I am home today, sick as can be. After an exhaustive analysis of my symptoms, and a comprehensive search of case studies at the web site for the National Institutes of Health, I rejected some of the preliminary diagnoses, which included diphtheria, the West Indian dry gripes, and Ondine’s curse, and settled on the common cold.
I rarely get colds, which is why, when I do catch one, I find it particularly annoying. Clogged sinuses, head like a cast-iron door-stop. You know how it is. So, if my posts today turn out to be rubbish, just chalk it up to illness.
I mean, if they turn out to be more rubbishy than usual. For example, I saw a news item about the actress, Viola Davis, who won two Screen Actors’ Guild awards. I had no idea who she was until I read the article, but in a fit of completely irrelevant word association, I was suddenly seized by a desire to write a farcical story about a fictional rural cousin named Cello Hunneycutt.
See what I mean? Only a temporary abatement of my delirium prevented me from cobbling together some preposterous yarn and inflicting it on my unsuspecting readers.
Dang! Where’s the Vick’s vapor rub?