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Wednesday, 07:00: vacation ahoy!
Oh, bloody hell, jolly good, I'm off to work! Yay! A final day of work before the long restive holiday celebrating the new year of the heretics lead by that false messiah. But who cares? They can believe in the mouse which is hiding in my walls as long as I get time off. Let's finish this one day and off we are to drink, eat and feast until we drop!
Wednesday 19:00: do I have a feather down my throat?
Just before heading off to drink illegal amounts of alcohol I feel a wee bit of tingling in my throat. Probably that goose I had for dinner, bugger left a feather or two down my throat. Or perhaps a little shiny snow flake celebrating the new year. Or perhaps some ash flying around coming out of the insane amount of legal(ish) explosives flying around town disguised as "fireworks". Yes. Fireworks. My ass. This is like Beirut on a warm summer night. On with the partying!
Thursday 10:00: I am going to die
No seriously, I am going to die. As with any typical male archetype my body temperature has gone up a bit and I'm now shuffling around in my slippers crying out for attention from the missus and claiming that I have a terminal tumor under my left arm pit which will surely lead to my demise.
I am going to die. It's a given fact.
Thursday 12:00: There's nothing on the bloody telly
How is that that every time I have a couple of hours to relax and look at the telly, there's nothing intriguing on? No handsome serial killers, freaks, more freaks or brain farts? Why is it always Teletubbies and elderly old English ladies who wish to improve your dress style as you cook baked beans on toast whilst redecorating your garage?
Oh wait, there's House on. Perfect.
Thursday 12:10, chapter 12: blimey, that's a big hemorrhoid
I never thought that a hemorrhoid can actually be life threatening. I better stop spending so much time on the toilet. That's one disgusting episode.
I think my fever is up.
Thursday 13:30, chapter 13: Where as Doctor House seems to look at me from the corner of his eye
Is it me, or does Doctor House seem to be flinging worried looks at the screen every now and then? Can he sense my anguish? Does he feel that I pose an intellectual challenge to him? Am I, in fact, more fascinating than the current intriguing case of X-linked mental retardation-hypotonic faeces syndrome?
My my, I think I might faint.
Thursday 16:30, chapter 17: Missus makes me a cup of tea, assures me that I'm not dying of a mysterious venereal disease
The missus, god bless her heart, brought me another cup of Darjeeling and told me that watching too much House can't be good for my health.
You're a bit pale, and look a bit feverish she says. You've been watching sick bloated organs for the past 13 hours she says. Give it a rest; maybe watch a chapter of the young and the restless?
Well of course I'm a bit <airquote>pale</airquote> god damn it, I have Dihydropteridine reductase deficiency! I bet that if YOU had Dihydropteridine reductase deficiency YOU would be a bit more than a little pale.
Now give me that tea and go away. I think House is nearing some critical conclusion.
Thursday 19:30pm, chapter 23: It's Lupus. I knew it, and Doctor House knew it, we could have made a great team.
Ha! You can just get rid of the angry black guy and the nerdy Aussie with the ridiculous accent. You can leave the hotty though. I wouldn't mind her. Indeed! Myself and Gregory (I can call you Gregory now, that I'm a member of the team correct?) would have made this ingenious deduction hours ago and save the ailing patient tons of grief. So let's get this thing over with, and get the guy home. Nurse! Give him anti-lupus or some aspirin and let's get this thing over with.
I feel much better.
Thursday 22:23, chapter 76: We did a mistake and the patient died. I will die too
How could we have missed the obvious signs? The mucous was Greenish yellow rather than Yellowish green! We are like a pair of eunuchs stumbling in a Parisian whore house without having a single fucking clue. Or a boner. If Doctor House did not have his sweat pores removed in that surgery, he would have been glistening now. As for myself, I can't afford to sweat; I've lost way too many fluids as it is. I'll just shiver myself to death here.
Friday 00:23, chapter 142: All hail the Saviour
How could I ever doubt that crazy bastard? All he needed is for him to hear a completely random conversation about a Wilson sitting on a gum in the Canteen whilst drinking a mug of decaf and *WHAM*! He makes the mental connection and realized in the flash that the patient has Zunich Neuroectodermal Syndrome. Ha! It’s so easy in retrospective. What a relief. I think I can finally change the channel. I shall not be dying tonight.