I usually get sick the week after Christmas . . .
But what this sickness lacked in punctuality it made up in ferocity. This wasn't just the flu, it was the Asian-Zimbabwean-monkey-flamingo-last-dodo flu. It was like SARS, only less pleasant."Surely you're joking," you might say. Oh, no, I'm not, and I can prove it thusly: I . . . was too sick . . . to watch football.
Yes, you heard me. Yes, I know it goes against every rule of manhood, in which a man is supposed to shove the priest giving him last rites out of the way of the TV if someone's going for it on 4th and Inches. I don't care. I slept through most of the second half of the Sugar Bowl and nearly all of the Oklahoma Blows — I mean the Orange Bowl — waking only when I heard the intolerable screeching of Ashlee Simpson during the halftime show. Must have been that darn acid reflux again, huh Ashlee? She made me wanna la-la right into the bucket I kept next to the bed.
I'm referring to this in the past tense, but I'm still sick. This ubervirus is clinging to what little power over me it has left and by God, it's making a stand. It's like a bad World War II epic: the Nazi flu overran most of my body, making especially quick work of my bowels, which obviously represents France here. Then the Allies (pharmaceuticals and antibodies) finally arrived on vessels named TheraFlu and Halls Mentholyptus and established a beachhead. And now, as they slowly recapture territory, the enemy decides to hole up in my lungs, where they're beseiged by the Allies. In a break from the pattern, however, I think one renegade enemy general, just to be a pain, has sped back to "France" to make sure I have a diarrhetic episode once every 45 minutes or so.
Okay, that's it: next year, when I get sick, I'm NOT watching the History Channel.
posted by Marsh @ 12:36 PM
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