Irrelevant Cheetah

I had something funny in mind when I started writing this. I was going to complain for a while that I’ve been flat on my back for a few days with one helluva flu, but that thanks to vitamin C and Echinacea enemas I have managed to arise from the (nearly) dead and continue to wreak havoc upon those in my immediate intellectual vicinity.

But then I realized that there’s nothing funny about the fact that over the past three days I have lost the equivalent of a humpbacked whale’s weight in snot.

There’s nothing funny about packs of orphaned children huddling around my forehead to keep warm on these cold winter nights. (-20 last night! Yeesh!)

There’s nothing funny about the fact that if I weren’t sleeping sitting up I’d probably drown in my own mucus.

There’s nothing funny about the fact that were I to have visited (and commented on) any of my usual blog-haunts, you would have been left scratching your heads, wondering “Who is this ‘glof’ person and why is he babbling about tonsillectomies and whether Margot Kidder can dance Swan Lake?”

And finally: There’s nothing funny about the fact that I don’t get sick leave, and the fact that I am well enough to return to work means that I am well enough to work this weekend and make up the time I missed thanks to señor influenza virus.

No, there’s nothing funny here at all.

As you were.