Fred, The Intestinal Parasite

So there's two things I extremely recommend when it comes to food poisoning. The first, is to name the parasite something innocuous, so as not to give it an inflamed sense of self importance. The second (and this is most important) never ever run out of mouthwash. There's a saying we used to say as kids all the time. I don't remember, in fact the last time I said it. But I'll say it now, with a slight change to the pronoun. I hate my guts! You know what really blows about being sick in this fashion? It steals your ability to enjoy comfort food. You know what I mean. You're at home on the couch with a nasty-ass cold but you know that when your wife comes home from work she'll be bringing that food that, no matter how icky you feel, will make you feel better. Mine is a McDonald's Quarter Pounder meal and a pint of Ben & Jerry's. Except now, I can't do that. Looks like I'm stuck with large glasses of water to flush that little bastard Fred out of my system.

This weekend I'm sitting down with all my hot little notes in an effort to get my brain back into the scope of "Online". It's kind of like going back to work after an extended vacation ... I don't remember where I left off in my trail of thinking. Perhaps I'll be well enough so that Holly and I can down a couple of shots of Blackhaus and launch into a really exciting writing conversation. (For those of you who aren't writers, I realize this sounds boring, but trust me, it's more fun than evisceration.)

Ugh ... Fred's twisting away down there again. Time to go. Hey ... maybe I could offer him a Quarter Pounder and some Ben & Jerry's ...