TheraFlu. NyQuil. Airborne. Ricola. Cold-Eeze. Herbal tea. Monkey penis. Luden’s. Robitussin and Tylenol PM.
I’ve ingested all of these medicines, lozenges, drinks and voodoo cures all within the past week because I’ve been trudging along in a hallucinatory state on account of catching a severe cold.
Have you seen those pump-gun tubes in the back of Taco Bell where the people make the food? You know, the ones that they fill with sour cream and squeeze into burritos and whatnot? Well, my sinuses feel like they’ve been shot full of hummus with one of those jism tubes.
Also, this bout with sickness has left me feeling like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly. Only less Jewish. And not the pumped-up, acrobatic Jeff Goldblum who bounces around his lab like a Cirque Du Soliel performer with ADD , but the wheezy, decaying Jeff Goldblum who barfs on his donuts and who places his rotting body parts in glass containers.
I don’t even know if I’m really typing this right now or if it’s just an intense fever dream. I do know though that my nose is sore, chaffed and swollen and my nostrils feel like they’ve been sodomized by the ass-end of a pool-cue stick.
I also know that, while driving to work the other day, I sneezed and painted the interior of my windshield with a handful of snot, which made the glass look like “Slimer” from Ghostbusters had ejaculated onto it. And trust me, there hasn’t been a squeegee yet that can clean that shit up. Plus, I’ve been coughing up enough green shit to put a bullimic vegetarian to shame.
Yes, I lead an enchanted life.
So, while laying on my bed for about two days in a row, feeling as worthless as a stale flapjack, I decided to, you know, do something, so I crawled over to my Wii Fit Balance Board to do some “exercises.” After dusting off the accumulated porn, I stood on the board with the balance and dexterity of a drunk amputee. Then I started to play the Rhythm Boxing game. It is somewhat similar to the punching-bag game on Wii Sports, only this time you have to step on and off the balance board while throwing punches. I lasted about 20 seconds and decided that I was in no shape, mentally or physically, to even attempt playing the damn thing. Then I collapsed onto my couch and decided to watch some choice selections from my favorite genre of film.
70’s porn.
When men had bushy mustaches and women had slightly less bushy mustaches . Apparently Nair didn’t quite catch on until the mid-90’s. Then my lovely girlfriend came over and we both concluded that I needed a drink. So, she mixed us up two Vodka martinis that included Vodka and even more Vodka. That drink was about 9000 proof and after the first sip my testicles shot up into my body cavity and I’m fairly certain that I am now sterile. And, since my bladder is about the size of a baby’s knuckle, I immediately had to pee. And pee I did, my friends. All night long.
Yes, I lead an enchanted life.
Afterwards, while my girlfriend slept, I fumbled with my remote control, scanning channels in my NyQuil and alcohol-induced stupor. Then, by the glory of the Gods, I landed on Turner Classic Movies.
Yor, The Hunter From The Future was on. My sick-addled brain and body went into epileptic fits of ecstasy and horror. I don’t know how this film got past quality-control, but somebody over at the Turner network needs to seriously read up on the definition of the word “Classic.”.
Then I passed out.
Anyway, I still feel like shit and want to die.
Happy 4th of July everyone!