Sick on the Road (sidewalk, grass & ____)
In my last post, notice how I camouflaged the word “camouflage” by spelling it “camoflauge”?
Meanwhile, back at today’s episode: No, it’s not just some old guy reciting his ailments. It is I, the world’s most important person, especially when I’m sick, presenting the life-or-death wrestling match with my intestines.
Any epic global conflict involves alliances, and this battle was no different. My stomach, always eager for attention, betrayed me with its threats to spew.
For my allies, I chose denial (it was like having Lichtenstein protect your flank). Then I enlisted whining, a tactic sure to make even the vilest germ exit in disgust.
The worst part of this gut-wrenching tragedy? I faced it alone, in a motel room barren of Pepto Bismol, crackers or an RN fascinated by each utterance from my every orifice.
Fortunately, my guts did not resort to heavy hurling or volcanic diarrhea. The twin jets could have suspended me in midair. Instead, my guts felt more like a misfiring biplane than jets.
But “the show must go on.” Screw that. I was pondering whether to live or die. But I managed to perform all but one of six shows.
