‘Tis The Season

As surely as night follows day and disgust follows an election, the flu follows January. Not the actual flu this year, just one of the many mundane illnesses that shows up and fucks everything.

It showed up like rust on a fender. Nothing big. No cause for alarm. That’s how it infiltrated the property. As always, it came riding on one of the smaller Compound denizens. I’ve often said that nobody who weighs less than a Labrador standing on a bag of feed should be allowed to leave the premises when germs are afoot. “You’re paranoid.” They tell me. I considered a road trip. Were my services needed somewhere safe? Maybe a toxic waste dump in New Jersey? A crack house cleanup in Detroit? Alas no. I stayed. What a fool!

Then came the coughing. The fevers. The whining.

Actually it was worse than that. No whining. Just a sort of resigned endurance; exhaustion, misery in silence. When kids stop whining you know it’s some serious shit. Manfully braving ickiness, I did my best Florence Nightingale routine. Shortly thereafter I was nailed too.

That’s it! You can all fend for yourself, the Curmudgeon is going to bed. I crawled under a blanket and stayed there a couple days. Unlike the smaller members of the household, I whined! Meanwhile Mrs. Curmudgeon fell prey.

“This is it.” Thought I. There’s nobody healthy but the cat and the dog. The dog can’t drive me to the doctor and the cat would let me die just to enjoy the show. The dog agreed. We were doomed.

Then, after a single day in convalescence, Mrs. Curmudgeon popped up bright and chipper and fled for work. I felt better too. So did the smaller components of the household. As soon as I was sure they were no longer disease vectors I packed them off to the sanatorium that they call a school. I had a fever and some grit in the carboretors but I clocked back into work.

Then; round two!

The bacteria, or viri, or creeping crud, or whatever you call it, came off the mat swinging and it had my number. I was pounded to dust, reconstituted as misery, passed through the bowels of regret, ripped from the lungs of despair, and in many other ways endured gross metaphors. Apparently I was going to miss more work.

Round 1 sucked but round 2 is playing for keeps.

Stay tuned for whiny unpleasant updates.


About Adaptive Curmudgeon

I will neither confirm nor deny that I actually exist.
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4 Responses to ‘Tis The Season

  1. Mark Matis says:

    Appropriate amounts of alcohol tend to make the misery disappear. Of course, the hangover may be worse than the original problem. But as long as there’s “hair of the dog” available…

    I also understand that the Chinese believe that eating stir-fried cat will cure such ailments rapidly…

  2. Heath J says:

    Bourbon might not be a proper cure, but it makes being sick a hell of a lot more fun…

    I recommend a taser or .17 hmr (or both) for dealing with the cat. Useless creatures.

  3. Joel says:

    Hope you feel better soon.

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