How Vinegar Could Save 73,000 Women A Year From Cancer

Did Backlash Prompt Komen’s Cancellations?

I don’t wear pink and nor am I one to travel abroad in order to have some think-their-saving-people’s-lives professional dribble some vinegar onto my cervix. Mostly this has to do with how manly I am. Too manly to wear pink. And way too manly to have a cervix—at least publicly…

All this cancer research is bollocks. Beyond the pro-life scuffle, controversial profitting, and the fact that prevention and or early detection are not even reasonable goals, is the sour-patch reality that even my great aunt has come to recognize—albeit in a manner a bit differently than my own.”

“Where are these cures? They just keep asking us for money—, but where are these cures? I am not donating anymore.”

So you have cancer? So does every other baffling buffoon regardless of how many times they flaunt their trendy colors and muscle their calves in order to mile-up their donations. We act as if cancer is this every other doorknob gloom. A genetic phenomenon. Something we lounge-up with heart disease, diabetes, and the wheezing pack of asthmatics that won’t last much longer with the windpipes of another, let alone two more puffs.

You can quickly dance ‘dye cancer’ via the tips of your fingers upon the keyboard below them and this will reveal the ridiculousness of even wearing pink, or any dyed material for that matter. But no, we continue to shade ourselves into the statistics of always slightly-more possible every time we gown up, down some off-colored food or beverage, or do away with that color-stripped-by-shampoo-and-a-list-of-endless-products hair via a trip to the up-and-down swirl-me-around chair.

And this isn’t about one color. This isn’t about a common french-fry topper snow-capping your cervix.

It’s about this never-ending ambition to always push forward. Our haste to bury consequences with consequences. The ultimate ignorance in believing that these med-school gypsies or trotting campaigners know anything about anything when they’re dinging at every goddamn door, every goddamn day, whether it be for donations or diagnoses.

There is a simpler way.

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