Note: Former Daily columnist David Moss will, from time to time, let us take a peek back into his head in this occasional feature installment.

I don’t claim to be an expert on cancer. A doctor once told me I had a cyst and I thought he was talking about my IM basketball stats, but there’s one thing I do know about this deadly disease: It’s everywhere. Taking a page out of Ron Jeremy’s book, cancer cure researchers are hard at work, but I’m not sure that’s the solution we need. The second thing we learn in kindergarten (after how to write “boobs” on a calculator) is we should treat people how we want to be treated. If we look at how we’ve been acting toward cancer the past few decades, it’s clear it’s only giving us a taste of our own medicine. (Mmm, Hexadrol.)

Just take a minute and put yourself in cancer’s shoes, which shall henceforth be referred to as Nike Bone Marrows. You’re just hanging out, enjoying a growth spurt, constantly receiving friend requests from similar looking, like-minded cells in your neighborhood (Interests: spreading; Activities: avoiding chemo, occasional remission, Mutual; Friends: 5000 and counting.)

Now all of a sudden you discover the world’s most brilliant medical minds have dedicated their careers to eradicating. (Luke Emia: “dislike.”) You’d probably try to defend yourself too. It’s not cancer’s fault it sometimes infects non-scientists because it can’t recognize signifiers like white lab coats, Nobel Prizes and poor social skills.

Speaking of which, this past January my sister was diagnosed with cancer. You’re probably thinking in this day and age she should have been more responsible and worn protection, which shall henceforth be referred to as sun block. In her defense, though, it was cancer season and it was really going around. The point is, my sister took the road less traveled with her cancer and treated it with respect instead of radiation.

After her tumorous mass was removed, she kept it in a jar, took care of it and it became one of her very best friends. One day when she was out walking her cancer, a mugger approached her and demanded money. Instead of giving the former newspaper tycoon her purse, she gave him her cancer. Now the cancer has a home, my sister still has her Noodles & Company gift card, and the evil mugger has a T-cell count that’s lower than the Dallas Cowboys’ jumbotron.

Don’t kill your cancer. Transplant it. Don’t order it around. Negotiate with it. Cancer can stay out of your colon, and in return you can give it a body part you never use like a pinky toe or left hand. Why waste powerful drugs killing death row inmates when there’s an abundance of cancer that can get the job done in tanning salons, cigar lounges and Three Mile Islands? (Mel Anoma: “like”) Just like we learned in kindergarten: If you decide you don’t like someone before getting to know him, he’s probably going to live up to that expectation. It’s just judging without making the effort to learn anything. And not to beat a dead horse here, but that kind of thinking just makes me sick.

Weinberg senior David Moss can be reached at [email protected].