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Over the years I have steadfastly refused the suggestion that I get my eyes lasick’d. 

My primary objection is that the technique of sculpting the cornea in order to correct its defects was an idea originally pioneered by the Soviets and there is no way in hell I’m subjecting my vision – however poor it may be – to the gentle hand of Ivan.   Indeed, I confidently expect that in about another five years’ time, the original lasic patients are going to find that their eyes suddenly start swelling up and bursting like balloons in much the same way that Ahnold Schwartzenegger’s did in the dream sequence on the surface of Mars after he smashed in his space helmet in Total Recall.  When this happens, I shall be sure to sing the Internationale.

I bring this up because now that spring has come to NoVA and the air is thick with pollen, I have once again entered my annual period of walking around with eyes nearly locked shut and streaming tears from all the bits that get under my contacts.  Indeed, between the red, teary eyes and the runny nose, I look like a coke addict who’s just heard that his puppy died.  And on top of all that, getting bits of pollen under your lenses hurts.

Anyhoo, it’s about this time of year that I don’t exactly start thinking that lasic would be a good idea, but at least I stop making cheap Soviet jokes out of it.  So if you don’t see another post like this one for a while, you’ll understand why.

UPDATE: Mrs. P suggests I stick with glasses.  Of course, I own a pair, but I very rarely wear them in public.  For one thing, they’re about eight years old and the prescription is long out of date.  For another, they tend to make me look like this:

georgewill I mean, if you can live with it, so can I.  But be forewarned.


There will always be an England, even if it’s nothing more than a memory.


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April 2009