People are counting on me, so I must perform. My bodily presence is required daily for seventeen straight days in order to fulfill this obligation. Nobody else can serve.

So what happens when I catch strep throat, or worse, pneumonia? I'm sick, you see. Sure, it's my fault. I managed to get away with wearing no jacket for a couple months, but now my hubris is biting my ass like a rabid howler monkey. I could blame this on last weekend's booze and drug bender. Those always weaken my attack cells. But no. It's probably the lack o' jacket.

The leaves me in the delicate position of hiding my disease and going about my day. If bubbly mucus frogs jump from my throat instead of my usual mellifluous tone, I will quickly repeat my statement and hope the croaky stammering went by the boards with nary a quizzical thought. When my voice cracks, if noticed, I'm prepared to explain that I slipped while scaling a fence. At the top no less, and my testicles were racked most severely. I'll say that I've been prone to the occasional squeak upon sitting down too quickly as a result of the unfortunate incident and that I expect this won't last for long.

Then there are issues of stamina and complexion. I'm likely to shade grey and perspirate upon standing up, let alone hauling heavy equipment through a snowstorm. It will take an iron will to prevent myself from clutching the nearest object for support between carries. To prevent myself from collapsing to the concrete, braying like an asthmatic donkey. To prevent myself from projectile vomiting ugly stews of robitussin, off-brand ibuprofin, and bile.

I'll drink scorching coffee and slog through this gauntlet of unhealthy peril. This weekend will allow me a brief respite, during which I can recuperate and consume hot soups and small servings of whiskey to quell the nauseating assault upon my being.

If that fails, I'm insured. 7:07 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm