I am not sure if the bubonic plague (is that the one that they called the Black Death?) still exists elsewhere in the world. I am, however, convinced that I have it at this very moment -- and it is proving itself immune to the powers of modern science's finest defense measure: Tylenol Cold Medicine. I should perhaps call the CDC - - they will want in on this news: Horsham businessman, struck down in the prime of his post midlife crisis years, wavers on death's doorstep. Plague fans rejoice worldwide.
Oh, sure, call my headline hyperbole -- it's not your body that is racked with sneaky little chills that a 20-minute soak in the hot -- I'm talking scalding -- tub couldn't dent, nor do you suffer with a cough that is as persistent as Aunt Nellie Matilda (she always went by two names) seeking wet kisses from five-year olds on Christmas Day, 1954 in Savannah, Georgia.
(To say I was scarred by THAT experience is an understatement.)
Anyway, the plague is here -- and I've got it -- and I am less than happy.
Let's set the record straight (a preemptive move designed to ward off any sarcastic commentary from my wife and family): I am something of a huge baby in matters of discomfort or pain. I do not just dislike it, I abhor it. I cannot stomach it. I cannot bear its stench. I cannot . . .
(sfx: man coughing fitfully against backdrop of noise coming from furniture being kicked, lamps and books being thrown about, finally a scream reminsicent of cries for Stella in a Streetcar Named Desire: "helppppp me, sweet providence, hellllppp meeeeeeeeee")
Fade to black.
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