I’m a sick man

Three days of medicine head later and I've just about kicked the head cold — number eight this fiscal year, for those keeping score at home — that's been kicking my ass for the past few days. There's something about my constitution that has permitted me over the years to soldier on through an assortment of gruesome maladies — several strains of flu, torn ligaments, a particularly persistent allergic rash — but still to be felled, flat on my back, congested and cranky as hell with a common cold.

What can I say? I'm special.

Anyway, it's over, or very nearly. A good thing, too, because one day out of the office — the larger part of it spent in bed — and even I'm getting tired of me. Climbing the walls and clearing the TiVo: cabin fever for the 21st century.

There's nothing on this earth more tiresome and annoying than a sick man. Really. Forget the bunker busters. If they'd only managed to drop-ship eight or nine guys with sore throats, body ache and the sniffles into Saddam's concrete hideout, he'd have flung up his hands and surrendered inside of a day. Anything to get away from the whining, complaining and puppy-dog-eyed pleas for a sandwich, maybe, and some juice? Please?

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