Here’s the story of Grandmaster Arthur, goat, and zumba.
Something fascinating happened to me this week. For the first time in 23 years, I got a hole in my sock. For so long, I’ve maintained impressive cotton cohesion in my old toe warmers. But no more. Some would argue that knowing this sort of thing is one of the multitude of reasons I’ve never had a girlfriend. You never know what a girl might find attractive, though. Unholy socks might really do it for a gal. I once knew a girl who was really into my tragus. I really thought that was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
Of course, ‘tragus’ is Greek for ‘goat’. So it could’ve been the case that she was a Cockney scholar and was referring to my coat. Maybe there is something in this whole ‘women-being-attracted-to-cotton’ malarkey. I never got very far with that girl. Held her hand. She was sweet. Got in trouble for holding her hand. Deputy Head ordered me to his office after school. Sharpish. I never did go to his office. The way I saw it was simple, really. No one had the right to put a mild inconvenience in the way of true love. Also, school finished at 3:00 and a meeting with the Deputy Head would’ve lasted 10 or even 15 minutes, and that was unacceptable as I would’ve missed the Wacky Races.
A coat was the last thing I needed this week. Not because it was hot but because of the sheer number of other issues I’ve had to contend with. Okay, I know that was a pathetic segue, but it was the best I had. So leave me alone. I’m not well. Sniff.
Yes, I’m on to my fourth week of super-mega-coughing-crazy-madness. Four weeks of coughing. I’m surprised I’m not dead. It wasn’t the intense pressure to see a medical professional from mother and father that got me to the doctors. It wasn’t my brother in Sydney telling me I’m stupid and I need to get this sorted because, despite all the jokes I make, a cough this enduring is deadly serious. It wasn’t even that I wanted to get better so I could help somebody move next week. No, I became convinced a game of scrabble was talking to me. It wasn’t even the delirious nature of a game of scrabble talking to me that made me go. It was what it said. The letters, they arranged themselves into a profound message in my mind. ‘Ally, go to the doctors. Also, dinner is burning’. OH DAMN, ME BANGERS AN’ MASH!
I suppose it says a lot about someone when they take the advice of sentient scrabble over family. To be fair, I have a track record of this. What about that time the radiator told me to stop putting my underwear on it over night on winter days so when I woke up in the morning, my crotch would be as toasty as a knight’s jockstrap after break dancing to the dance version of ‘Adagio For Strings’ played live by DJ Grandmaster Arthur King of Britain? There’s a question you’d never thought you’d have to answer. Then again, I might be getting a radiator mixed up with mother. Happens more often than you think.
I went to a walk-in clinic. There aren’t many ways to enter a clinic. You could roll in, I suppose. But, in general, the term ‘walk-in’ seems superfluous to me. How else are you gonna get in? Fly-in clinic. Belly-flop-in clinic. Harley-Davidson-in clinic. Rollerskate-in clinic. Segway-in clinic. Slide-in clinic. Mime-in clinic. Moonwalk-in clinic. Teleport-in clinic. Transcendental-drug-induced-confused-allegory-in clinic. Hovercraft-in clinic. Zorb-in clinic. Catapult-in clinic. Zumba-in clinic. Or, my personal favourite, running-in-screaming-with-arms-waving-frantically-in-the-air-in clinic. You’d get seen pretty quickly, then.
I sat down in a random spot. Didn’t look around. Kept my head down and found a seat. Eventually, I got bored. Then my mind started to wander. I became scared. What if it was serious? No, don’t be stupid. It was only a three-week chesty cough. I looked to my right to find something to read to take my mind off it. There was a shelving unit with leaflets on it. The first one I saw? This is 100% true, ‘3 Week Cough? Get Checked For Cancer’. Oh, marvellous, I thought. Just what I needed.
Reading it made things worse. Inside, it said that some types of cancer are treatable. SOME! That’s like having your Ferrari repossessed, finding out it’s being sold off at a raffle along with 10 other cars, going to the raffle, getting your ticket, only to discover that three of the 10 cars are Ferrari’s and the rest are Fiats. I’ve just lost my bloody Ferrari, you bastards! Along with the showgirl in the passenger seat. What? There was a showgirl in the passenger seat. Called Doris. I wouldn’t make that up. It’s not like I just want someone to love me. And hold me. Sniff, sniff. Excuse me…
Thank God I had a box of Kleenex handy. Made ever such a mess the other night. My yoghurt went all over the place. I wasn’t having a good day. I sat down to relax, started eating my yoghurt, got hot, put the yoghurt down, turned on my standing fan, went to pick up my yoghurt, only to find it had flown across the room and splattered all over a wall. I ended up using Kleenex. I started by trying to lick it off but had to stop because the wall wasn’t clean and I started seeing Jesus.
I’ll be fine, eventually, by the way. The doc thinks it’s a chest infection and put me on incredibly strong antibiotics. At least some good will come from it. I’ve never been able to swallow pills before. In 23 years. I have an over-active gag reflex. But this week, that’s all changed. I’m proud of that. Far too proud of that. In fact, pride is rare in my life. I’m fully expecting that pride to be quashed fairly soon. Those antibiotics will probably turn out to be a suppository. And when it comes to rectal insertion, there is nothing more humiliating. Oh sure, what the aliens did to me did a lot more damage, but I didn’t mind that because it made my hearing better. I don’t know what’ll happen with a dissolvable suppository. Might create a Mentos effect. I could wake up one morning in the garden with a hole in my roof.
Pills frighten me. In particular, the side effects. What if I wake up with laser eyes? Just because their tests didn’t show up laser eyes as a side effect hardly means that it isn’t a possibility. I’d like to know about that kind of thing. I’d need to plan ahead. Weigh up what to do. You know, what to use my laser eyes for. I could burn a cut into a tree branch to get down a stuck, precious, adorable, fluffy little kitten with the biggest, prettiest, shiny eyes, with a little whisper of a voice from her 10-day old mouth. Equally, I could boil that kitten until it exploded. I’d like time to think about the options, is all I’m saying.
Okay, I’m off. My cough is worsening and these pills won’t insert themselves. You never know though, because the day may come when we develop a method of sentient self-insertion pills. That future scares me, though. What if they become too sentient? They may use their self-insertion powers to take over the world in a terrifyingly uncomfortable invasion. Although, that said, I would pay to see that movie.
I can’t end on a bum note (ba-dum-tish). No, wait, the jokes aren’t gonna get any better than that. So yes, I can end it now.
American writer, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said: “If loving someone is putting them in a straitjacket and kicking them down a flight of stairs, then yes, I have loved a few people.”
Peace Out :|:
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