This week I picked up some kind of flu virus and spent 3 days flat on my back. With this much idle time on ones hands I got to thinking that if ever Chuck Norris was a Flu Virus that this would probably be it.
Note: I’ve added a bit of fiction to the story seeing as one is pretty much in a temporal state of sleep and delirium, so who’s to say what’s real and what’s not anymore. If you’ve been there you know what I’m talking about
Chuck Norris ate my Swine Flu, and other tales of woe by morkhans
It started off on Sunday evening with a faint premonition that something was not right. Foolishly I dug around in the cupboard for a “regmakertjie” before climbing into bed. Perhaps if I knew then what I do now I’d have opted for a “regmaker”, but in all honesty it probably wouldn’t have helped.
Monday morning I woke up disorientated and blind. As the sheet was lifted from my head and my eyes adjusted to the room around me I found myself in some kind of holding cell. I was strapped to the bed, completely immobile. While my brain struggled to catch up my eyes gazed blankly over the room. In one corner of they started to focus on what appeared to be a beard, behind the beard a sparkly set of teeth all of which could only be attached to one man!
Before I could gasp “Chuck Norris, you bastard!” my brain returned to the party to inform me of some bad news. While I was sleeping Chuck had beaten each of my muscles individually, twice and then a few more times just to make sure I knew he meant business. The collective throbbing of each muscle charged over me like a blue light brigade and I blacked out.
I awoke in a pool of water or was it sweat? The next splash hit me. Chuck worked the pails over my throbbing body. The shivers started to set it. My internal thermometer checked out swiftly citing lack of interest. One minute I was hot as hell the next I couldn’t hear anything over the clattering of my own teeth. Time became a blur of wake, pain, shiver, sweat, sleep. Chuck is relentless.
Chuck conceded to let a doctor check on me. I’m told it’s Tuesday. The doctor mumbled incomprehensibly about “things going around” and possible “viral” origins. All I knew was pain and suffering. He offered me drugs, I accepted them. Maybe this was part of Chuck’s plan to break me down even more; feed me drugs to make me talk. I strained to read the instructions, glazing over phrases like “avoid long term use” and “can have the following side effects” which carry on for five paragraphs. In a rare moment of clarity I realised: “What could be worse than suffering at the hands of Chuck Norris?” I took my medicine like a good boy.
On what appeared to be Wednesday afternoon Chuck kicks me awake and hands me a pen and paper. “Write something to your friends and family, it might be your last”. I was actually relieved that the end might finally be near, but it was worse than that my dear friends (to whom I now address this letter). “You’re going into the salt mines tomorrow” he grunted.
Thursday morning I woke long before sunrise, mouth wide open. Instinctively my body was breathing through whatever would allow the passing of oxygen. Chuck had struck again, a parting gift perhaps? My nasal cavities were filled with some ghastly fluid. Any attempt to expel it and it was immediately replaced from some inexplicably endless source. I quickly realised it was futile to waste time there and returned to my focus to what’s taking place in my mouth.
After sealing my primary source of air intake Chuck had proceeded to sandblast the inside of my mouth. I managed to coerce a small speck of saliva from one of the corners of my mouth and willed my tongue into action. The moisture evaporated as soon as it reached my lips. I swallowed. The sensation could be described as having a searing hot file shoved down your throat followed by a shot of battery acid to sear the wounds. At least Chuck was nice enough to leave me with a choice: Suffer the Sahara desert in my mouth or battery acid each time I swallow. What a guy.
As I got prepared to be shunted off to the mines I realised that the muscle pain was letting off and my internal thermometer had entered into early negotiations about returning to duty. Maybe things were on the up? If I could work around the volcano that had replaced my throat I’d be sorted. Wrong again.
I arrived at the mine. It was a barren, unforgiving place. Around me similar burnt out, dull eyed husks went about their duty. I was handed a broken shovel and told to start digging. “3 days’ worth of emails and mounds of projects with impossible deadlines aren’t going to get done by themselves” I’m told.
Suddenly Chuck didn’t seem to be such bad guy…
Note: I’ve added a bit of fiction to the story seeing as one is pretty much in a temporal state of sleep and delirium, so who’s to say what’s real and what’s not anymore. If you’ve been there you know what I’m talking about
Chuck Norris ate my Swine Flu, and other tales of woe by morkhans
It started off on Sunday evening with a faint premonition that something was not right. Foolishly I dug around in the cupboard for a “regmakertjie” before climbing into bed. Perhaps if I knew then what I do now I’d have opted for a “regmaker”, but in all honesty it probably wouldn’t have helped.
Monday morning I woke up disorientated and blind. As the sheet was lifted from my head and my eyes adjusted to the room around me I found myself in some kind of holding cell. I was strapped to the bed, completely immobile. While my brain struggled to catch up my eyes gazed blankly over the room. In one corner of they started to focus on what appeared to be a beard, behind the beard a sparkly set of teeth all of which could only be attached to one man!
Before I could gasp “Chuck Norris, you bastard!” my brain returned to the party to inform me of some bad news. While I was sleeping Chuck had beaten each of my muscles individually, twice and then a few more times just to make sure I knew he meant business. The collective throbbing of each muscle charged over me like a blue light brigade and I blacked out.
I awoke in a pool of water or was it sweat? The next splash hit me. Chuck worked the pails over my throbbing body. The shivers started to set it. My internal thermometer checked out swiftly citing lack of interest. One minute I was hot as hell the next I couldn’t hear anything over the clattering of my own teeth. Time became a blur of wake, pain, shiver, sweat, sleep. Chuck is relentless.
Chuck conceded to let a doctor check on me. I’m told it’s Tuesday. The doctor mumbled incomprehensibly about “things going around” and possible “viral” origins. All I knew was pain and suffering. He offered me drugs, I accepted them. Maybe this was part of Chuck’s plan to break me down even more; feed me drugs to make me talk. I strained to read the instructions, glazing over phrases like “avoid long term use” and “can have the following side effects” which carry on for five paragraphs. In a rare moment of clarity I realised: “What could be worse than suffering at the hands of Chuck Norris?” I took my medicine like a good boy.
On what appeared to be Wednesday afternoon Chuck kicks me awake and hands me a pen and paper. “Write something to your friends and family, it might be your last”. I was actually relieved that the end might finally be near, but it was worse than that my dear friends (to whom I now address this letter). “You’re going into the salt mines tomorrow” he grunted.
Thursday morning I woke long before sunrise, mouth wide open. Instinctively my body was breathing through whatever would allow the passing of oxygen. Chuck had struck again, a parting gift perhaps? My nasal cavities were filled with some ghastly fluid. Any attempt to expel it and it was immediately replaced from some inexplicably endless source. I quickly realised it was futile to waste time there and returned to my focus to what’s taking place in my mouth.
After sealing my primary source of air intake Chuck had proceeded to sandblast the inside of my mouth. I managed to coerce a small speck of saliva from one of the corners of my mouth and willed my tongue into action. The moisture evaporated as soon as it reached my lips. I swallowed. The sensation could be described as having a searing hot file shoved down your throat followed by a shot of battery acid to sear the wounds. At least Chuck was nice enough to leave me with a choice: Suffer the Sahara desert in my mouth or battery acid each time I swallow. What a guy.
As I got prepared to be shunted off to the mines I realised that the muscle pain was letting off and my internal thermometer had entered into early negotiations about returning to duty. Maybe things were on the up? If I could work around the volcano that had replaced my throat I’d be sorted. Wrong again.
I arrived at the mine. It was a barren, unforgiving place. Around me similar burnt out, dull eyed husks went about their duty. I was handed a broken shovel and told to start digging. “3 days’ worth of emails and mounds of projects with impossible deadlines aren’t going to get done by themselves” I’m told.
Suddenly Chuck didn’t seem to be such bad guy…
