I am currently in the throes of Le Grippe; the Ague; the Scrumpox. Call it what you will. Dropsy, Galloping Consumption, Scrivener’s Palsy, Scotomy, Membranous Croup; perhaps my humble abode is ripe for fumigation with burning sulfur followed by a healthy venesection. Letting a pint or two midday always does the bilious humours good service.

I do not believe I have contracted the much hyped H1N1 porcine version of the King’s Evil. It is true my mucosa are stove up with a sanguineous crust. Indeed, I find it difficult to breathe and even more difficult to stop sneezing. I, however, am blessed by lack of fever. A most bland version of the seasonal pox has descended upon me, I fear. So no stories of painting the walls with vomit or crapping out the entire operatic score of William Tell in one system-taxing dysenteric explosion, including that bloated overture. I’m fairly sure it will take it’s leave shortly.

Did you know that consumption of fresh, warm camel feces has been recommended by Bedouins as a remedy for bacterial dysentery? Neither did I, quite frankly, but I am tempted to procure a camel for just such a contingency. But I digress.

Then I shall return to regular literary function when my various bodily humours are allowed to properly balance, barring an emergence of the Bloody Flux, however.

Now I will pound upon the wall for sympathy and a glass of OJ from Maw and then endeavor to take a nap.


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