Sick Day

Bleh. 

You know what sucks about blogging? I don’t get sick days.  Ok, technically I suppose I do; I do make the same wage whether I’m sick or not.

And I pass that savings, in quality, back to you.

Yah, so you can thank whoever gave me this cold-thing for the quality of today’s blog. Whether it was H. R. Coughn’snots at the gym, The phlegmy mist left in the wake of drive-by shopping cart kid, or the person who left the band-aid in my sink. No matter, thanks to all of you.

And why is it that sick people feel this compulsion to come out amongst the rest of us? Isn’t that why God made spouses? And then there are those who go into work sick. Why? Misery loves the Company?  C’mon. You get the day off paid. It didn’t stop you calling in sick last Friday when you had the emergency trip to Vegas. So why are you so dedicated today when the heat from your fever has set off two sprinklers? Yah, we really appreciate you. Excuse me if I don’t shake your hand.

If I’m your boss, I’m not reading “dedication” in your ability to infect the healthy staff, and especially not when your delirium makes your reports read like nursery rhymes.

“Fuzzy Wuzzy was in sales. Fuzzy Wuzzy sold six percent...”

Me? My excuse for coming to work? Lord knows nursery rhymes can’t actually hurt my blogs. Besides, there’s nobody here but me.

I’m the blogger in a bubble. That’s right, me and John Travolta we’re like “this.”  Ok, more “this,” like before the massage-boy incidents. Kinda the Vinnie Barbarino era “this.”

Although I’m no “this” with nobody right now, because I’m sick. Not even the PirateQueen will touch me with an eight-foot plank. And I blame somebody. I just don’t know who.

Instead, I stay home and dream up ways to get even.

Ways to make my blog viral.

Yah, see what you’ve done? Now I’m dillusional.

Thanks.