Today I'm unwell. Yep, I'm suffering from the dreaded lurgie. I'm all feverish, I feel like I just drank an icy cold can of razor blades, and I'm pretty sure that if I answered the phone right now the telemarketer who's trying to sell me raffle tickets would think I'm Barry White.
Get lost, telemarketer, I don't want your stinking raffle tickets! I'm sick, damn it!
Sorry, back to what we were talking about.
So after spending all of the morning sleeping, I finally got to the point where I couldn't stand to stay in bed a moment longer. I'm sure you know what I mean, that point where the sheets are just too sweaty, the room too closed in, and neighbour's gardener too noisy with the mower. So I dragged my admittedly slightly addled brain out into the lounge room and set up camp on the couch. Because if there's one sure fire cure for the flu, it's daytime television.
I started my search for something to keep me amused, flicking past several boring looking news shows, some kids programs that looked like they'd been created by someone on acid, and an old 60's sitcom that I wouldn't watch when I was well, never mind when I was feverish. That's when I hit pay dirt. Infomercials!
Infomercials are either the best or the worst things to happen to daytime television since the invention of the talk show, and I'm not sure which it is. They're full of overacting women with too big smiles and too white teeth trying to sell you products which if you saw them in a shop for a quarter of their asking price, you'd scoff at. But for some reason (perhaps it's the whole 4 monthly interest free payments schtick) you believe Little Miss Smilestoomuch when she tells you that you'll find complete fulfilment and inner peace if only you'll buy a leopard print snuggie.
So I settled down to watch the infomercial, ready to be amazed by whatever was on offer. As it turned out, they were trying to sell some sort of exercise equipment that looked like a cross between a medieval torture device and a Disneyland ride. While Little Miss Smilestoomuch stood there and extolled it's many virtues, the Bobbsey Twins of the exercise world gyrated away behind her, smiles even larger than hers painted on their faces.
"As you can see," she said, with a scary amount of pep in her voice, "The Exerfithealthotron is so easy to use! Just jump up on it, turn the handles, hold your elbows at 83 degree angles, recide pi to 27 digits, and you're off!"
"Bullshit," I cried, hoarse but adamant, "Those bimbos probably think pi comes in cherry and apple!"
"And with the way the machine works, you can see they're really working up a sweat," she continued, seemingly impervious to my snark.
"They'll need it," I muttered, looking at their clothes, or lack thereof, "considering how they're practically naked. Someone get those girls some damn tracksuits!"
"Can you see how well it's working their abdominals?" she asked, groping at Bobbsey Twin number two in what can only be described as an inappropriate way.
"I can see their hoo-hahs," I replied, giggling a little from the fever and the disturbing way a high definition camera will let you see EVERYTHING.
Okay, so perhaps an infomercial wasn't the best choice considering the state of my health. I probably would have been safer picking a nice soap opera or talk show. But never mind, it's not like I bought one.
At least I THINK I didn't buy one ... I was pretty feverish and I've been known to do some weird shit when I'm not well.
Perhaps I'd better check my credit card statement.