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Today’s Post Brought to You by NyQuil

Man, am I scattered today. I’m walking around in a thick green NyQuil-induced fog, so I’m feeling even more random than usual. I think what I’ll do today is just post the contextless crap that’s whizzing through my head at the moment. I’ll try to update this as the day goes along (assuming my ‘fog’ doesn’t deteriorate into a ‘coma’), so check back for more nonsense later on. Now, though — let’s rock:

• Is it just me, or has that little ‘beauty mark’ that helped to make Jill Hennessy so sexy on Law and Order turned into a big, hairy full-blown mole now that she’s on Jordan’s Crossing?
• Am I the only one who constantly confuses Boutros Boutros-Ghali with Ruben Boumtje Boumtje? And now that they’re both a bit past their prime, would anyone notice if they switched places with each other?
• I have trouble eating raisins these days. Someone once bet me that I couldn’t eat raisins while thinking of naked old people. So, of course, now it’s nearly impossible for me to eat raisins without thinking of naked old people. *shudder*
• Lately, I’ve been drinking a fair amount of Glaceau ‘vitamin water’, including their ‘rescue’ green tea. Among other things, the green tea contains ‘rose hips’ and ‘lavender’. It is impossible to look manly while drinking anything containing rose hips or lavender, much less both. Even if no one else sees the label, I know they’re there. I may have to stop drinking vitamin water. Damn.
• I just found out that I’m the first Google hit for bovine pee trajectory. I don’t know what to say. I’m just so damned proud.
• Okay, folks — show’s over for the day. It’s nighttime, I’ve taken another dose of the nasty green stuff, and I’m off to bye-bye land. See you folks on the other side. Nighty-night now.

Anybody Know What ‘Pre-Ass’ Feels Like?

Folks, I feel like ass.

Actually, that’s not quite true.

(And I’m not even talking about how it’s not literally true — I think we all know by now that I’m not soft and lumpy and fuzzy down the middle.

On the other hand, when you put it that way, maybe I do feel like ass. Like, all the damned time. I’m gonna go back to not thinking about that any more. Dammit.)

Anyway, what I meant was, I don’t feel like ‘ass’ — meaning sick and stuffy and achy — yet. But I’m pretty sure I’m going to soon. I’ve got the sore throat, and the fatigue, and a little bit of the coughing — even my nose is starting to rear its ugly mucous. It would seem that whatever’s set up shop inside me looks like it’s planning on sticking around for a while. Little fuckers are giving out the new phone number, like they’re gonna winter in my chest cavity or something. Bitches!

So, I’m taking it easy — and going the liquid diet route. Lots of drinks, and chicken soup for dinner, like a good little boy.

(Oh, and a quick word to the wise out there: it’s really not a good idea — and I mean really, really not a good idea — to be watching Fear Factor while you’re eating soup for dinner.

Particularly if it’s the episode that aired tonight, where the ‘gross challenge’ involved two guys racing to be the first to eat half a blendered rat. Read that sentence again, people. Think about how much blendered rat might look like soup, with big chunks of… things that could conceivably resemble chicken. All that was missing was the hair.

And I thought I wasn’t feeling very hungry before I heated up the soup. Oh, mamma.)

All right, now I’ve gone and grossed myself out. Dammit. What the hell was I talking about, again?

Ah, bitching about being sick. Got it.

Actually, though, I think I’m done with that — nobody’s interested in the state of my sinuses, or the relative runniness of my nose, or whether I’ll soon be able to hork up bits of lung in all the colors of the rainbow.

(Well, okay, that last one might be impressive, actually, if you could do it on demand. ‘Orange! Now blue, with yellow polka dots! Huzzah!‘

It’s sort of like being able to burp the alphabet, only… somehow more refined. Just as disgusting, of course, but just a smidgen classier. That’s my story, dammit.)

All right, I’m getting out of here, before I make someone else sick with this nonsense. I’m not really on my game tonight, and I think it’s time to call it a night, crawl under the covers, and re-whine about all this shit to my wife. Yeah, she doesn’t wanna hear it either, but she’s got no choice — ‘for better or worse‘, the man said. ‘Richer or poorer, or fevered and snotty‘. Or something like that — I was kinda drunk at the time, so I might be paraphrasing some of that last bit. She’s stuck with me; that seems to be the take-home message. I may have it tattooed on my ass to remind her.

And now we’ve come full *ahem* ‘circle’ — we started with ass, and we’re ending with ass. Asses to asses, and dust to dust, folks. I’ll catch you manana. Later.

Into Every Life a Little ‘Enh‘ Must Fall

Enh. I don’t feel so great.

I don’t feel horrible — you know, like ‘ugh‘.

I don’t even feel ‘bleh‘, particularly. Just sort of ‘enh‘. And leaning a bit towards ‘oof‘. Definitely ‘oof‘-ish, now that I think about it. And certainly on the wrong side of ‘whee‘, or ‘woo‘, or even ‘mmm-hmmm‘. Enh.

Personally, I blame the guesticles.

(See the last post for details… although frankly, you can replace the word ‘details’ with ‘nothing except the word ‘guesticles’, which I just already said, but never gave you any details about’.

So, really, there aren’t many details to be had back there. I guess I should whip a few up now. Damn, that sounds like work. Enh.)

Don’t get me wrong, now — our weekend housemates are fine people — it’s a married couple the wife and I used to know back in Pittsburgh, and their daughter.

(Who we didn’t know back then, because they hadn’t made her yet. Though I suppose little bits of her were running — or swimming — around the whole time… but I’m not too keen on thinking very hard about that. I’ve shared food with these people. Oof.)

Anyway, they’re a peachy little clan of folks, certainly. But there is a kid involved — she’s about two or so, from what I remember hearing. Cute kid. And highly succeptible to new information — I spent much of the weekend telling her things that won’t frighten her properly until years later. Or sooner, I suppose, if she thinks to ask someone.

(‘Mommy… what’s ‘incontinent’ mean? And how did you catch it?‘

Ah, good times. Good times. Woo.)

The point, though, is that children are known sources — nay, incubators — of nasty, evil germs. And I’m not just talking about cooties, either.

(Although, I’m also not not talking about cooties, necessarily. You never know what’s festering in those little kidlets’ bodies. Bleh.)

Now, I don’t know about the places where you folks ply your trades — or even whether you’ve got trades to ply, or frankly what the hell that means, exactly — but there have been some nasty bugs floating around at my workplace the past couple of weeks. And there’s a pretty much damned exact correlation between the people who’ve been sick and those who spend a lot of time around the wee folk in the world.

(No, ya douchebag, not leprechauns. And no, not midgets, or dwarves, or hobbits, either. Kids, dammit! Kids. Sheesh. Pay attention, would ya?)

Of course, I’ve so far been able to avoid whatever kiddie plague is being passed around. Most of these things seem to be borne by snotty fingers, or filthy toys, or — heaven help us all — dirty diapers of some kind or other. Ugh.

And, seeing how I have next to no contact with any such willy-inducing-disasters-in-waiting, I’ve been safe so far, and spared from the disease du jour.

Ah. But now, as of this weekend, I have been kid-exposed. The little tyke was in our house all weekend, grubbing up all kinds of surfaces with who knows what kind of fluids and solids and gelatinous types of substances or other. At least she didn’t ‘projectile’ anything, as far as I can tell. But I wasn’t watching her the whole time, so really, you never know. Ick.

Actually, truth be told, I’m not terribly worried about the house, or the little girl that was here. Call me a big sniffly softie, but I don’t actually think my current deteriorating condition is her fault, directly. Indirectly, perhaps, but you can’t really blame the kid. She had no idea. Hell, she’s only two — I’m willing to cut her some slack, at least until she’s at the age where she knows enough to ignore me.

(My money’s on eight, by the way. That’s usually about when it happens. Either they’ve wised up by then, or somebody warns them about the weird guy telling them nonsense that’ll take their parents years to sort out.

‘Daddy… does the lawnmower really make that noise because it’s full of killer bees?‘

Like fish in a barrel, folks. Those little buggers will believe anything.)

Anyway, I’m not really blaming this kid for my sore throat and sniffles. I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever pretty little germs she’s hanging onto — after all, she seems to be dealing with them just fine, and she’s a tiny little thing. I mean, I’m a delicate flower and all, but a couple days’ worth of two-year-old girl germs? I’d kick those bugs’ asses. What the hell could she have at this point, anyway? ‘Barbie fever’? ‘Hello Kitty-itis’? Please.

However, if you amp up the volume on those bugs, and multiply ’em by… oh, I don’t know, a couple thousand or so, then I’m thinking I might be in some trouble. Like if, oh, say just for instance, we took a trip to the kiddie science museum in Boston, and walked around breathing the air outsnorted by hundreds upon hundreds of kids for three hours. Yeah, at that point, I’m thinking the ol’ immune system might throw in the towel for a few days. Eep.

So, I’m not looking forward to whatever’s coming next — who knows where some of those kids have been, or who they’ve been glomming onto, or what their little fingers have been stuck up into lately. I could get bubonic measles, or flesh-eating scurvy, or, I dunno, terminal dandruff or something. Suddenly, I don’t feel so good. Definitely tending toward ‘oof‘; much ‘oof‘-ier than before. Urgh.

I think the best thing is to just not think about it — after all, if you believe you’re not sick, then you won’t be, right? That shit still works, doesn’t it? The ‘mind over matter’ crap and all that? I hope so, because I’m thinking that’s my best defense for the next couple of days — if I caught something in the museum, it’s gonna fricking laugh at the Robitussin and Tylenol we’ve got in the house. That shit’s like candy to kid germs, man. I might as well suck down Pez, for all the good it’ll do.

Bah, there I go again, thinking about it. All right, that’s it — I’m off to bed. At least I can’t worry about what sort of loopy underage disease I’m gonna die of while I’m sleeping. And maybe my immune system has enough oomph left to take it out before it gets really creepy and painful. Perk up, there, antibodies — get your pansy asses in there and kill some germs! Don’t make me send alcohol down there to save your butts. Again.

Okay, I’m off to bed, then. Wish me luck with these germicles, and I’ll catch you folks tomorrow or so. Hope your weekends were all ‘whees‘ and ‘woos‘, and not so much ‘oofs‘ or ‘blehs‘. And I’m sure I’ll feel better, just as soon as this kid-spoot gets cleared out. Just don’t ask me to go to a museum again any time soon. Those places are damned dangerous!