Monday, June 04, 2007

He said he'll never eat fish and chips again!

Poor Mr. Bickerson. He's home now and resting peacefully in the basement. He called me this morning from Chicago. His flight home was scheduled for this afternoon and two-thirds of his group of business travelers had dined together last night on fish and chips somewhere on the Navy Pier. At precisely 3 A.M. the exact same two-thirds of said business group commenced purging their bodies of the previously consumed (and previously enjoyed! Now? Not so much.) fish and chips. Forcefully. Repeatedly.

Why did he call me? I dunno. He had to know there would be minimal sympathy. (I would refer the reader to the Spring of 1995 when Mr. Bickerson complained of a severe sore throat and, based on previous episodes of illness and hyperbole on his part, I advised him to drink some tea and take some acetaminophen while I went to see Delores Claiborne {a movie based on a Stephen King novel in which the main character kills her husband, by the way} at a nearby movie theater, only to discover upon my return home that our neighbor, an ophthalmologist and sometime E.R. doc, had advised Mr. B to head to the nearest emergency room "because everybody is gonna want to see that!", {i.e., the ginormous abscess -- necessitating emergency surgery -- that had grown on his tonsil}. I'm sorry, but that's what you get from your wife when you cry wolf one to many times, isn't it?)

They all made it home without the pilot having to divert the flight to Milwaukee. I asked Mr. B about the fish and chips and he groaned, but when I inquired as to whether or not he was put off beer for awhile (because you can't have fish and chips without the beer) he said, "The thought never even crossed my mind!"

Me? Tonight I'm enjoying myself a tasty Surly Cynic. And there might be some fish sticks in the freezer. But that would be cruel, wouldn't it?

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