Imma Peppa'

I get headaches from time to time.

Massive, Earth-shattering, eye ball-popping, teeth grinding, hot-poker-through-the-temples headaches. Headaches that make a fifteen week-bender on nothing grain alcohol and black tar heroine followed by rehab where your family visits and tells you that sober and clean, you’re just not as funny as you used to be, so you throw yourself in front of a Mack truck, only to be flipped over into road construction where a steam roller smashes you into part of the new pavement of I-91 look like a ride in Mickey’s Toontown compared to my headaches.

Those headaches are nothing compared to my migraines.

Dresden after the bombing, raised by an order of magnitude.

My mother states that I’ve actually had headaches my entire life. Even as a I child I would come to her, concerned over the current status of shipping safety, or some issue of world deforestation and the loss of potential life-saving drugs being hidden away from the pharmaceutical conspiracy.

Headache inducing fodder even for the most capricious 3 year-old.

Today, I come fully loaded. I have a whole drawer of medication. I can sing, not name, but sing the four major types of over-the-counter pain-relievers by their chemical names to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas”:

Acetaminophen, ibuprofen
Naproxen sodium,
And acetylsalicylic acid
Will make me pain free.

See, just like Emily Dickinson!

I even maintain a small supply of hydrocodone both at the office and at the house, just in case a real five alarm headache hits me. I understand that I can get five bucks a pill on the open market . . . but that’s illegal and I would never condone the selling of prescription medication for a profit.

Black tar heroine, on the other hand, has no medicinal value whatsoever, and so my sale of that fits well with my morale code.

I have to admit, though, that I’m not a big fan of pills. I’ve never wanted to be tied to a medication, and since God has a sense of humor, he gave me Crohn’s disease with a nice attachment to all kinds of fun medications. So I attempt, most of the time, to throw off the shackles of my headaches through other means. On most mornings, Fall, Winter and Spring, I will have a nice relaxing cup of peppermint herbal tea. Yeah, yeah, it sounds poncy, but a day without a headache is like a day hitting the lotto, not, yah know, the multi-million lotto, but a few extra hundred dollars lotto. So if some poncy herbal tea will help keep that at bay, then I’ll live with being called a poncy.

I’ll even live with being called a pommy git, although I’m not certain what that means.

It’s not meant kindly though, I know that.

When the tea fails, and I can feel something of a pain coming on, before I have to bust out the pharmaceuticals, I attempt to use caffeine. And not just any caffeine, but the pure, artistic and luxurious caffeine that can only be found in Dr Pepper. Yes, that’s spelled right, there is no period in the Dr’s name.

Today, however, marked a black day in the history books. Dr Pepper, not to be confused with Mr. Pibb, Pibb Xtra, Dr. Thunder, or Dr. Smooth, is actually hard to come by in most vending machines and fast food restaurants. I can understand this, since the caramel-colored drink of the gods would rightly be well and truly sought after, rendering it a precious American commodity like platinum or good sense. But at my office building, they generally stock more Dr Pepper and Diet Dr Pepper than any other soft drink in the building. Rows and rows of gloriously chilled perfection sit and await the music of quarters, nickels and dimes that precede a purchase. As I trundled up to acquire my confection of joy and happiness, I was stunned to see that all five rows where normally nestled the goodness that is the good Dr were vacant.

Vacant. Absent. Missing in action. AWOL.

I screamed a cry that could be heard around the world like that of Captain Kirk from deep inside the Regula planetoid.

How could this be? Have they no mercy? Have they no shame!?

I immediately went to the internet to see if some tragedy had befallen the good people of Plano, Texas where Dr Pepper originated and is lovingly bottled by folk who know what a soft drink should taste like. After much confusion, I was finally transferred to the National Security Agency, who, understanding the concerns I was raising, asked me to terminate the connection so they could get FEMA properly mobilized.

"Sir, this line is for emergencies only."
"I understand your concerns."
"Sir, it's a Federal offense to call in a false national emergency."
"As well it should be. Otherwise I would never have gottent through! So how soon will Plano be safe? Are you sending the big planes in? What about sandbags, have you thought about those? And guards for the factory? We don't want any looting!"

In the meantime, I've been escorted to a waiting area where I'm being kept safe behind thick concrete and steel bars from over-zelous reporters eager to question me about my quick thinking and lightening reflexes under such a stressful situation. Due to this tragic turn of events, I’ve been reduced to drinking . . . Pepsi. I can hardly make my hand lift the cup that holds the black vileness passed off as a drink.

Misery, thy name is an empty Dr Pepper.

But as I sit, being kept company by a large and heavily tatooed body guard named Bubba who has given me the manly nickname, "Whitebread beyotch," as a sign of appreciation, I am content to know that I have done my bit to preserve the American way.