I’m a big fan of scientific knowledge, but there is one thing I would rather not know—namely that on the nineteen square feet of skin that covers my body, there are roughly 100 billion bacteria living, partying, and reproducing, all without my permission.
According to an article in the May 29th edition of the Los Angeles Times, researchers at the National Institutes of Health (NIH), who have been studying the genes of bacteria, “found that more than half [of the bacteria] belonged to one of three big groups that made them a cousin either of a bacterium that causes acne, diphtheria, or Staphylococcus aureus, the culprit behind many dangerous antibiotic-resistant infections.” Eww! Furthermore, some bacteria prefer living on the forearm, others in the armpit, the nose, etc. They apparently staked out their territories long ago. One can only imagine a scenario in which, like the Crips and the Bloods, they engaged in turf wars.
“I want the armpit,” says Diphtheria.
“No,” says, Staph, “I was here first, it’s all mine.”
“Well, why do you always get the good parts?”
However this conflict went down, the fact is that for too long they have been occupying my precious epidermis without my permission. You talk about taxation without representation; this is inhabitation without authorization. This is prime real estate here, and I think it’s high time they pay up.
“So, Staph, I hear you wanna build a shack on my forearm. That will cost you $5,000. And, you, Dip-Boy, the nose goes for fifteen grand. If you don’t like it, you can go live in the bellybutton like the other low-rent bacteria, but don’t come crying to me that you have no view, OK? You get what you pay for, you know what I mean?”
You may consider these prices to be too high, but think about it. These gangs are not going to just stay put, are they? No, they’re gonna mess around and try to roust out their neighbors until they win the patch of integument they want. There’s just no living in harmony for these guys.
We’re going to need that money for a United Nations of Bacteria (UNB) to step in and settle these epidermal disputes, and when that fails, and an all-out war has ensued, we’ll have to set up a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to calm things down and start over. We’ll need an Immigration program, too, and identity cards to make sure that foreign bacteria don’t try to muscle in. You know how those Prevotellas and those Rhodoccocci are when they get worked up.
And what exactly do we get in exchange for all this frenzied activity? We. Don’t. Know. That’s what the NIH is trying to find out, but until they do, the UNB must establish some sort of Geneva Conventions because I wouldn’t put it past the Zimmermanellas to invade the groin under the pretext of looking for “weapons of rash dessication.” They are THAT kind of nasty. Remember the athlete’s foot you had so bad in third grade that you couldn’t walk? Well, how would you like that all over your you-know-what? I didn’t think so.
All of this makes my head spin, leaving me to wonder, “Why can’t we all just get along?”
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Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.
