I’m writing today’s column from The Office of Medical Terror, otherwise known as my bedroom.
I’m doing this because a monster truck of influenza ran over me, then backed up and ran over me again, and afterwards dumped a load of pneumonia on me. The truck also hit my wife at the same time, and turned our house into a disease-ridden wailing ward that we might have to burn down … a popular Comox Valley solution.
I should have gone to the doctor right away, but I figured he would be busy finishing junior high school.
Instead, I self-enrolled myself in the latest scientific treatment for my current condition, which consists primarily of lying around on the couch watching the popular daytime television show called “Whatever’s On,” and drinking enough water to lower the neighborhood aquifer.
During the commercial breaks, when I was able to stay in the room, I enjoyed voluminous advertising for all kinds of new drugs, with names like Confusadril, Preventidrool, Krazyglucosamine and Miketycin.
Each one sounded like just what I needed, because I might be that one person in 200 million suffering from the distilling of my carpal femur. That made me wonder if Dr. Teenager knew about this. Or, if I should have run out and bought some of that Phenaminafenafinaphen myself.
But just as I was mustering the heroic effort required to lift my frail and lifeless body off the couch, I heard somebody who talked faster than an angry Spanish mother-in-law caution me against such rash action. He said:
“Some adverse reactions may occur. These include comas, brain tumors and, in some patients, the rapid growth of hair where you don’t want it. Ears will fall off in less than 1 percent of all users. Some patients may notice the growth of extra toes. You should not take Phenamin if you are drinking orange juice or breathing air. Watching television while taking Phenamin could trigger a hallucinogenic reaction that may cause some patients to spontaneously combust.”
Maybe it was just the high fever, but these commercials seemed to be speaking to me. They seemed to be saying, “Geooorgie, buy these drugs. They might not kill you. You might only grow an extra foot. Get up and go buy them right now, and pick up an extra pair of shoes while you’re at it.”
Call me old-fashioned, but I decided to plop myself back down and use a more traditional cure: boring myself to death … whoops, wrong result. Maybe Dr. Teenager has a study break.
MEDICAL UPDATE: Dr. Teenager prescribed antibiotics, and the travel agent wrote a script for two weeks in Mexico.