Everything Below The Waist Is Kaput

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Sometimes in life we are faced with choices. Stay in and rent or go out to a movie? Nachos or hot dog? Water or wine?

Sometime around three o'clock this morning I realized I had chosen wrong to all of those choices while suddenly faced with another; what do I do with the contents of my stomach? Do I flood the basement or send it out the chimney? I sat up in that instant with a cold chill and a light head. My stomach churned. Whatever I chose, I didn't want to choose it in bed.

But as I stood to rush to the toilet, I swooned. I was fainting. As something of an expert at losing consciousness, I quickly recognized the sensation and laid back on the bed.

My profanity woke Donna.

"What is it?"

"I need to get to the bathroom but I nearly passed out."

I'll spare you the details but with Donna's help I managed to make my journey across the room and onto the cold tile and made my choice. I should have left a breadcrumb trail because it wasn't long before I was back at my porcelain destination. In fact, I repeated the journey, always in the dark, several times before the sun rose.

When it finally did I sent an email to the office and spent the day, between frequent visits to the lou, napping and nibbling saltine crackers. I've soaked in the bath and watched an edited version of Blazing Saddles on cable television.

This is truly the worst part of being sick, day-time television. How entertained am I supposed to be by Cleavon Little silently mouthing racial slurs while holding a gun to his own head? Do the people who censor these films even watch them? Do they get the jokes? Do they get that they aren't funny when they mute the punchline.

All these infomercials, soap operas and mid-day newsfluff shows have failed me. Punishment, I suppose, for choosing the wine, the hot dog and the theater. Next time maybe I'll just reheat some leftovers and rent some hi-def porn on the DVR.

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