Here's Your Sign

Moron holding a UPS package: "Bless you. Dang are you sick?"

Swamp Thing: "No, I always wear sweat pants and mucus-coated t-shirts when answering the door at three in the afternoon."

Here's your sign.

For full effect, download "Sick, sick, sick" by Queens of the Stone Age and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I have been as sick as a dog for the past four days, (might I add since when are canines considered eternal carriers of diseases? That phrase is a bit of a segregated classification that if you're a dog, you must be inches from your deathbed, or an unvaccinated surrogate of polio.) Either way, I've been a dog the last few days.

My nose for some reason hasn't stopped running. Again, another stupid phrase. Who thinks up these phrases? Saying that would make one think that the two holed-piece of cartilage strapped to my face is training for a marathon. All I'm saying is that I've had a serious case of wet boogers going on for the past 72 hours.

That made you laugh, didn't it? Wet boogers.

I hate being sick. More than I hate people who don't return shopping carts. All of the aches, pains, congestion associated with it, it can be considered a low-light of my life. One thing I hate the most about being sick is when you're congested so much that you have to breathe out of your mouth instead of your nose. And then you sit there while your mouth dries up and people compare you to a handicapped horse with your jaw hanging open all day. I despise that feeling. And for the past four days people have been thinking that I'm a handicapped horse.

When you're sick, of course there are the morons that ask you the most blatantly obvious questions possible wondering about your current condition.

Moron: "You don't look so good. Are you sick?"

Swamp Thing. "No sneezing eight times and coughing up a handful of wet boogers every ten minutes is just me being as healthy as possible."

There, I said it to make you laugh again, wet boogers.

At times I wish the inside of my body looked like the cartoon world created in the movie "Osmosis Jones". I would feel on top of the world if white blood cells voiced by Chris Rock, and antibiotics like David Hyde Pierce would run down and kill any form of viral illness running inside of me.

But instead, I have to choke down refills of NyQuil and listen to UPS delivery guys ask stupid questions that gave Bill Engvall a career.

I don't know if it's the cold weather, the cough-coated sweater I'm wearing, or the inability of the Utah Jazz to win a home game that is making me feel like a steaming pile of cow dung. But whatever it is, today I feel like a beat up piece of meat that could use another box of tissues to dam up the mucus fountain that's dripping out full blast. Today, I am a handicapped horse.