It was self-inflicted
It is the cold and flu season.
And this is what happens when modern pharmacopeia collides horribly with a holistic approach to healing.
Especially when ThomG tries to marry the pair (in some misguided search for mysticism in the machine).
Explosive diarrhea.
I began to feel grippy on Tuesday, that little tickle in the back of the throat thing, with hint of sinus congestion. Tired eyes, blech.
Normally, I’d guzzle a bit of NyQuil and just say “bye-bye” for the rest of the evening.
But I was fresh out.
And the prospect of Mariah Carey-inspired dreams while on NyQuil put enough of the bah-jeezus in me to Google “cold remedies holistic,” where I read, with interest, that cayenne pepper does a body good.
“So,” says I, “how would one go about blending over-the-counter apothecary with holistic healing?”
Bloody Mary.
Think about it: You’ve got all those vitamins and minerals in the tomato juice, fruit (lime wedges), vegetables (a celery stalk and giant Spanish olives) plus the all that goodness of an alcohol-induced stupor. I like my Bloody Marys spicy, so the more cayenne, the better.
I passed on the NyQuil and bought a giant bottle of Smirnov Triple Distilled vodka ($5.69 off with my Safeway Club Card).
Only to find that I was fresh out of Worcestershire and Tabasco sauces. Essential components of the essential Bloody Mary.
Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.
Into the shaker went ice, celery seed, a heavy-handed shake (or eight) of cayenne, kosher salt, fresh-cracked black pepper, cumin, ground fresh, nearly-famous, Tulelake horseradish, tomato juice, lime juice and (lots of) vodka.
While not completely satisfying (bloody fucking awful), I finished the first…
And concocted a second.
Twenty minutes later, the boiler ass-ploded.
“They” call it the trots, because you trot out of bed every 15 minutes or so in a race for the roses in the fucking Kentucky Derby.
I have seldom been so miserable – no alcohol-induced coma, but such a deep fear of pooing the bed that it bordered on serious paranoia (I ended up not seeking a holistic approach here, but downed four Imodium with several bottles of water between midnight at 5 a.m.)
Seriously, I was “Up All Night” (Boomtown Rats, anyone? “…They know they're alive, when they start to feel pain…)
Funny thing is, I do feel a world better today; I didn’t ride last night, didn’t walk the dogs, just went to bed, read…
And simply cut out the fruits and the spices and went right for the good stuff:
A couple (three) dry Martinis up, a little dirty with three olives.
And this is what happens when modern pharmacopeia collides horribly with a holistic approach to healing.
Especially when ThomG tries to marry the pair (in some misguided search for mysticism in the machine).
Explosive diarrhea.
I began to feel grippy on Tuesday, that little tickle in the back of the throat thing, with hint of sinus congestion. Tired eyes, blech.
Normally, I’d guzzle a bit of NyQuil and just say “bye-bye” for the rest of the evening.
But I was fresh out.
And the prospect of Mariah Carey-inspired dreams while on NyQuil put enough of the bah-jeezus in me to Google “cold remedies holistic,” where I read, with interest, that cayenne pepper does a body good.
“So,” says I, “how would one go about blending over-the-counter apothecary with holistic healing?”
Bloody Mary.
Think about it: You’ve got all those vitamins and minerals in the tomato juice, fruit (lime wedges), vegetables (a celery stalk and giant Spanish olives) plus the all that goodness of an alcohol-induced stupor. I like my Bloody Marys spicy, so the more cayenne, the better.
I passed on the NyQuil and bought a giant bottle of Smirnov Triple Distilled vodka ($5.69 off with my Safeway Club Card).
Only to find that I was fresh out of Worcestershire and Tabasco sauces. Essential components of the essential Bloody Mary.
Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.
Into the shaker went ice, celery seed, a heavy-handed shake (or eight) of cayenne, kosher salt, fresh-cracked black pepper, cumin, ground fresh, nearly-famous, Tulelake horseradish, tomato juice, lime juice and (lots of) vodka.
While not completely satisfying (bloody fucking awful), I finished the first…
And concocted a second.
Twenty minutes later, the boiler ass-ploded.
“They” call it the trots, because you trot out of bed every 15 minutes or so in a race for the roses in the fucking Kentucky Derby.
I have seldom been so miserable – no alcohol-induced coma, but such a deep fear of pooing the bed that it bordered on serious paranoia (I ended up not seeking a holistic approach here, but downed four Imodium with several bottles of water between midnight at 5 a.m.)
Seriously, I was “Up All Night” (Boomtown Rats, anyone? “…They know they're alive, when they start to feel pain…)
Funny thing is, I do feel a world better today; I didn’t ride last night, didn’t walk the dogs, just went to bed, read…
And simply cut out the fruits and the spices and went right for the good stuff:
A couple (three) dry Martinis up, a little dirty with three olives.
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