreline. Then I began to get chills and fever and dizziness. At first I just thought I was having a couple of bad Dysautonomia days, but I soon realized that it was likely being caused by the vat of infection stirring beneath my arm.

Finally on Saturday, I decided it was time to call about it. The on-call doctor said it definitely sounded infected and called me in an antibiotic – an antibiotic that would heal my armpit, but most likely turn my rash back into a Communist Flag.

Oh – and did I mention that in the chaos of treating my wounds, I lost the prescription for my rash, the original reason I entered the Dungeon of Doom?

Yeah. I’m awesome like that.

So the moral of this story is, don’t allow people to randomly cut on you. Just Say No. It’s a two-letter word. Practice with me. NNNNNOOOOOOO.

“It will be a pink spot”, they say. “Like if you cut yourself shaving”, they say.

Yes. It’s exactly like that. If you shave with a staph-infected three hole punch.