By Tim Sanders

On Wednesday. August 24, researchers at the University of Michigan released the results of a study which indicated that placebos actually prompt our brains to release endorphins to alleviate pain. What these researchers did was to inject the jaws of 14 healthy male volunteers with painful but harmless saline solution, and then, when the volunteers began to drool and twitch, offer them pills. Some of the volunteers–probably the ones the researchers liked–were given actual pain killers, while others were simply given placebos. During the procedure, which took 20 minutes, the researchers adjusted their lab coats, quietly positioned themselves behind a one-way mirror, observed their subjects carefully and laughed until they soiled themselves.

No, actually what they did was scan their subjects’ brains with a PET machine, which revealed that–SURPRISE–each and every one of the volunteers would be lucky if he graduated with a 0.9 GPA.

But again I am kidding. What they found was that when their subjects were told they were getting painkillers, even the brains of those who received nothing more than placebos produced endorphins which helped ease their pain.

The results of this study are astounding, and prompted a Pfizer Pharmaceutical spokesman to weep with joy. "Just think of what this means! We can charge $17 apiece for sugar pills!"

With all of this in mind, sort of, I visited the parking lot of our local Wal-Mart, to conduct one of those popular "man on the street" interviews, and see what people in Cherokee County knew about placebos.

I got out my pad and pencil, and approached a lady pushing a cart toward her SUV.

"Excuse me, ma’am," I said, "I’m looking for people who’ve taken placebos."

Her response was discouraging. "I HAVEN’T TAKEN ANYTHING! I HAVE A RECEIPT FOR EVERY SINGLE ITEM I’VE BOUGHT, AND IF YOU DON’T GET AWAY FROM ME RIGHT NOW, I’LL ZAP YOU WITH MY TASER AND CALL THE POLICE!!!"

I scurried off in search of another interviewee, and found a gentleman leaning against an older model Buick, looking frustrated. "I been in there three times looking for her, and can’t find her nowhere. If she’s stuck in the restroom again, I could be here for hours!"

I had no helpful advice for him, so I simply forged ahead. "Sir," I said, "I’m conducting a man on the street interview, and–"

"Then you ort to be out on the street, not in the parking lot!"

"It’s only a figure of speech," I said. "What I want to know is what comes to mind when I say the word ‘placebo’?"

He stroked his chin. "My sister and her husband they had one of them red cedar teahouse placebos in their backyard. I think a man from the Home Depot put it up, but it wasn’t worth the money. Pigeons roosted in the top, and pooped all over it. And last summer, when all the cousins got inside it during a thunderstorm, the whole thing–wood rails, paneling, cedar shingles, pigeon poop and all–collapsed on ‘em. Such a kicking, squalling, feathery mess you never seen. If it was up to me, I’d of spent the money screening in the back porch."

I thanked him for his input, and moved on. Just two rows away I spotted a likely prospect. She was an attractive young lady with a pleasant smile.

"Pardon me, miss," I said. "I am conducting a serious, scientific interview. Could you tell me what ‘placebo’ means to you?"

She smiled. "He means a great deal to me. I love all the Italian tenors, but Placebo is definitely my favorite. His music is so inspiring, and his voice just sends a tingle down my–"

I explained that I was referring to "placebo," not "Placido," and she said "Well, if this Placebo fellow is half as good as Placido, or Paparazzi, or the other one with that funny name, then I’m sure I’d love him, too."

Before she left, I told her she had excellent taste.

Then I found an elderly little lady with snow white hair carrying a small Wal-Mart bag. Immediately after I introduced myself, I asked her what she thought of placebos. I made it a point to explain that placebos were pills doctors give patients for imaginary illnesses.

"Doctors often give them to patients with hypochondria," I added.

"Oh, hypochondria. I actually thought I had that, once. My daughter Norma told me I had it. Her and Randall and Deanna and the twins all said I had it. They said it was something in my head. But when I went to Dr. Philpot, he looked into my eyes with his tiny flashlight, and looked into my ears, and tapped my forehead with that little rubber mallet. He checked my head from top to bottom, and told me I could rest insured that there was absolutely nothing in there.

That made me feel better. After all, I have enough physical problems without adding another one to the list. I have that corporal tunnel syndrome, and diverticulotis in ... Dr. Philpot calls it my ass-ending colon. And I had appendage surgery 43 years ago this November 14, and it still gives me awful fits when I eat cabbage. I don’t think they got it all. My husband Earl has problems in his growing area–they said it was his prostrates–and from the way he describes it, I believe mine are bad, too. I’m going to ask the doctor to look at them the next time I see him. And four years ago next month, right after I had my sinuses taken out and my sarcophagus stretched, my limp notes got enraged, and then last year I got three serious rectoral scallops removed, and my high anal hernia repaired, and now my blood ... "

She continued with her litany for several more minutes before I finally devised an escape strategy. "You know," I said, "you don’t look well right now. Your face is flushed, like maybe you’re having a heat stroke. You should probably get in your car and turn the air conditioner on."

She said that now that I mentioned it, she did notice a severe pain in the back of her head, right behind her ears. She said she’d had inner ear problems, mostly in her crustacean tubes, and wished she’d brought her Tylenol with her.

I found a Tic-Tac in my pocket and gave it to her. "These things are great for headaches," I told her. She swallowed it, thanked me, got into her car and drove away.

I gave up on my placebo interviews. I didn’t feel well. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought that the old lady’s headache was contagious. I didn’t have any Tic-Tacs left, so when I climbed into my van, I ripped a button off my shirt and swallowed it.

By the time I got home, I felt much better.