Marooned

Some of my friends say Jordanian germs are among the heartiest in the world. Citing a magazine article, one good friend said Jordanian germs rank right behind Egyptian germs in terms of resistance to antibiotics. The world's third most-virulent germs? Cypriot germs. Hey, I don't invent the facts, I just report them.

I've somehow ingested said Jordanian germs, and I'm now marooned in my house. I hack up ghastly things, and now my eyes are the color of, well, Santa's hat. I worked three hours last week -- three miserable hours -- and have spent a lot of time sleeping and answering Savannah's questions; she figures as long as I'm around I might as well serve a useful purpose.

Savannah: Why do we have chins?
Me: Are you kidding me? I don't know. Shannon, why do we have chins?
Shannon: They're simply a natural point in the shape of our jawbones.
Savannah: Oh.
Me: Oh.

Were I sick just a week or two later, I could have spent my downtime watching college football bowl games. First though, I'd need to develop at least one iota of concern regarding who wins and loses college football bowl games, which iota I currently lack. Watching football is only a marginally entertaining activity for me. For my dear wife, however, watching football is excruciating.

When we had been dating only two or three weeks and were thus in that phase of unwritten/unspoken but mutually and universally understood politeness and avoiding any and all conversations that may prospectively lead to a disagreement, I called Shannon to invite her to attend the BYU homecoming football game with me.

Me: Hi Shannon. I've got tickets to the homecoming game. Want to come?
Shannon: I'd rather have screws through my thumbs.

Now, I'd had a girl or two (... dozen) not like me. But I'd never had one say they preferred thumbscrews to my company. I recoiled from the phone receiver like I'd just been pimp slapped. I had to supress the instinct to hang up the phone, tuck my tail between my legs, and flee to my darkened room to lick my wounds and read self-help books.

Instead, I inexplicably and against my better judgment plunged forward:

Me: So, do you mean you'd rather have thumbscrews than go out with me, or do you mean you'd rather have thumbscrews than watch a football game?
Shannon: I just don't like football. But I'd love to go out with you.
Me: [wetting my pants with joy]: REALLY?! That's GREAT! I just peed my pants -- I mean, I just NEED an ad-VANCE... of cash... for dinner after the game. Pickyouupatfour-thirty? Coolokaybye. [click]

Okay, I embellished the last part, but the point is that Shannon really dislikes football. Did you think this post would be about something cooler? Wellit'snotcoolokaybye.