Sicko Redux

One of the side benefits of a "viral infection with complications" along with night sweats and painful breathing is a voice lowering of several octaves. While staring into the mirror at my watery looking eyes, sagging sallow skin and uttering my latest greet the morning oath, "yeck", I noticed that the resultant sound was much deeper and fuller than my usual nasal squeak. Aha!, I thought. Here is my chance to finally say the word "Darling" like a Conway Twitty or Sam Elliot. I might even be able to sing like Barry White. I practiced for awhile. "Hello, DARlin. Hell-Ohh Darlin. HUHlo Dahlin." When I thought I had it down JUST right, I ambled onto the patio where Woowoo Charly was having her morning coffee. "Hello Darlin" I said in my most rounded and dulcet tone. "My God, you sound terrible" she said in reply. "You should go back to bed."

Okay, the whole darling thing may be out of reach I decided, but how about the singing? I returned to the bathroom where the acoustics were better and let loose with my most soulful rendition of "I'm Henery the Eighth I Am." I was somewhat hampered by having only a three note range, but the song doesn't really require much more. On my third time through the tune, I noticed a kind of "his voice is changing teenage hiccup" sound that I also thought was pretty cool so I incorporated it into the song. "I'm Henery the YIP I am." The result was amazing. All over Boquete female heads lifted and their voices rang out in answer. It's unfortunate, I guess, that they were all female frogs, but, you know, we can't have everything.

Of course, not all the news is happy like that. I learned first thing this morning that I had once again been defeated in my quest for the Nobel Peace Prize. "Really" I said in my letter of disappointment to the committee, "who is more peaceful than I am, you jerks?" I also threatened them with bodily harm if I don't win next year. That should do it I figure, because most of those wimpy peace-niks are easy to buffalo. My only hope this year is the Literature Prize which is given to someone for their "body of work." With 500 blogs now in the can, I'm thinking I have a pretty good chance. I have noticed, though, that this award is often given posthumously. The committee likes to give the award to dead people, because they are far less likely to cash the award check. To aid my chances of winning, I'm thinking of faking my own death. This shouldn't be hard as I've been stuck in the house for so long that people are already asking what ever happened to old Doc? Suicides are also given heavy consideration so if you hear that I impaled myself on a nine iron, don't believe it. It's a trick club.

I have to go now as I feel the urge to cough up something hideous. Is there a Nobel Phlegm Prize?