No, Really, I'm Feeling Fine

One of the handy things about being sick is that it gives other people something to talk to you about. For example, as I was arriving at work yesterday, I ran into my next-door cube neighbor Marie. She asked me if I was getting over my cold and I said yes, though I was still having some sinus pressure. That inspired her to tell me about neti pots, and for the rest of the way up the stairs she was able to extol the virtues of washing your nose out with salt water.

Then, after we got to our desks, she sent me a video:



Warning: Video contains some disturbing images, including a woman with water coming out of her nose and a really unfortunate sweater.

Why I Need to Start Carrying an Airhorn

Overheard on the street yesterday:


Guy: "So, how allergies work is, some time in the past, one of your ancestors had something and it made them sick, and their body was like, 'Let's not have that again,' and it turned off the gene, and that got passed down to their descendants. And what our company does is, we turn that gene back on."

Woman he's talking to: "Wow, that's really interesting."

Me (internally): "ARRRRGHGAAHHHNOOOOOOOGRRRR."

One Flu Over the Tempura's Nest

That's right, once again I am depriving you fried, crispy (or perhaps soggy, depending) goodness, this time depending on the excuse of a bad head cold. Which, admittedly, is largely finished by now, aside from the constant and annoying need to depressurize my head and occasional coughing fit, but I feel that the lack of full nasal capacity would hinder my judging ability*. Also, it's really hot.**


*The fact that I ended up eating at the (well air-conditioned) Outback at the mall, splitting a steak sandwich with my roommate and getting moderately drunk on very silly beverages, should not be considered as factors in this matter.
**For here.

. . . but I'm Feeling Much Better Now*

Today I woke and thought, "Hey, I don't feel that bad this morning. I can breathe and everything." Then I realized that statement wasn't strictly true, since it was actually one in the afternoon. But still, progress is being made.


*Why can I not find a video of this on YouTube? What is wrong with the world?

Label Me

Just arising from my flu-induced torpor to note that I have added links to all the post labels for the blog to the sidebar. Now if you want to read everything I've ever written about the Olympics or stolen from other blogs, they're just a click away.

Why would you want to do that? Well, how would I know? I don't understand half the crazy stuff you do.

Small, Surprising Evidence of the Existence of Human Kindness

Did you know that if you are in Walgreen's at eleven at night buying something embarrassing, the cashier lady will flip it facedown while she rings you up so that the people in line behind you don't have to see it? (While leaving your other, innocuous purchases, on clear display.) I call that positively decent.

Urrgh

So I'm staying home sick today, curled up in bed coughing and being annoyed with the world. Specifically, the part of the world that thinks leaf blowers are a good idea, and that they must be used every day, in every suburb, at about the time that sick people have finally decided that they aren't going to make it in to work and really want to get some sleep. And do you want to know why they have to do this every day? Because, contrary to popular opinion, leaf blowers do not actually get rid of the leaves. They just move them to adjacent surfaces from which, not having learned their lesson the first time, the leaves feel free to return. Which is all well and good for the leaf-blower manufacturers, and the illegal immigrants in need of employment and the earplug salesmen, but it's a little hard on the sick-and-sleepy.

So What if it's a Made-Up Holiday?

Happy Father's Day!

Carrie Underwood: Gassy and Forgetful?

Carrie Underwood, singer, American Idol winner, and famous belcher has a new hit song, Last Name. And since in the past I have made fun of her music, I thought I ought to make a serious consideration of the lyrics of this one, in order to offer it the respect that it deserves.


It's a catchy little number, I can't deny it, and one that tells a compelling tale of love and desperation. But I am particularly interested the part at the end of the song where (spoiler alert!) she declares that she "don't even know my last name." Now, I'm as much a fan of the impulsive-marriage-in-Vegas-story-song as the next person, but I have to wonder about this line. Is she implying that somewhere in her drunken haze she not only wed a stranger, but also filed a verified petition with the clerk of the district court, waited ten days while the petition was was published and no objections were raised, and then for the clerk to transmit a certified copy of the order to the state registrar of vital statistics, as specified by Nevada state law? Or perhaps that her inebriation was so complete that she has forgotten her own name, and she can't check her credit cards or driver's license because she gave them as a tip to a cocktail waitress around four am? Or is she just an idiot who thinks your name automatically changes when you get married? (Nah, gotta be one of the first two. Nobody's that dense.)

Tempura Obscura

You thought I forgot, didn't you? Or maybe you assumed I just permanently flaked? Either way, the perception is understandable, if not entirely accurate. It's true that I have fallen short on my tempura-tasting mission of late, but fear not, faithful reader! I shall return. It's just that I've been kind of busy, and it seems like I'm hardly ever home, and I was kind of approaching burnout and. . . Okay, they're excuses, and they're lame. But dang it, they're the only ones I've got.

Seriously, though, next week. Promise.

Shoggoth on the Roof

In case you were wondering what next year's proposed "The Trouble With Death Traps: The Marionette Production" will be like (and I know you were), here's some video of the show the same people did this year; a retelling of the Cthulu myth set to the music of Fiddler on the Roof. All involved, including the cameraperson, seem to be enjoying themselves, which I believe bodes well:



Frankly, I am somewhat in awe.

Bad Day?

Well, buck up, because I've got some small primates here who have an encouraging message for you:



I always listen to what my marmoset.

Huh, How Did That Get There?

A friend of mine who has a career in the field of justice (and who must remain nameless here for the sake of her job) is currently involved in a case in which the following sequence of events is featured:

[Cop responds to 911 call reporting a shooting. Arriving at the scene, he questions a potential witness.]

Cop: hey, have you seen a shooter?
Man: no
Cop: hey, have you been shot?
Man: no
Cop: why is your neck bleeding like that?

[cue ambulance siren and SWAT team]

Why Couldn't I Grow Up in an Era With Better Nostalgia?

Hey, remember Chumbawamba? You know, "Tubthumping," that song from back in the mid-nineties that you were pretty sure was about being drunk and getting into a fight, but you weren't totally sure, because of the accents? Yeah, them. Apparently, they have a new song. About Ebay.



I know, right?

Note to Self

Do not read the Go Fug Yourself archives directly before going to bed. Because no one needs to have Kevin Federline show up in their dreams.

Oh, This Seems Like A Good Idea

I spend a fair amount of time trying to convince people that molecular biology is not a field in which mad scientists go around creating killer superviruses just because they can. These people are not helping.