Being sick is terrible. At the moment I am in Los Angeles, California where all things are terrible most of the time already. When you add illness on top of that, you have a whirling vortex of horribleness. My illness settled over me this morning like a thick, smelly dog. A thick, smelly dog that I don't know who wandered into my house from the woods covered in ticks, drooling, and possibly infected with rabies. At first I thought I was maybe dehydrated or just suffering from poker hangover, which is a made-up medical condition whose symptoms mostly just include guilt from spending seven hours sitting at a poker table with eight other degenerate gamblers. Around the time I told the cast of "Good Day LA" that I was masturbating during our interview, I started to realize that this slobbery dog was not going anywhere and that I might, in fact, be sick.
Illness for me is rare. I am almost never sick, which angers my wife to the point where she wishes terrible sickness upon me if only so I can be more sympathetic to her when she gets one of her forty-two annual colds. As it is, I basically tell her to buck up and shut up, which does not go over well when the person you say you love is suffering from a fever and has to watch two children while you go off to work playing make-believe.
On those occasions when I do fall under the weather, I am reluctant to tell her because I know it is a gleeful moment for her and I know that my job as a husband is to keep her from glee, lest she come to expect it all the time. But I did call because my desire to keep her gleeless was trumped by my desire for sympathy. You might think that she would be unwilling to give me sympathy because I am such a bastard to her when she is sick, but you would be wrong because by giving me the attention and sympathy I crave when I am the one who needs it, she is successfully one-upping me in our marriage's never-ending game of "I am a better person than you."
She told me I should stay in Los Angeles an extra day to rest if I am really sick, which is probably the most passive-aggressive thing she could have said. A better response would have been, "Get home so I can cuddle you and spoon you Campbell's chicken noodle soup." But no. She said she didn't want me getting other people on the plane sick. Fuck the other people on the plane. They're not the ones with a new show on Comedy Central. I am, and I need to get home!
These are my symptoms:
• Slight nausea
• Loss of appetite
• Lack of desire to appear on "Loveline" tonight with Dr. Drew.
The "Loveline" part is probably more a result of my illness than an actual symptom of it, but the thought of talking sexy talk for an hour when I am feeling like this leaves me feeling, at best, non-plussed. But I am a trouper, and I like that show and I think Dr. Drew tans very well, so I will give it the old college try. Besides he is a medical professional so maybe he can give me some of that intravenous anaesthetic that Michael Jackson had to take some of the edge off.
Low-level celebrities are dropping like flies. This does not portend well for me.