Pig In a Blanket

   Yesterday's procrastination brought to you by warm, muggy weather and a couple Whiskey and Sours.  Today's post made possible by an iced Baileys & Coffee and Motörhead

   Pork Fillingsworth is a moderately successful investment banker.  Normally, at this time in the morning, he would be at work, sitting behind his desk making money for his clients and, in doing so, himself.  This morning, however, he was still in bed with a fever.  The curtains were drawn, cutting off the sights and sounds of the outside world.  The TV was on, tuned to the morning news with the sound muted.  On the nightstand next to his bed were the remains of his breakfast: a half full glass of orange juice (with the pulp strained), a piece of toast (minus one tiny bite) and an untouched egg (over-easy).  He knew he should get up, get dressed and go to see his doctor, but he also knew going outside into the bright sun would make his headache come back, negating the DayQuil he had taken earlier.  After debating with himself for the better part of an hour he decided to just stay in bed.  Anyway, he knew what the doctor would tell him; he had the flu, he should get plenty of rest and stay hydrated.  He turned off the TV, rolled over and burrowed as deep as he could into his blanket.