I caught a cold this week. No biggee, right? Just a cold. Nuh-uh. Wrong. This motherfucker was spawned in viral hell. Sore throat -- as in acid-swallowing sore -- going on six days now. Sinuses filled with lime-green pudding. Eyeballs bulging fluid. A cough that won't quit. Four hours sleep in five nights, total. And breathing? What the hell is that, again?
Still, it made for a lovely short workweek. I went in. I came straight home. And tomorrow's Friday. What the Xians call Good Friday. Maybe we'll have fish. (Only 'cause I can't smell anything. See, I don't mind eating fish in restaurants; I just can't abide my house smelling like a carp's rear end.)
By the way: cold syrups don't fucking work. Tylenol Daytime/Nighttime Cold pills don't fucking work. Aspirin, decongestants, ditto. This cunt ain't afraid o'none o'your store-bought cold remedies. This cold could take over the world. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Llewellen: Chilled fluids with an amber body and frothy white head. And plenty of them.
UPDATE: Unfortunately, the beer did not have the desired effect. Doctor Boogaloo succumbed to the virus and died on Sunday. His body will be mummified and placed in the lobby of the Lunch Counter. Gears and pulleys will provide an 'automaton' effect, while music by the Kinks will be played each time the front door opens. Don't ask me why. That was his wish.
3 years ago