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I'm sick.
I mean really sick. In fact, I'm only assuming I'm actually typing
this right now. It feels as though the monkey from "Outbreak" licked a
doughnut I was planning on eating and put it back in the pack. And
then the monkey used a fake ID to rent a U-Haul and ran over me while
I was eating the doughnut. You know, something we can all relate to.
Everything I'm doing in a feeble attempt to regain my health I
learned from TV. This means I'm currently wearing a girly robe and
drinking orange juice from the container. I don't have bunny slippers,
however, so odds are I'll die.
At the moment, I'm mostly preparing myself mentally for daunting
tasks I know I'll ultimately have to tackle today. These activities
include:
1. Moving
As I sit here dodging pulp, I consider all the things I could be
doing if I were healthy. I'd definitely move closer to the TV and
probably look for my other sock. Also, I've been meaning to start
playing tennis again, so I'd probably also go to Blockbuster to rent a
tennis video game.
All I can think of right now, though, are times when I was actually
sicker than I am right now.
I remember one time I had a temperature of 104 degrees. This number
might sound familiar because I think Nick Lachey used to sing for that
particular fever. For some reason I was at my grandmother's house. I
say "for some reason" because only two days prior, she got all new
carpeting and a living room set. We all know where this is going.
My grandmother approached me and said "Would you like some Chicken
and Stars or would you rather a steak?"
I think the route I chose is obvious: vomit bologna on her carpet.
Which was kind of strange, because I've never eaten bologna in my
life.
I also did my share of hospital time. The year was "eighth grade." I
had Crohn's disease and had to get a section of some weird gutsy stuff
removed. At least that's what the medical dictionary said. As though I
wasn't nervous enough, I was introduced to my surgeon. My surgeon's
name was, and I swear to God this is true, Butch Adolf. I don't think
I need to explain why I was freaked out.
As fate would have it, Adolf was one of the most gentle men I've ever
met. He did a great job and I'm still in good health today (knock on
pressed particle board). The entire hospital staff should be
commended, especially Adolf's operating room assistant Mussolini
Slaughter. The whole incident gave me a good digestive tract and a
really cool scar that I tell girls I got from an angry Heath Ledger in
a mall.
I didn't really have the generic childhood injuries like "broken
collar bone from chasing after a fly ball" or "broken arm from jumping
on the bed" or "leprosy." But I remember one time I hurt myself
running the 100-meter dash for track.
It was my senior year and I actually had a decent start out of the
blocks. I think I was actually in first place for a whole 2 meters,
but then my hamstring pointed to my chest and said "Hey, what's that?"
I looked down and it tore comically.
"Ayeeee!" I yelled, prompting spectator laughter. Luckily my
manliness was saved when my girlfriend at the time carried me to my
car.
So anyway, I'm feeling nauseous and I have to go borrow some
generic-brand medication from my neighbors. I figure Bylenol Sighnus
will be good enough.
Plus my neighbors have been after me to go look at their new couch,
table cloth and cashmere sweater collection.
©2005 Tim Landry
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