Down with the Sickness

I have a cold. It feels like I got smacked in the head with a blunt medieval weapon. Like a mace or a quarterstaff (Wikipedia). I don’t much care for it. To be honest.

On a scale of 4-9, being sick gets a 3.

This is unusual for me. I never get sick. EVER. I’m typically immune to everything. Even pig flu. Or bird flu. Or pig bird flu. When people say, “Don’t come near me. I’m sick.” I come near them and make them feel wonderful about themselves. When my wife says, “Don’t kiss me. I don’t want you to get sick.” I say, “I’ll take my chances.” Cause that is smooth and I like my odds.

I’ve always been quite certain that were the world to fall victim to an engineered virus that turned all humans into ravenous, flesh-eating zombies, I would be fine. A-Okay. I would learn to adapt and survive in this post-apocalyptic world with my pet dog, Odysseus. We would scavenge through the rubble once known as “civilization”  in search of food, supplies and other survivors. During the day, we would hunt the zombie people for shits and giggles in the name of science. In the hope that we may find the cure. (Now. I’m not a scientist like Will Smith. So. That last part is unlikely. We would hunt them, though. Of that I am sure. Cause, honestly, what else are you gonna do with your time in that situation? Watch TV? Out of the question. Man vs. Food would not still be on the air.)

But now. With this cold. I just don’t know anymore. Maybe I’m doomed to be a zombie person just like the rest of you.

Bummer.

Ribs

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