Sick and Tired
the commune's Omar Bricks asks death to be quick and non-drowsy 

Monday, Jan. 21, 2002
If there are three sure signs that you’re getting butt-raped by lady luck, they’re these: you’re sick, you’re stuck in a waiting room watching a Behind the Music special on someone under the age of ten, and you’re listening to Aaron Neville.

This past week I found myself with the lady’s strap-on broken off in my poop basket for sure, as I came down with some heinous malady and spent the better part of an hour in some doctor’s waiting room before this mannish nurse-thing told me that they didn’t accept my “Skipper’s Choice: Long John Silver’s Health Insurance Discount Card.” Before I could lodge a protest, or even throw an elbow, I found myself being dumped out onto the sidewalk by a pair of orderlies the size of East German ballerinas. You can bet the double-mortgaged farm that I cursed the commune and their shitheel “benefits package” the whole way home.

According to the Physician’s Desk Reference, I have the Polynesian Swine Flu. I blame that bastard Ramon Nootles. If anyone in this office has been getting up-close and personal with Polynesian swine, it’s Nootles.

I’ve been coughing up some kind of incredibly nasty gelatinous mustard all day. So far I’ve been on the phone to UNICEF, the CDC and MAPO about this, but none of them have been able to help me. That third company actually makes machines that process taco shells, I’m not sure who I thought they were supposed to be.

What’s up with this supposedly space-age society we’re living in? We can put a man on the moon, and write a song about it, but we can’t eradicate these germs? And what about the mosquitoes, and horse flies? What the hell good is the military if we’re at he mercy of these vermin? I’m all for downsizing the military—if by that you mean shrinking the tanks and missiles down to miniature proportions to blow up viruses and box-elder bugs and whatnot. I can’t be the first one who’s thought of this.

I’ve drank so much cough syrup in the last two days that I went to work three times this morning before I realized that I was still laying naked in my bathtub at home, wrapped up in the shower curtain like a pig in a blanket. From there I started going through my medicine cabinet alphabetically, hoping to hit upon some miraculous flu-curing combination somewhere in that pharmacological potluck. No luck so far, but a word to the wise: those herpes pills may provide a powerful buzz, but you’ll also grow a third eye in your asscrack. Sometimes it pays to read the small print.

One thing I’ve learned is that it’s best to buy a shot glass specifically for NyQuil shots. That shitty little Dixie cup they give you is worthless, and trust me, your regular shots will taste like Martian ass from that day forward if you try to multi-task with one shot glass. You’ll never that disturbing tang all the way out.

I feel like I’m sitting in my own head, looking out at a movie about desk accessories. Good God, that’s creepy. I plan to spend this afternoon finding a way to mechanically suction out my sinuses, and also take a jack-handle to whoever’s been piping in this Aaron Neville. Again, I suspect Nootles.

Sweet Lord, let me die. I think I just coughed up my own nuts. Bricks out.