the stabbing pain of stay-at-home illness

I'm home sick today with a head cold. After putzing around in bed long enough to finish a mediocre suspense paperback about (what else these days) the deceitful secret workings of the Vatican, I stumbled into the living room to watch some TV. It being early in the afternoon, there isn't much on besides soap operas and re-runs of the Cosby Show. But then I came across Grease on CMT. Over the years I've heard several people profess their undying love for this movie and its signature dancing numbers. So, since I've never seen it and have some strange and unholy attraction to John Travolta's bouffant, I watched what turned out to be the closing musical numbers: "You're the One That I Want Ooh Ooh Oooooh" and "We Go Together Like Shama-lama-lama-landi-boogie-a-ding-ding-dong".

It was like watching a fucking train wreck. The skin-tight black outfits, the wholesome smiling and carnival atmosphere. I just couldn't turn away. This is--by far--the DORKIEST thing I have ever seen in my entire life. Christ. It's physically painful. John Travolta's grinding hips and what can only be described as "the gayest jump off an elevated platform ever" are forever seared into my corneas. I must find a way to dull its awfulness. But what could possibly help? For once Animal Planet isn't showing any gory puppy abuse and I'm too weak to drive myself to the theater for a matinee showing of Flight 93. Who will save me? Where is U-571 when I really need it??

Oh, thank God--a Savior. A NyQuil caplet and one dose of Maury Povich's disgraceful self-serving righteousness should do the trick. Ugh. I never should have gotten out of bed.