MJ the Infomaniac accuses me of having the Manflu and does so as if that were a bad thing. Get you, that’s what I say. The Manflu appears to consist of taking to one’s bed and whining (the name would imply People with Vaginas never indulge in such behavior, to which I reply “Midol.”)
I have no problem admitting to my genius in both categories. I inherited my talent for sleeping from my dear mother who would sleep for 16 hours at a stretch if the goddam kids would just let her. In turn, I am no slacker either; if remaining unconscious were a sport, I would qualify for the Olympics. Our friend Ehsen takes a nap in the evening and only gets up to go to bed for the night. I am awed by such commitment and have taken to imitating him.
As to whining, surely the most cursory glance at this blog would prove my devotion to the art.
Why MJ thinks I need an excuse for either is beyond me. Being sick, Manflu or not, only provides me with a focus for both, but at the same time distracts me from my top form. This just in: being sick sucks. The houseboys, led by Zieglus Manitobus here, have started a nonstop novena in their best underpants on behalf of my recovery, which both I and the priest at Our Lady of the Sacred Secret Place both appreciate, but it doesn’t seem to be helping yet.