|Sick Husband, 1881 - Vassily Maximov (Source)|
That is exactly how I felt Tuesday evening. I had just completed Wednesday's post when I felt, something.
A low rumbling from the nether regions, a rumbling of evil portent.
I passed it off (pun not intended) as a bit of gas. Didn't think much of it.
Until all Hell broke loose.
It was a wretched evening, filled with bizarre dreams and a great deal of discomfort. Had I been placed lying on my back on a frictionless surface, I would have been violently propelled backwards. Once I had slid to a halt, I would then have been propelled violently in the opposite direction.
Newton's Third Law in action. I'm postulating that there was a bit of bad beef in my intake yesterday. A bit of bad something, that's for sure.
The less said about Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning the better. I stayed home from work and spent the day laid up in my rack, bemoaning my fate.
That old meme about men turning into complete babies when they get sick?