Bubonic Plague

Curmudgeon compound has been brought low by germ warfare.  More importantly; I have been brought low.  Who can know the source of a simple bug? (I’m looking at you  public schools!)  I went from a sweet dad who was caring for his sick kid to the hideous beast guy who’s retching while the kid is happily back at school.  Where’s the karma in that?

Ministering to the contagious. What a screw job that is! (Also I think one of the patients is Popeye.)

Lying there on the bed…hoping I’d die…I came to a realization.  People are idiots.

I was pretty sure my thermometer was calibrated incorrectly because it was registering about 102 and my temperature was more like 387,654.  Was it time for more medicine?  It was pitch black and the grim reaper was standing on my chest so getting up was out of the question.  I’d written down the time of the last dose.  The paper was lying on the pillow.  I found it by rolling my face over it.  I reached for the alarm clock and knocked it, the lamp, and my glasses off the table.  Smooth.  Rather than lean over to get the clock (which would mean certain death) I found the cordless phone and clicked it on.  I was bathed in the cool reassuring technological glow of a blue display.  A beacon in the sea of agony.

I blearily read the paper and knew what the zero hour was.  Now to check the time.  Surely the phone would have it.  No!!!!  All the phone said was “line 1”.   Who gives a shit about “line 1” when you’re suffering?

Suddenly I had a overpowering urge to own a smart phone.  With some sort of drug dosage recording app, and an alarm, and bigger brighter display.  I hear they can be outfitted with infrared thermometers too.  Wouldn’t that be cool?

“No.”  Something from the deep reptilian recesses of my brain fought to the forefront of my hazy fevered mind and said “it wouldn’t be cool at all and you’re thinking like an idiot”.  Abruptly, I fell asleep.

I dreamed I was riding a GL1100 Goldwing in Death Valley.  I own (in real life and in the dream) a special ventilated motorcycle suit so I was comfortable.  Unfortunately my big furry dog was in a sidecar and panting in the heat.  I kept dumping ice water on the dog.  The bike was outfitted with HAM radios, satellite navigation, and bristling with weapons but not a smart phone in sight.  I used the last of my ice water and lashed the throttle mercilessly to get to Barstow.  I passed a wrecked car from the Road Warrior and then some sort of bridge made of Skittles.  No way was I slowing down for that shit!  At Barstow I stopped at a hotel made entirely of ice and a lizard checked me in.  Everything was ok.

Apparently the fever broke when I metaphysically checked into the Barstow Ice hotel.  I woke feeling much better.  I still felt like a train wreck but I no longer felt like a miserable train wreck.  And I don’t have a monthly smart phone service agreement.  I’m gonna’ live.

I wonder what my dog dreams about when she’s sick?

About Adaptive Curmudgeon

I will neither confirm nor deny that I actually exist.
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