Imagine, for a moment, that you’re a cyst. You’re happy and warm, growing slowly inside someone’s body somewhere. Maybe you’re in an armpit, or an abdomen, an elbow or a knee. You’re nestled in a thorax or cradled between two toes.
You’re a nice little cyst. Not really dangerous in any way – although racist idiots sometimes confuse you with a tumor. But you’re not like them. You mean your host no harm.
Maybe you grow a little too large, a little too quickly, causing some minor discomfort in a joint. Then, when the doctor finds you, he wants to drain you and tear you away from your host.
That is, of course, unless your host is Alex Rodriguez.
After all, A-Rod loves himself, and believes that any imperfection on or in his own body, is a thing of beauty. He believes he was carved from a solid block of nature’s marble - and so what if God let his chisel slip a bit. A dimple here. A scar there. A few cysts thrown in for good measure.
So, as a cyst in A-Rod’s hip - and upon A-Rod’s explicit instructions - you’ll be left alone for the most part. Perhaps a bit of draining every so often to limit the swelling.
But when the surgeon goes in to fix the hip, to stitch up that torn labrum, and clean up some loose cartilage, you’ll be left alone. Because A-Rod loves his cysts as much as he loves himself.
And that’s a whole hell of a lot.
A-Rod's hip cyst receives some well-deserved pampering after the recent media onslaught.
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