The virus I thought I’d faced down last Monday had an older brother, who held me down while Pestilence smacked me upside the head with his polo mallet.*
In a further stroke of irony—see what I did there?—I’m gonna miss my ‘flu shot today.
My brain has melted and is draining through my sinuses, leaving nothing but an empty, hurting space. So, if I commented on your blog today, I apologize for whatever it is I probably said. And also for the spelling, which is usually the first canary to fall off the perch in the Mine of Malaise.
On the plus side, all this coughing is working my abs and obliques something fierce. Ow.
Watson suggested—from a safe distance—that I hold a Snot Poem writing contest in lieu of content, but I’m afraid y’all will try it.
Instead, I’m going to direct you to another blog. John S, who comments here sometimes, recently posted a poem of his, “Whetting,” that immediately fired up my imagination, as good poetry is wont to do.
Please go read it. And while you’re at it, take a look at his other poems and posts, too. Good stuff.
Meanwhile, I’m going back to bed with a fresh box of tissues and a mug of hot tea.
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*What else would an expert Horseman use?
Earful of Cider 