I'm not sure how much longer I have to live. Five of my co-workers phoned in sick early this morning, all with the same illness -- the stomach flu. On Monday, two other guys failed to make it into the office for the same reason. Some may reappear tomorrow, some may not. It was an unspoken certainty before I left the office this evening that, much like Frank Dux in Bloodsport, a handful of us were next.

I've resigned myself to the inevitable. The virus is coursing through my veins right this minute. I may not be able to see it, but I can feel it; I can feel it the way Bill Plaschke must've felt the immeasurable impact of Paul Loduca's heart-and-soul-ness on the Dodgers last season. (You can't see its effect, but you can FEEL it.) In fact, I have coughed five times in the last hour, odd, because I didn't cough at all yesterday. I also just sat through five minutes of Wanda Sykes on television and realized that, yes, I actually do find Ashlee Simpson's songs catchy.

I'm losing it. I'm losing it.

I fear I have about an hour or two left of sanity, friends, and the ability to formulate a coherent thought. I'll be delirious by dawn, with Clay Aiken's virility and liquid flames shooting out of my ass every 20 minutes. Why the lord has spared me until today, I do not know. I didn't go to church this Sunday. I'm a bad friend. Ninety-percent of the material I find amusing involves chubby women. And I just said "liquid flames shooting out of my ass."

My lone recourse now is to lay down, close my eyes, get some rapid eye movement, and see what happens tomorrow morning. If you don't hear from me tomorrow..... it's been real.

(El or Nirm, if I do in fact die, can you remember to change my fantasy team for me?)