Attention acne sufferers - your cure is here (http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,293586,00.html)! No more excuses for those unsightly pustules. Don't waste your money on over the counter drugs that are little more than makeup, visit your friendly dealer instead.

A substance found in the cannibis plant helps the body’s natural protective system clear dry, scaly skin rashes caused by allergic dermatitis, according to researchers from the U.S., Germany, Israel, Italy and Switzerland.

Allergic dermatitis commonly causes acne-like rashes on the cheeks, eyelids and neck, as well as on areas of the elbow and the back of knees. Prolonged episodes can lead to facial wrinkles, thickening of the skin and facial pigmentation. The problem begins in youth and can continue through adulthood.

:woohoo:

:thumbs:

something tells me ES smokes a lot of grass

So there will be no problem treating this like we would any medicinal plant. Grow it. Send it to a factory and have it chemiclly blending into a controlled substance (IV, pill etc.,)?

Unfortunately most acne is not caused by allergic dermatitis. Even if it did get rid of acne, it's too late for me. I've just got scars now.

I have scars too, but they are more the emotional kind than physical.

It's like this; One early morning back in 1987 or so, I was putzing around the house and trying to get organized before I went for an exercise run. I was wearing only my old Reebok running shorts and a pair of flip-flops, and had yet to lace on my running shoes.

I went out into the carport and surveyed the care and condition of the car and the motorcycle, and decided that I needed to check the oil level in my bike. The motorcycle in question was a Honda VT500FT Ascot. She was my black beauty, and I loved her dearly. I wheeled the motorcycle onto the level portion of sidewalk pavement in front of the kitchen windows, and then attempted to raise it up onto the center-stand.

Recall that backing a motorcycle up onto the center-stand involves holding onto the left handgrip with the left hand, the rear of the seat with the right hand, and then stepping firmly onto the center-stand action-bar with your heavily-booted right foot.

Notice I said, ‘heavily-booted’ right foot.

I was of course only wearing the flip-flops, so sure enough; I didn’t have enough padding or purchase to get a good step on that hard piece of metal. The bike rocked slightly aft, and then decidedly forward, and then I clumsily fell forward with the bike. The Honda and I fell right on over into the grass, and I alley-ooped over the gas tank, in order that I didn’t contribute to the total gross weight that would surely bend my brake levers and my right blinkers.

I flipped over onto the lawn in a spastic motion, and came to rest on my back with my feet high in the air. Just as I got my bearings and started to sit up, I was suddenly aware that a pair of early-morning exercise walkers were high-stepping it right on by my front yard. These two ladies laughed hysterically, and pointed at me with their index fingers, their other hand covering their mirthful, snickering mouths.

Did I mention that I was wearing a really old pair of running shorts? The kind with the elastic all brittle and stretched out of shape?

Sure enough, I looked down and realized with horror that, not only had I just executed a triple-flutter-buster onto the lawn with my motorcycle, I had landed in the grass with my male apparatus dangling out in the full view of the neighborhood.

Now I must confess here and now; I am no John Holmes.
Angry hamsters can boast of a better package than me, and on a warm day at that. The Taco Bell Chihuahua is blessed with prouder hardware than this kid, I think you’re starting to get the picture.

I scrambled to my feet, red-faced and embarrassed, and quickly tucked away my Magic Johnson. The exercise-walking ladies continued on down the street, laughing and guffawing all the way. I was mortified.

I struggled the Honda up onto two wheels, and then gingerly set it to rest on its side-stand. I surveyed the damage, and was relieved to discover than nothing was bent or scratched. I picked a few blades of grass out of the brake lever, and then walked shame-faced back into the house.

I called in sick to work that day, and it was weeks before I would leave the house during the daylight hours. I imagined that all the neighbors were staring at me as they drove by my house, and I hung my head in shame every time the exercise walkers strutted by. (Snickering and tittering, no doubt.)

It’s been twenty years now since that cataclysmic day, and I have to confess that I’m not quite over the trauma. Years of intense psychiatric therapy have helped me to deal with my feelings, and of course the knowledge that I have successfully fathered children has helped to validate my manhood somewhat.

But there is a disquieting lack of confidence that runs through my very being, and to be honest, whenever I purchase a power-tool or a Sawzall at Sears, I am always expecting the salesman to say, “Naw, this is a little too much for you too handle sir. Can I direct you to the toy department or the house-wares, perhaps?”

Am I alone in this?

Am I alone?
:eek:

And here I thought I was just finally done with puberty. Damnit.

I have scars too, but they are more the emotional kind than physical.:eek:

HA....that was a good story Sparkser and remember

es' stuff cures ALL scarring....