On the Road to Total Recovery...
Like everybody else on this germ-ridden planet this year, I have been suffering from this never-ending flu bug that has been hanging around my apartment like a lingering beer fart. This is the same bug it would seem, that has all but decimated the North American public lately to legions of dripping, aching zombies. You could pave a four lane superhighway across Canada with all the accumalated mucus that is currently being expunged from my system as a result.
Just keeping track of all the new developing bacteria cocktails in the news lately like the Avian Flu, Monkey Pox, and Mad Cow Disease is like reading the Daily Specials on Hell’s own cafeteria menu board. It seems like everyone these days is suffering from either the sniffles, the shakes, the shivers, the aches, the fever, or just plain feeling rotten. I know myself, I feel as if I have been on the receiving end of a Hershey Kiss wet fart from the ‘Stay Puft’ Marshmallow Man and makes me want to adapt to a Howard Hughes-type existence and begin collecting my nail clippings in specimen jars and dressing in hospital gowns while wearing Kleenex boxes on my feet.
The situation has even gotten so bad that in an effort to ebb the flow of germs that stalk the workfloor like wild beats of prey, my superiors in their infinite wisdom have even taken to posting Memo’s in the bathrooms instructing us how to properlly blow our noses, wipe our asses, and rinse our hands after we take a piss. What are we, some ignorant, uncleanly, rural rubes timewarped here from our hovel in 1330 Europe, just prior to the outbreak of the Black Plague? Surely they jest? Gone are the days when you could squeak out a harmless fart for the amusement of fellow co-workers without being forced into quarantine immediately afterwards. Instead, now when you so much as sneeze, about half the workplace drops to the floor and rolls for cover under their desks, for fear of contracting the deadly SARS virus!
And as far as the colorful artsy-fartsy signs in the bathroom with detailed point-by-point instructions on how to "precisely" to wash my hands after I do my bid'ness: I am NOT little 15 year old basic life-skills student Johnny Boogermuncher at McDonalds, who needs to be constantly reminded to clean the fecal matter from under his fingernails before returning to work to make double cheeseburgers for the throngs of unknowing healthzoids who, if they were truly concerned about their health in the first place, wouldn't be eating at McDonalds.
Our poor immune systems are simply too discombobulated (Thank you ‘WORD Of THE DAY’ calender!) with their required bodily duties by being kept continually off guard with the changing temperature, all we’re all sick. You can just picture your bad-ass white blood cells in little ‘Rebel With A Cause’ black leather jackets, puffing away a cigarettes while leaning casually up against your liver, coolly replying to the classic question “what are you rebelling against?”, with a cocky and residual “what ‘ave ya got?!”.
Those of you with partners and loved ones, will already have a support unit in tact to cater to your every drip, sneeze, or wheeze everytime you get sick. Someone to coo over you and soothe your weakened spirit with liquids and reassurance that you will get better. What else is a boyfriend or girlfriend for, if not to draw bathes, make tea, apply mustard plasters, hold your hair back when you barf, rub your belly, flip over the Leonard Cohen record for you, and sit on your chest and force-pour cherry-flavoured Robatusin down your throat when you’re not well? It is a ‘for better, or for worse’ arrangement, is it not? And a gallon bucket of snot would certainly classify in the ‘Worse’ category.
As a little kid, it meant getting the day off to stay home, ogle ‘Barker’s Beauties, build forts out of the chesterfield cushions, and genuinely annoy the hell out of your mother. But now, for us wretched working single yobs, being sick is an extremely taxing and lonely ordeal of Biblical proportions. We are left alone to our own devices like marked hermits in the desert confronting their inner demons, abandoned by all others until we have successfully expelled all the cursed spirits from our worn and broken bodies. So, during our ordeal, who mops our sweaty brows? Who prepares our bowls of Chicken Soup, huh? NO one, THAT’S who! Not that I could keep anything of subsidence down for very long these days anyways, but the sentiment would be nice. In fact, I haven’t been able to so much as roll myself off the couch for anything other to puke, hack, heave and expunge other bodily material for the past three days thanks to this evil plague bug. I believe that by now, not only have I run the gauntlet of the suggested ointments, sprays, lozenges, capsules, and rubs as well as some other home remedies that would make the Christian Church more than a little weary... "the power of Christ compels you!!THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!!!"...but by the time I am healthy once again, I will have purchased the equivalency of the majority of stock shares at the Kleenex Corporation, in tissues alone.
So, what else have I done besides moan and whine to combat this illness of mine, and to make myself healthy again? Well, apart from keeping myself adequately dosed on whatever high-grade nasal and sinus medication I can get my hands on, not much. Besides, what else is there you can you do when you’ve been free-basing Dristan, and mainlining Sinutab in the efforts that it will eventually plug all your orifices, reduce the swelling of your glands, unblock your cavities, and otherwise carry you away to ‘Lymphatic La-La Land’ until the sickness has passed, and you are merely waiting until the illness has run its course and still trying to enjoy the buzz in the meantime? It is these hours of doped up states of altered consciousness that serve as the only form of entertainment that you are really able to indulge in while you are on the road to recovery. How convenient that the very thing that treats you and saves you from the total bring of germ apocalypse, is the only thing that is remotely enjoyable during the whole unpleasurable experience . Once on the pharmaceutical of your choice, you are set to really enjoy being sick.
Oh, how I love rising to a morning ‘wake n shake’ Mimosa concoction of orange juice and Buckley’s cough syrup, and then lounging around on the couch with my box of tissues in a stupor, and taking in Regis, Oprah, Montel, and an assortment of French-speaking ‘claymation’ puppets on the boob-tube. There is nothing more confusing and perplexing to the human mind as Daytime Television when you are half looped on flu medication. The extended bombardment of soap operas, game shows, domestic talk shows, and PBS infomercials, all begin to play out before you in one mad non-stop montage of soufflés and cheating husbands like some bad Salvadore Dali painting on three hits of the brown acid.
I would rather attend an ‘All-U-Can-Eat’ pork Luau hosted by Jeffery Dahmer, than suffer through this plight of parasites again. But if I ever do encounter this particular microscopic airborne germ Harpie again, who’s to say that next time he won’t bring his Germ buddies? Maybe my little vacationing virus will quit his big job in the public pool at the YMCA, and decides that he likes the relaxed lifestyle of the rural wilderness of my throat and chest cavities, and where he can still easily venture down across the equator to visit his eccentric STD buddies in the dry-heat Southern Tropics of my underpants; and in particular loves the courtesy Happy Hour ‘Contact C Cocktails’ and complimentary ‘Vitamin B Buffets’ at ‘Chez TigerRabbit’ every afternoon and evening. To germs, my body must seem like a neverending Andy Warhol party ~ and they get to be Jim Morrison. Maybe, these germs will move in permanently and I can look forward to constant bacteria Bar-B-Q’s, games of shuffleboard between opposing cultures, and visits from the Germ In-laws over the holidays. Perhaps, I could just rent out my body now as a huge ‘Studio 54’ Retirement Centre for all retired and dormant germs, parasites, bugs, bacteria, and other contaminates, and become the first ever human germ ‘Slum Lord’. I’ve always aspired to be a ‘Slum Lord’, and who better to cut off the gas and electricity on, eh? “Paralyse me, will ya?! Well, lets see who gets the cold flashes now, Germ Demon!!” Maaaaaan, that would be sweet!
Just keeping track of all the new developing bacteria cocktails in the news lately like the Avian Flu, Monkey Pox, and Mad Cow Disease is like reading the Daily Specials on Hell’s own cafeteria menu board. It seems like everyone these days is suffering from either the sniffles, the shakes, the shivers, the aches, the fever, or just plain feeling rotten. I know myself, I feel as if I have been on the receiving end of a Hershey Kiss wet fart from the ‘Stay Puft’ Marshmallow Man and makes me want to adapt to a Howard Hughes-type existence and begin collecting my nail clippings in specimen jars and dressing in hospital gowns while wearing Kleenex boxes on my feet.
The situation has even gotten so bad that in an effort to ebb the flow of germs that stalk the workfloor like wild beats of prey, my superiors in their infinite wisdom have even taken to posting Memo’s in the bathrooms instructing us how to properlly blow our noses, wipe our asses, and rinse our hands after we take a piss. What are we, some ignorant, uncleanly, rural rubes timewarped here from our hovel in 1330 Europe, just prior to the outbreak of the Black Plague? Surely they jest? Gone are the days when you could squeak out a harmless fart for the amusement of fellow co-workers without being forced into quarantine immediately afterwards. Instead, now when you so much as sneeze, about half the workplace drops to the floor and rolls for cover under their desks, for fear of contracting the deadly SARS virus!
And as far as the colorful artsy-fartsy signs in the bathroom with detailed point-by-point instructions on how to "precisely" to wash my hands after I do my bid'ness: I am NOT little 15 year old basic life-skills student Johnny Boogermuncher at McDonalds, who needs to be constantly reminded to clean the fecal matter from under his fingernails before returning to work to make double cheeseburgers for the throngs of unknowing healthzoids who, if they were truly concerned about their health in the first place, wouldn't be eating at McDonalds.
Our poor immune systems are simply too discombobulated (Thank you ‘WORD Of THE DAY’ calender!) with their required bodily duties by being kept continually off guard with the changing temperature, all we’re all sick. You can just picture your bad-ass white blood cells in little ‘Rebel With A Cause’ black leather jackets, puffing away a cigarettes while leaning casually up against your liver, coolly replying to the classic question “what are you rebelling against?”, with a cocky and residual “what ‘ave ya got?!”.
Those of you with partners and loved ones, will already have a support unit in tact to cater to your every drip, sneeze, or wheeze everytime you get sick. Someone to coo over you and soothe your weakened spirit with liquids and reassurance that you will get better. What else is a boyfriend or girlfriend for, if not to draw bathes, make tea, apply mustard plasters, hold your hair back when you barf, rub your belly, flip over the Leonard Cohen record for you, and sit on your chest and force-pour cherry-flavoured Robatusin down your throat when you’re not well? It is a ‘for better, or for worse’ arrangement, is it not? And a gallon bucket of snot would certainly classify in the ‘Worse’ category.
As a little kid, it meant getting the day off to stay home, ogle ‘Barker’s Beauties, build forts out of the chesterfield cushions, and genuinely annoy the hell out of your mother. But now, for us wretched working single yobs, being sick is an extremely taxing and lonely ordeal of Biblical proportions. We are left alone to our own devices like marked hermits in the desert confronting their inner demons, abandoned by all others until we have successfully expelled all the cursed spirits from our worn and broken bodies. So, during our ordeal, who mops our sweaty brows? Who prepares our bowls of Chicken Soup, huh? NO one, THAT’S who! Not that I could keep anything of subsidence down for very long these days anyways, but the sentiment would be nice. In fact, I haven’t been able to so much as roll myself off the couch for anything other to puke, hack, heave and expunge other bodily material for the past three days thanks to this evil plague bug. I believe that by now, not only have I run the gauntlet of the suggested ointments, sprays, lozenges, capsules, and rubs as well as some other home remedies that would make the Christian Church more than a little weary... "the power of Christ compels you!!THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!!!"...but by the time I am healthy once again, I will have purchased the equivalency of the majority of stock shares at the Kleenex Corporation, in tissues alone.
So, what else have I done besides moan and whine to combat this illness of mine, and to make myself healthy again? Well, apart from keeping myself adequately dosed on whatever high-grade nasal and sinus medication I can get my hands on, not much. Besides, what else is there you can you do when you’ve been free-basing Dristan, and mainlining Sinutab in the efforts that it will eventually plug all your orifices, reduce the swelling of your glands, unblock your cavities, and otherwise carry you away to ‘Lymphatic La-La Land’ until the sickness has passed, and you are merely waiting until the illness has run its course and still trying to enjoy the buzz in the meantime? It is these hours of doped up states of altered consciousness that serve as the only form of entertainment that you are really able to indulge in while you are on the road to recovery. How convenient that the very thing that treats you and saves you from the total bring of germ apocalypse, is the only thing that is remotely enjoyable during the whole unpleasurable experience . Once on the pharmaceutical of your choice, you are set to really enjoy being sick.
Oh, how I love rising to a morning ‘wake n shake’ Mimosa concoction of orange juice and Buckley’s cough syrup, and then lounging around on the couch with my box of tissues in a stupor, and taking in Regis, Oprah, Montel, and an assortment of French-speaking ‘claymation’ puppets on the boob-tube. There is nothing more confusing and perplexing to the human mind as Daytime Television when you are half looped on flu medication. The extended bombardment of soap operas, game shows, domestic talk shows, and PBS infomercials, all begin to play out before you in one mad non-stop montage of soufflés and cheating husbands like some bad Salvadore Dali painting on three hits of the brown acid.
I would rather attend an ‘All-U-Can-Eat’ pork Luau hosted by Jeffery Dahmer, than suffer through this plight of parasites again. But if I ever do encounter this particular microscopic airborne germ Harpie again, who’s to say that next time he won’t bring his Germ buddies? Maybe my little vacationing virus will quit his big job in the public pool at the YMCA, and decides that he likes the relaxed lifestyle of the rural wilderness of my throat and chest cavities, and where he can still easily venture down across the equator to visit his eccentric STD buddies in the dry-heat Southern Tropics of my underpants; and in particular loves the courtesy Happy Hour ‘Contact C Cocktails’ and complimentary ‘Vitamin B Buffets’ at ‘Chez TigerRabbit’ every afternoon and evening. To germs, my body must seem like a neverending Andy Warhol party ~ and they get to be Jim Morrison. Maybe, these germs will move in permanently and I can look forward to constant bacteria Bar-B-Q’s, games of shuffleboard between opposing cultures, and visits from the Germ In-laws over the holidays. Perhaps, I could just rent out my body now as a huge ‘Studio 54’ Retirement Centre for all retired and dormant germs, parasites, bugs, bacteria, and other contaminates, and become the first ever human germ ‘Slum Lord’. I’ve always aspired to be a ‘Slum Lord’, and who better to cut off the gas and electricity on, eh? “Paralyse me, will ya?! Well, lets see who gets the cold flashes now, Germ Demon!!” Maaaaaan, that would be sweet!
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