This is not a joke. One week ago, under the tutelage of a 103.5 fever, I composed a screenplay entirely in my head. I gave it the working title of FLU, shockingly, and recollect that it was a hi-LAR-ious story of misadventure.
You will writhe with laughter as a thirty-something single woman fights it, but ultimately falls flat on her fluey face. I don't want to spoil the yucks, but she loses her job, loses her dog, and loses several days to delirium. I am not joking that I thought I had done a pretty good job, and that Jennifer Anniston might just want it. I can't remember all the details, however, and you can thank me for that next time we chat.