That Darn Bug

Lord have mercy. I've taken a couple of ass-kickings in my life, but nothing like this. Whatever this bug is that's going around, I got it in spades. My wife, Melody, caught it first and although I tried to be a dutiful husband, I kept what I thought to be a safe distance. No such luck. It's a good thing I like my wife because we've been holed up over here since before Christmas. In fact, my holiday gift from Melody was the flu. I self-medicated for a New Year's Eve gig with Eddie Harrison and the Shortkuts, and then forgot the words to "Brown-Eyed Girl," which I've probably performed more times than Van Morrison. I sang some nonsense syllables until the audience began looking at me with shock and disdain. At midnight, I hid behind some equipment cases to avoid any drunken sloppy kisses, and that was just from the men. But I shook a lot of hands. The next day, I expected to be hoarse and sore from all the popping and locking I was doing on stage, but "wham." You've heard the old story about the man who was so sick, one minute he was afraid he was going to die, and the next minute he was afraid he wasn't? So, I'm assuming that if you're reading this, I must still be among the living. Of course, that's just an assumption.

I didn't mind the hallucinations. I dodged the flying monkeys, but then a leopard came into the room, leaped up on the bed and started going for my ears. It took a second to realize that it was just Nancy, the giant speckled pup. She mauled me anyway. Then I began to cough. I coughed so hard that I injured the pulmonary artery leading from my pelvis to my leg. I thought maybe I could get in on that class-action lawsuit they keep advertising about problems with pelvic mesh, but it was just my drawers. Then I was convinced that I had coughed myself into a hiatal hernia and had to check online to see where my hiatus was. I was reminded of the funeral procession that was going down Lombardy Street in San Francisco. The hearse hit a bump, the doors flew open, and the casket began toppling end over end until it crashed through a drug store window and rolled right up to the pharmacy counter. The lid sprang open, the corpse sat up and asked the druggist, "Got anything to stop this coffin?" So, in honor of Elvis' 80th birthday, Melody went out and bought some cough syrup for me. Back in the day, Elvis used to drink a little syrup. I remember sitting on the porch at Graceland, swilling cough medicine with Elvis while advising him on which direction his career should take. Wait a minute, that might have been a dream. Speaking of Elvis, what possible reason could Graceland's new owners have for selling his planes? The Memphis Belle is gone, the Zippin Pippen is in Green Bay, and the Mid-South Coliseum has a date with the wrecking ball. Please leave Elvis' air force alone. Do they need the room for another gift shop selling Elvis shot glasses? This is why we can't have nice things.

On Elvis' birthday, we tried to watch a televised medley of his movies, but they were all the crappy ones from the sixties, after the Colonel had turned over the soundtracks to his hack songwriter pals in return for kickbacks on the publishing. On the Today Show, however, they dragged Priscilla out of whatever crypt she sleeps in during the day and put her right in the foyer of Graceland as if she were the doyenne of the mansion. Maybe I'm mistaken, but didn't she move out in 1972? No wonder Elvis moved to Butte, Montana to work in a salvage-yard. But enough about Elvis- let's discuss the teaming of Kanye West and Paul McCartney for a new recording. Social media taught me that a lot of Kanye's fans didn't know who Sir Paul is, which made me want to slap their parents. One clueless soul tweeted, "Don't know who this Paul McCartney is, but thanks to Kanye, his career 'bout to blow up." Strangely enough, I agree with that assessment. Paul has all the money in the world. What could possibly possess him to record a song with Kanye? Didn't he learn his lesson from that heinous duet he did with Michael Jackson? Paul has fallen a couple of notches to my least favorite Beatle.

What was that? I thought I saw light creeping through the blinds, so it's either dusk or dawn. I've lost track. The other night, the only thing that felt good on my throat was Pepsi, so I drank three cans. The sickness still enveloped me, but I was so gacked up on caffeine, I was able to stay wide awake to enjoy every moment. Melody said to gargle, but I thought she called me a gargoyle. I've also been having wild dreams and earworms, which are songs that creep into your head and won't leave. I woke up in the middle of the night and had to go, but I was too weak to stand. So, I'm sitting there with my head in my hands when suddenly the theme from Rocky starts to play. I hate that song. All day, I'm hearing, "Feeling strong now," but the song only made me sicker. Today, Dolly Parton was singing, "9 to 5," in my brain, which wasn't quite as bad. I thought I might be getting a touch of that Eisenhower's disease. That's when you feel an unquenchable desire to go out and build interstates. The flu has been rough, but we'll continue to binge-watch episodes of Family Feud with Steve Harvey until we're better. Through all of this, I haven't lost my faith. I saw the Cowboys lose to Green Bay on a controversial last minute call, sending Johnny Jones back to his billion dollar football palace, and that horrid person, Chris Christie and his lucky orange sweater back to either Hell or New Jersey. So there is a God.