I've managed to avoid the flu or even a mild cold for several years, but tonight I can feel the beginnings of some malign seasonal invasion. Unless it's more Polonium 210 poisoning. You know, I was on some British Airways flights through central Europe not that long ago.
The reason I know that this weekend will be spent drinking tea, blowing my nose, sucking down Riccolas, and watching a lot of mind-numbing television is because I have had a sudden drop in my vitriol level. I seem incapable of getting apoplectically angry. I am beginning to even feel sorry for Chimpie.
That's how I know I'm sick.
Really, seeing him raving on television has turned from an experience in fright to one of pity. Can't someone get this dude some help? An intervention, please!
Meanwhile, the spousal unit Rotkohl will defrost some of her custom chicken soup and will command me to eat of it until I get better. It's delicious and quite meaty, so I don't mind, but the trouble with soup is you can't eat it while in the supine position, which is the advantage of Red Vines and Twinkies. Oh, this damned sore throat!
Let me ask you this--if you were the intelligent designer of the universe, couldn't you come up with something better than pain to signal a problem? Oy!
2 comments:
Sorry you're not feeling well, Olaf. The good news is that Ms. Rotkohl's chix soup seems to possess some supernatural healing power not unlike that of the almighty Flying Spaghetti Monster. Could she be a prophet of the true Holy One???
You're so lucky to be married to her. Tell her I said HI.
Will do, MB, although she will want to remind you that I took HER name when we wedded, rather than she taking mine, which was, frankly unpronounceable. I wouldn't be Olaf Rotkohl without her.
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