A sort of disgusting but wonderful story.

My English teacher told us all this story the other day, and I feel it's imperative that I pass it on. Mostly because it's apparently a true story. I believe it, anyway.
(Then again, I have been known to turn around and ask "Where?" when people say "Holy fuck, Radioactive Man! The sun's exploding again!" So I'm possibly very gullible.)
A friend of a friend of his went to the Dome, this bar in Halifax, for three consecutive weekend. Every time she went she saw the same guy there, and they always flirted and fooled around a bit, but she never agreed to go home with him. On the third weekend, though, she gave in, and they went back to his place. They STILL didn't have sex- maybe she was waiting for marriage, or something- but she did suck him off.
The next morning she woke up and noticed a bright red rash around her mouth.
"Well, FUCK," says she.
So she went to the doctor's and got a swab done. A few days later her doctor called her back and asked her to come in.
"No, it's cool," she replied. (This is probably not verbatim- it's just how Mr. I-Don't-Get-Your-Ferris-Bueller-References Power talks.) "Just tell me over the phone."
"I can't," the doctor replied. "You need to come in."
"Look," she said, a little exasperated, "If you're going to tell me I have herpes, fine. Just tell me here and I'll go get the medication and-"
"No, it's not herpes. It's... trust me, you need to come in for this."
So she went down to the doctor's office again. He took her aside, sat her down, and told her that she had a rare flesh-eating disease that can only be picked up from dead people.
And that was when she remembered that the guy she went home with worked at the morgue.

The End!