Fever To Tell

I'm rarely sick.  Sure, I get the odd bout of mild four-hour food poisoning or my annual post-birthday hangover, but those aren't really major, knock-you-on-your-ass maladies.  I've attributed my lack of major illnesses to both great luck (knock on wood) or, perhaps, a secret Wolverine-esque healing factor.  If my parents ever took me aside and told me that after birth, I was secreted off for experimentation at a secret Canadian laboratory, I wouldn't be surprised.  Well, I'd be kind of surprised that Canada would have the money to afford a huge Weapon X superlab, but I guess that F-35 money has to be funnelled somewhere.

Sadly, my dreams of being a secret superhero are all for naught, since I spent about 24 hours over the weekend just destroyed by a 24-hour bug.  I had a fever, and the only prescription was more cowbell staying in bed for about 18 of those 24 hours.  It was brutal --- pounding headache, sore back, sore legs, parched throat.  I was a physical wreck.  Check that, MORE of a physical wreck.  I sequestered myself in my room, only leaving to use the bathroom and to briefly step outside on the back porch to curse at the heavens like King Lear.

Part of the reason I've been able to stave off illnesses is my foolproof method of drowning illnesses under a tidal wave of orange juice and ginger ale, the alpha and omega of germ-fighting drinks.  However, this particular illness hit me at a rough time since I hadn't made my weekly trip to the grocery store.  So there I was, having to rely on just water and canned pears.  What the hell did canned pears ever cure?  Nothing, as I'm sure Banting and Best first realized all those decades ago.

Banting: All right, let's try….canned pears.  Now, does the test subject still have diabetes?
Best: Yes.  Yes he does.
Banting: Drat!  Okay, on to procedure #6817.  Let's try….rubbing his toes with a pinecone.  Now, does the test subject still have diabetes?
Best: Yes.
Banting: Consternation!  What other procedures do we have planned for today, Best?
Best: Leeches, being winked at by a pretty girl, mercury injections, laughter, insulin, and yelling at them suddenly like when you're trying to cure someone of the hiccups.
Banting: Hmm.  Well, let's hope we find something soon.  I can't wait to have a bunch of high schools named after me.
Best: What about me?
Banting: You won a coin toss just to be here!  Get over yourself, Best!
Best: But….but….I'm the Best!
Banting: That's the worst catchphrase ever.

The low quality of this sketch may be a sign that my head isn't completely cleared.

Fortunately, I was more or less okay by Monday so I was able to go to work (and, to the grocery store…I'm drinking a can of glorious ginger ale as I type this).  Today, I'm fit as a fiddle and ready to run a marathon, or at the very least willing to watch one on TV for five minutes.  Even better, I just checked under my bed and discovered that I didn't choke anyone to death in a delirious rage and stash them under the mattress a la Don Draper, so that's always a plus.   

Downside: still no superpowers.  Forget the Wolverine stuff, I was hoping my sudden illness was like Peter Parker's feverish night after he got bitten by the radioactive spider.  Then again, with my luck, I would get bitten by a radioactive insect and acquire superpowers, but it wouldn't be a spider; I'd end up as the scourge of both the Toronto underworld and shared housing world as Bedbug Man.