SomaCow

I’m fully aware that I am about as healthy as drinking a jar of mayonnaise through a straw.

I eat too much junk food.
I drink too much.
I smoke too much.
I have too much sex. What? Shut up.

I get winded making the bed.
I have to take frequent rest breaks while riding an escalator.
When using a ladder to hang Christmas decorations, I have to establish a “base camp” on the second rung.

What I’m saying is: it came as no surprise to me that I almost died from the killer “Captain Micks” flu virus that Mickey gave to us all.

What DID surprise me was how quickly, and completely, the disease disabled me, and how long it lasted.

I’m recovered now, and I really appreciated all of your “Get Well Soon”, “We miss you”, “OMG it turns out that you really ARE the source of the SomaCow funny, get your ass back there!” emails, but I thought I would give you a private glimpse into my two weeks of suffering, in hopes that it might at least garner me some sympathy b00bie pics.

A Day on my Deathbed

11:00am – Wake up. Open left eye. Rest briefly. Open right eye.
11:15am – Ask someone to please wring out my pillowcase and replace it with one that is neither dripping nor off-green.
12:00pm – Wish that I could remember what food tastes like.
12:30pm – Take the ninth and tenth Nyquil ComaCaps of the day.
2:00pm – Wake up lying on the cold bathroom tile, wondering whether I was headed there to pee, barf or re-apply my hair gel.
3:00pm – Wish that I could remember what cigarettes taste like,
4:30pm – Insert a ShamWow into each nostril. Try to sleep on my back.
6:00pm – Enjoy a hearty dinner of Afrin Nasal Spray and Cherry Hall’s.
7:00pm – Watch “Friends”. Hey, I’m not DEAD.
7:30pm – Wish that I could remember what sex tastes like.
8:00pm – Collapse into a restless slumber for the night, with fevered dreams of Jennifer Aniston rubbing Vick’s Vap-o-Rub on my pompadour, which causes sparks to shoot out and collect into a rectangle that begins to burn my head.
8:15 – Wake up long enough to realize that what is actually happening is that the heating pad has ignited my hair gel.
8:16 – Decide that putting out the fire can wait until tomorrow.
zzz…ZZZ…zzz…ZZZ…

I wouldn’t wish this miserable virus on anyone. Please, please, please, dear listeners, get your flu shots.

And never, never, never purchase butane hairstyling products.

I get it! I’m a big guy! An obvious target!

I am especially conscious of this fact when I travel. I recently had occasion to fly out of state, which means: I had to pass through airport security.

I understand that the fine men and women of the TSA (Passenger Harassment Authority) are there to keep us safe. Especially, they are interested in keeping us safe from dangerous grooming products, as you will soon see.

I was making my barefoot, unbelted-pants way through the security checkpoint. I must have looked like I was wildly caressing myself as I made a last-second check for anything metal that might make the detector beep. I always make the detector beep. I suspect that Geoff has implanted a microchip in my skull in order to steal both of my funny ideas, and that must be what sets off the alarms.

Nervously, I approach the electronic gate of Purgatory.

*BEEP*

Dammit.

They asked me, as always, to check my pockets and then step back through, but I am pretty sure they only do this to rub it in my face that I will always make the metal detector beep.

*BEEP*

“Step this way, sir.”

This time, they took me, and my carry-on bag, over to the side. They didn’t use the metal detector wand thingy on me. They just questioned me directly.

TSA Nazi: “You’re sweating. A lot.”
Me: “Yes.”
TSA Nazi: “Are you nervous?”
Me: “No, I am fat, in Florida, in August.”
TSA Nazi: “Do you always sweat this much?”
Me: “Don’t make me have to speak to you in a stern voice.”
TSA Nazi: “I’m going to open your bag.”
Me: “I’m going to sweat on your podium.”
TSA Nazi (going through my bag): “Hmmm…hmmm…uh-HUH!”
Me: “What?”

He pulls out what is clearly a highly explosive, fully charged, aluminum-plated can of armor-piercing shaving cream. He shows it to me, with a look on his face as if he expects me to confess to a crime.

Me (trying to be helpful): “It’s for sensitive skin.”

He drops it into the blast-proof hazmat disposal container on the floor beside him.

Me: “Ok, sorry for the trouble. I’ll just be…”
TSA Nazi (still rummaging through my stuff): “What is this?”
Me: “Laser fluid.”
TSA Nazi: “What?”
Me: “Hair gel.”
TSA Nazi: “You can only transport 3 ounces of gel, in a clear container!”
Me: “Well, that’s an eight-ounce bottle, and it’s a little over half full. Can you just squeeze some out?”
TSA Nazi: *silence*
Me: “I mean it. I’ll speak VERY sternly.”

So, they finally let me through, after confiscating half of my toiletries.

I put my shoes and belt back on, and moved quickly out of the way, because…well…

The woman in line behind me had a jar of Noxzema.

With a laser scope on it.