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Wow... I think I have SARS, or mad cow disease. Or maybe both.
2003-05-27 - 10:14 p.m.


*PLEASE NOTE: Events may not have transpired exactly as reported in this entry. Things just sound a bit more interesting this way. ;) *

Once upon a time, there was a little Mangofarmer who had a bit of a cold in the head. Okay, it was more than a bit. More like a smidgen. No, wait, still more than that. More like a fistful (which is the FDA-approved serving size for most foods, like ice cream, that you really end up eating about ten of their serving sizes in one sitting). Okay, no, scratch all that, the little Mangofarmer had a cold in the head the size of one gigundous super-sized bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and unfortunately, this cold was no where near as delicious.

The little Mangofarmer awoke from her dream-filled slumber (in which she was saving the world from brussels sprouts, basketball, brown bananas, and beer, among other bad things that start with 'b') at about 4 in the morning, owing to the fact that she was suddenly feeling quite crummy, like there might have been a large weight on her chest. Thinking it may have been the cat, she went to move the cantankerous beast from its less than useful perch. The cat was not there. Instead, the cat was sleeping on the little Mangofarmer's head, as the cat is wont to do.

Confused, the little Mangofarmer tried to get up, and then sank right back down.

"Ugh. I should call in to werk today," said the little Mangofarmer, before a fit of coughing overtook her. Never being the one to skip things (usually- unless "things" were many a boring 8:30 AM Adolescent Psych lecture in her day), the little Mangofarmer thought she'd better go back to sleep, and wait to see if she was feeling any better later. Lo and behold, as she turned off her alarm at 6:55, she wasn't. Then the little Mangofarmer picked up the phone to leave a message at werk saying she wasn't going to come in:

"Dearest Fellow Sears Associates *cough cough cough cough*. Excuse me. As you might be able to tell, my present state of health greatly compromises my ability to do much more than eat popsicles, blow my nose six times a minute, and lie in bed and read this untouched stack of magazines that has been accumulating for at least three months.

"Therefore, I am unable to fulfill my duties as non-commission consultative selling associate in the footwear department. *cough cough cough* I realize this may come as a shock to all of you. Who will be the one to tell the old ladies that 'No, we do not carry narrow width shoes, but if we did, we would certainly hide them in the back just to spite *you*' ? Who will yell at the obnoxious soccer moms, who insist upon bringing all four of their snotty children in to buy shoes all at once and do not know the sizes of any of the feet of these odious offspring, to 'Measure your own damn kids' feet!' Who will fill my shoes, pun intended? *cough cough cough* Well, I realize you employ five other shoe girls, who probably need the money more than I do. What is graduate school compared to a shopping spree at Aberdumby and Flush or a weekend in Virginia Beach with your boyfriend?

"So, on that note, I leave it to your best judgement to call in one of my colleagues to take care of my shift today. Because I realize that, while it is a dirty job, somebody, albeit somebody less qualified, and also less hot than me, must do it! *cough cough cough cough cough hack hack cough cough* Whoa, is that my lung....?"

After finishing this momentous speech, the little Mangofarmer hung up the phone, fell back in bed, and was dead to the world for the next three hours.

When that time had passed, the little Mangofarmer awoke to find the sun shining, the birds chirping, and a popsicle in the freezer calling her name. Of course, the little Mangofarmer does not like to ignore anything calling her name (and by anything I mean *anything*- even on a campus where, upon walking across the quad, you are liable to hear the name 'Mangofarmer' approximately 35 times, knowing that not one of these people are calling you, yet you still turn around out of sheer dumb hopeful habit), and since few things on this earth are more entertaining to the little Mangofarmer than eating popsicles (and by 'few' I mean.... O:-) ), the little Mangofarmer sat down at the computer with her frozen concoction and looked on the AIM for people to bother. Sadly the right ones were not around. Eventually, the little Mangofarmer grew tired of amusing herself on the computer and wished to set out on a quest for some chicken soup.

So the little Mangofarmer hopped on her trusty bicycle and went off to her friendly neighborhood Eckerd, not realizing that this was probably not such a good idea, as she wavered and teetered and almost swerved in front of a car or two because of her illness. When she reached the store, the little Mangofarmer found the aisles crowded with confused old ladies milling about, likely distraught because they had been to Sears earlier and had not found their favorite shoe schmuck there to yell at them. This caused the little Mangofarmer a good bit of distress, as she merely wanted to buy her C*mpbell's Chunky Chicken Noodle Soup, her biggianthorsepill cold medicine, and her American Idol Edition of People magazine. Indeed, the little Mangofarmer started feeling a bit woozy. But luckily, she made it out of the store, narrowly squeezing by the confused old ladies who asked her if the narrow width shoes were in the pet food aisle, and made it home in time to eat her soup, and read enough about Clay Aiken to know not to serve him any chocolate if he should decide to randomly come visit her for the purposes of singing such '60s classics as "Build me up, buttercup" or "Unchained Melody", before passing out for yet another nap.

The cat, still confused to find the little Mangofarmer home, and better yet, sleeping, during the day, joyously took her place on the little Mangofarmer's head as the little Mangofarmer enjoyed some biggianthorsepill cold medicine-induced slumber.

When the little Mangofarmer awoke, she trudged back to the computer. As she was doing this, the telephone rang. Who should it be, but the flute teacher at the mystical, far-off, graduate school!

"Mangofarmer!?! Is that you? You're sick? Nooooooooooooooo! I'm pulling all kinds of strings to get you to grad school in the fall. Tuition? Free. Housing? Screw graduate housing, the university is sending one of its professors on sabbatical to study the habits of shoe schmucks in small department stores and is letting you live in his house while he's gone! And it's pretty bling-bling, let me tell you! So, stop being sick and pleeeeeeeeease come to school in the fall! That's all."

Shocked at the kindness and good fortune of this offer (or beginning to get a little bit delirious), the little Mangofarmer decided to blow her nose 23 more times, think things over a bit, and then go back to bed, to be interrupted only with the knowledge that the FX channel, in its mission to show delightfully cheeseball programming, was showing the movie "Starship Troopers", and that the delectable dish called "beanie weenies" was on the menu for dinner (mmmmmm..... weenies).

And thus ends the story of the day the little Mangofarmer called in sick. A momentous day indeed.

The end.

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