I had a unique experience at the doctor's office today. When I woke up, I felt odd. I wasn't vomiting out of my belly button or anything, but I was short of breath, couldn't think straight, and felt tingly all over. Fearing that Monkey Pox was finally about to do me in, I hoofed it up to the MD's office where I was subjected to a battery of tests. I was there pretty much all day, and I was starting to get worried about my condition. After several hours of me peeing into cups, the doctor finally sat down with me to give me the news. He did not look happy.
"Mr. Powell, I've got some bad news," he said, shaking his head slowly. "This is the most advanced case I've ever seen."
I took out a paper bag and began to hyperventilate into it. "Lay it on me, Doc: is it terminal?"
"Terminal, no. Radical, yes. It appears you've got Bicentennial Fever, and you've got it bad. I'm prescribing some Flintstone vitamins and one weekend of rocking out. Here's some Mad Dog 20/20 to get you started; now get the hell out of here, you weinerbiscuit."
Chalk another one up to science.
Despite the cheery tone of the above lines, all is not well with the Bicentennial. A certain actor renowned for his roles as the Leprechaun and Willow Ufgood, has elected not to respond my interview questions. Big mistake, Davis; that is so Hollywood. I expected something like this to happen, so I sent Schumin an urgent telegram on Friday, begging him to come to my rescue. He agreed, but taking a page from Warwick Davis, he hasn't responded to my questions yet. In Schumin's defense, he has been busy. This is the reason why I'm not weeping uncontrollably and throwing myself on the railroad tracks. However, if I have no response from Schumin by this time tomorrow, I will be forced into doing something drastic. Let us hope I don't have to resort to this. Schumin and Warwick, the burden is upon you.