I could write a country song called “Vending Machine Imodium.” The only problem is there isn’t a poetic bone in my body. I may have to put the touch on Marissa Bergen to write it for me. I know she has the chops for such a song.
My paycheck job sent me to beautiful Sandpoint, Idaho yesterday. Somewhere along the way, I wound up with whatever plague Old What’s Her Face had earlier this week. I’ve got to stop sleeping with her.
My group was booked on a tour of the lake last night, and dinner in a nice restaurant. I skipped the tour and opted to put on all my clothes, crank up the heat, and crawl in bed. They saw some bald eagles along the shore too, so I missed out. I stayed in bed until I stopped shivering.
I met them at the restaurant, and there were eagles about half a mile off-shore circling. Not much of a view, and I don’t feel like they brought me much luck. If I get through this presentation without a foul of some kind, I’ll change my mind.
I’m writing this in my room, before I get dressed. No sense adding a layer between me and the toilet. Since I’m bringing fellow bloggers into this one, I’ll note for Victo Dolore that bad things do actually happen in hotel rooms. Wear a hazmat suit. (It wasn’t me, probably the previous guest. Yeah, I’m pretty sure.)
I’m being paged, so I may have to finish this after I get home. That will give Lisa’s advice column a bit more time in the spotlight.
It’s now 8:30 PM. Our flight got delayed multiple times, and I haven’t eaten in about 36 hours. Back to my country song.
There would have to be a verse about straightening your dollar bills, feeding them into the machine, and watching the spring shaped thingie spin around. Then the product drops.
Check that photo. It wants me to compare this to Imodium. They have to know that nobody will ever do this. I bought it in a hotel vending machine. If I had Imodium in my other hand, I would have bought Imodium. They get to posture as to how big a favor they’re doing me, but there is zero risk that I will compare before buying their product.
The box only has four pills, and I took them all in about 30 minutes. The only thing that stopped the flow was running out of material. This is why I stopped eating. Maybe another verse about the expiration date. These things could have been stuck in that vending machine in the 20th century.
I braved a cup of coffee this morning, but it didn’t settle well. Fortunately, I was able to score a cup of English Breakfast Tea, and that seemed to be fine.
My crowd has been trying to force food on me all day long. I’ve been offered a sandwich, soup, and several other things. I’m not interested, folks!
I had to ride in a twelve passenger van for over an hour. I am the driver, but had to bow out for the trip home. I wound up with double vision before we left, and while death would have been okay for me (preferable even today), I didn’t want to inflict it upon my co-workers. We went into downtown Spokane for over two hours. While everyone else walked around, I protected the van. I know what the risk involves, and was unwilling to take it.
Now I have an hour at the airport, before taking a one hour flight. I swear I’ll eat something when I get home, where I feel safe, and can run for the toilet if things don’t work out well. Where nobody can get disgusted if things don’t work out well. Except for my wife, who will take great glee in watching someone else suffer after the week she just had.