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The Bang Bang Theories

In Sickness and In Health

Ho-Ho-Ho, Reader!  I’ve been crickets for a bit, I came down with some sort of a flu-type bug while at Tiny Town last Thursday.  I was sitting in yet another waaaay-tooooo-looooong meeting, looking for my exit strategy just in case it came down to it, and  then they wheeled lunch in, and it was time to exit.

I excused myself, grabbed up my computer, a bunch of random papers, my purse and beelined for Chez Bang Bang. And I mean beelined, Reader. I looked down at one point and was pushing the pedal to the medal at 80, which is really quite risky for my old-lady-granny driving style. 

So then the flu caught me, and I was laid up in bed for 2 1/2 solid days, wherein my fever-riddled body became the perfect cat mattress.

I was too sick to even know his toddler-sized ass was even on me, and while I’d like to think he was just trying to hug me and bring me comfort, we both know he was heat miser-ing that fever offa me. 

He’s a user, is what it boils down to.

Luckily I had Kenny here to tend to my every need, wherein by “tend” I mean he left me the hell alone and let me sleep until I just couldn’t sleep anymore, which was sometime on Sunday.  He did bring home White Castle hamburgers on Friday, because that’s the perfect “feed a fever” food, as we all know.  In fact, we were watching – well, I should say I was zoning in and out of – Saturday Night Fever because completely fitting, and in one scene they were cooking White Castle hamburgers on the grill and about thirty minutes passed and I said, “I must be having some hallucinations because all I can smell are White Castle onions!”  That’s when Kenny confessed that he’d eaten 10 of them or something obscene like that, and I was smelling his breath in the room.  

Which is less enticing than it sounds, Reader. Much. Much. Less. 

So I wasn’t hallucinating at all to Saturday Night Fever, it was the smell of White Castle in the room, wherein Life Imitated Art. Which calling Saturday Night Fever “art” is really a stretch because that movie was horrible, Reader. There was a whole gang-bang rape scene for poor, scorned-by-Tony Donna right in the back of the car, and when she was done getting raped, Tony, aka John Travolta turned around with small lips and sneered, “There, are you happy now??” 

Because clearly her tears were tears of joy. Clearly. 

And then the other guy jumped off a bridge and killed himself because he’d gotten some other girl pregnant, and Donna, who’d just been raped, sought comfort from the whole thing in the raper’s arms. Because naturally. 

So really, not how I’d remembered that movie at all. Why did I think it had more dancing? 

It could have used more dancing. 

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