When I started moving into my teenage years I discovered something about my father.  He was, beneath everything else, a mad zit popper.

That may sound funny (and in retrospect I have to admit that in a way it is) but to a young teen who is having their first full fleged encounters with the many faceted horror that is known as teenage acne it was nothing less than a form of torture that I felt would have made the Marque DeSade proud.

As soon as he saw the zit you were as good as done for.  Even if he didn’t do anything about it right away you *KNEW* that it was only a matter of time before he would call you over and proceed to pop your zit for you by squeezing it between the fingernails of his thumbs.

To say it was painful was an understatement.  In it’s own way, I sincerely believe that it was every bit as painful as getting kicked firmly in the crotch or getting yourself caught in a zipper.

Once you were called, there was no escape.  No amount of protesting that you could take care of it or that it wasn’t really that bad would save you.  Squirming was not permitted (and sometimes, depending on his mood, could be dangerous to one’s well being.) The dreadded thumbnails would approach in a horrific slow motion pincer movement attacking the offending zit.  He would carefully line up his thumbnails until the white head of the zit was squarely between them and pressure would be applied until it burst.

It *always* hurt like your face was going to be torn off, a feeling that didn’t fade for hours afterward.

All I can say is that I am unspeakably thankful that in my teen years I had only about a dozen or so zits on my face.  I had plenty more but they were all safely out of sight where nobody would ever see them.

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