We end Day 2 of the Cold of 2003. I give it a C+. It's clogged my head up pretty good, and coughing up a good amount phlegm, but all it takes to knock it out so's I can work is some Dayquil and a packet of Goody's Headache powder. I mean, really, what kind of a germ worth it's salt will allow a man to work 8 hours and go to an NWA-TNA show, too? Honestly, I feel a little run down, but that's nothing a little sleep wouldn't help.

This cold bug ain't nothin'!

I'm a wussy. A little panty-waist cough will have me whining for days on end. But I'm struggling through this one. That doesn't say much for this cold bug.

A note on people taking kids to wrestling when they're sick: If your kid is too sick and too tired to hold his head up to watch "the American Dream" Dusty Rhodes lay a clubberin' on some chumps, then the kid is probably too sick to come to wrestling. Just a suggestion from your Uncle Big Stupid Tommy.

I almost crushed that kid's head like a melon. We'd stand up to yell at somebody, and he'd try to lay down across three seats. And I wasn't paying attention to what was under me, and I would have squashed the kid's head had something not excited me back to my feet.

Phlump. That's the dull sound that the head would have made--like a rotten pumpkin hitting an old wooden barn. Mushy, like biting into a soft apple, yet sadly satisfying, like a burp after a large meal of turkey and RC Cola. And then people would have called me names and talked about what a terrible tragedy it was.

The real tragedy? Johnny Cash probably is too old now to sing a song about it.