There are wonders to behold in mucal plugs
I hab a code.
There is a certain elegant kismet involved with getting sick at the start of a long weekend. I had intended to do absolutely nothing this weekend. This is no different than any other weekend, but I would have gotten to do an extra day of it. Whoa Nellie. No one can reach the sublime state of total apathy that I can when given an extra 24 hours to become overwhelmingly sluggish and immobile. However, that's just not possible with a cold. A cold makes my body do things whether I want them to do those things or not. My nostrils merrily leak onto my upper lip. My nasal cavities are obviously not wide enough to truly let loose the leaking my nostrils desire, because I can feel the backlog of mucus rising up my nose, into my sinuses, behind my eyeballs, and finally into the inner cavities of my brain. It's congealing around my frontal lobes. My ears pop like I've got a party of mites in there and one of them, the gracious mite host for the evening, is cooking up a batch of flea-sized Orville Redenbacher, extra buttery. Meanwhile, tiny non-union, underpaid, and rabidly ticked off construction workers are busy dismantling my bronchial passages using pickaxes, chainsaws, and razorwire. They're the guys who let in the Spanish Inquisition, which has racked each and every one of my muscle cells for heresy while screaming over and over "NOBODY EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION!" There must be a small elf living in my cranium, because he is now frantically boring a hole through the top of my head as he tries desperately to escape drowning in the rising tide of smoog snot.
In summary, there was no possible way I could achieve my desired state of catatonia these past three days, since my body was collectively throwing a huge general strike / housewarming party / rave / biblical flood / Monty Python movie, and everyone in Smoogland was invited. And, just like anyone with half a brain (no pun intended in my particular case), it was decided by popular cellular vote that there was no better time for a kickass snot fiesta than Labour Day long weekend.
I must admit, I find illness fascinating to experience. Nothing keys me in more to the various individual bodily functions I magically perform than a microscopic bug who starts playing with all the knobs and levers. Oh, what does this button do? *Whoosh* Ooh, insta-enema! And what about this funny-looking knob? *gak* Whoopsie. Looks like we're all going to be taking a bath.
A cold has got to be one of the most successful viruses on the planet. No, ebola and smallpox don't even come close. They're too lethal. They fucked up. That's usually the result of a zoological crossover. That is, some clueless monkey or parrot or mosquito has been merrily harbouring a virus, who in turn has been quite merrily enjoying its long visit with such a kind host, when some errant gamma ray or doltish amoeba bangs into a formerly complacent virus and *BLAM*. You have a queer bug. This bug doesn't get turned on by that chicken anymore. Poultry doesn't do a thing for it. But when that sweaty, barebacked farmer walks by, the virus suddenly has an overwhelming lusty urge to crawl into the guy's nasal cavities. Oh baby, do me like
The best viruses don't want to kill you. They like you. You are an endless buffet and a luxury suite in the best viral hotel all wrapped up in one sweet package. Why would they want to kill you? You're their home.
A cold is a great virus, but it isn't a perfect virus. That's its big mistake. When we get it, it's blatantly obvious we got it. As a result, we invest a great deal of time trying to obliterate it. If we didn't even know it was there, the cold virus would be the world's greatest überbug, master of its snotty domain. The cold makes up for its need to show off in public by having one hell of a wardrobe. Every time it makes a scene, it's wearing a new outfit. It's such a snazzy serial wardrobe changer that our poor antibodies haven't a clue they're surrounded by the enemy. They're too busy looking for the 3-piece pinstriped zoot suit to eat for breakfast to realize that the Gap T-shirt and blue jeans that just floated by was the same snotty brat who broke in 4 months ago.
Sometimes I think the cold virus decided not to be perfectly successful out of spite. After all, it manages to achieve the greatest amount of discomfort with the least amount of disability, thereby achieving maximum whiny suffering without relief. And you can't call in sick to work because of a cold. Coworkers and employers just scoff at you as a pathetic weakling if you wallow at home. Frankly, I think that's the cold virus still at work. I think it has invaded the average North American worker's brain so that, when leaking profusely from every facial orifice and teeming with billions of eager cold bugs, a person still feels compelled to enter the workplace, thereby guaranteeing the endless cycle of contagion from one coworker to the next until the blasted thing comes sauntering back towards you wearing a lovely spaghetti strapped midnight blue evening gown, sits on your lap, and shoves itself back up your nose.
I spent the first hour of my morning arguing with a coworker about the utter uselessness of taking antibiotics when you have a cold. I can't believe there are still people out there who think antibiotics cure colds. I can't believe there are doctors still out there willing to prescribe those antibiotics at the insistence of their patients, even though those doctors know damn well that's a big reason why we've now got bacteria that can drive cars and build atomic bombs in the shed. Antibiotics kill bacteria. A cold is a virus. The reason some people think that antibiotics cure colds is that the average run of antibiotic pills is between 7 and 10 days, and the average run of a cold virus is -- surprise surprise - 7 to 10 days. "Oh my goodness, I'm all better! The pills worked!" It was a bloody cold, you twit. You would have gotten better anyway. Instead, you got better and you created the bug that ate Manhattan. Our immune systems thank you.
Speaking of coworkers, I have dreadful news on the Alien Bossman front. The mound -- it has multiplied. During a meeting in the boardroom, Alian Bossman reached across the table for a glazed doughnut, and I spotted them. Oh horror. There are more mounds. On his arm. Alien Bossman must be a gravid mother, and will soon explode like a giant pod to hurl forth mini-bossmen upon our unsuspecting planet. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Of course, he may just have hives.
Nah. Mound babies. It makes perfect sense, after all.
A few site/technical asides. I've managed to create a groovy, neato eyeball with the sun's corona as a pupil/iris, and I'm now inserting it into anything I can find. I believe I will make some of the resulting graphics semi-permanent fixtures -- the nest-eye on this page, the alka selzeyes on the older entries page, and the eyelips in the guestbook. I still have my many Eyes of Smoog, along with their respective astronomical, zoological, and generally scientific source links on my Eyes of Smoog page for your browsing enjoyment, and I may still ogle you with a variety of Eyes, but for now, let us have graphic peace. Ohm.
I've also become a hit slut. Not satisfied with the anonymous attention being slathered upon me by you fine people, I've become a shameless hussy and signed on for Diarist.net's Clix Top Sites program. I even made my own wee graphic. See there? On the left? Smoog Clix! My throbbing ego would be ever so grateful if you quickly caressed my clix when you come to visit. I've ensured that it opens in a new browser window, so you can quickly shut it upon giving me an empty thrill. Or ignore it. This is the first and last time I will mention it on-site, and don't much care whether I'm rated highly on the directory or not. It simply provides a directory link, and that's all I was really after, internet whore that I am. If it's annoying, let me know, and I'll trash it.
CLICK! CLICK! HURRRAYYYYY! HARRRRRRRRRD!
Sorry -- curling flashback.
Did I mention I'm stoned on 120 milligrams of codeine tonight? I am floating on a wondrous, heavy-headed sleepycloud. Weeeee. My eyes are starting to droop. I think that meanssss##)*dsadf)*(# dsad *)#Grrzzzaarzzz
come hither - back off
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