I love my wart stick

I have a wart. It’s on my right wrist, and it’s been there for a couple of years.

Over time, I’ve taken to digging the wart out with a fingernail, then watching as the P.W.W.O.L. (Place Where the Wart Once Lived) bleeds profusely. Inevitably, the bleeding ceases, a scab form and then—inevitably—the wart returns. The thing is like crabgrass. Or my aunt. It just keeps coming and coming and coming.

Two months ago, while walking the aisles of CVS, I stumbled upon this …

It’s a motherfuckin’ wart stick. I don’t write the word “motherfuckin'” gratuitously. I write “motherfuckin'” because the wart stick is shockingly gangsta. It didn’t just go after the wart—it attacked, old school. Within a week’s time, my wart was shedding skin. Within two weeks, it was shedding more skin. Within three weeks, it was shedding more skin. Within four weeks, it was shedding more skin.

This probably sounds good. Hell, I suppose it is good. But, at some point, I’d sorta like the wart to stop shedding and just become, well, an ex-wart. Or, properly, The Place Where the Wart Once Resided.

I will say this—the wart stick intrigues me, in that it looks exactly like a Chapstick tube, and surely has been erroneously used myriad times throughout its storied history. I’m not a particularly big fan of Chapstick. But a wart stick to the lips can’t be good.

Final thought on this pressing matter: Wart, the word, sucks. A wart is an area of infected skin. No biggie. So why such an awful name? How about we change “wart” to “clovus?” Or “freenoo?” Something … anything … just so I no longer have to call this damn thing a wart.