Limesick, definition: A limerick composed by an ill person in an attempt to amuse herself. The result is that the limerick also suffers greatly, and therefore ends up being quite lame.

A girl named Red once had the flu
It made her cough and wheeze and achoo
This ailment so strained her
From colour it drained her
Even her eyes are no longer blue

A musical girl suffered a curse
She said: "I really ought to see a nurse."
She coughed a cadenza
Nurse said: "Influenza!"
"Don't call the ambulance, call the hearse!"

And lastly:

In bed, watching television. Temperature is 103F, but it feels like at LEAST 150F. Must remember to wear sunscreen, even though it appears to be raining, because everything is damp.

Zoning in and out of The Today Show (thank you, NBC, for giving us a break from Katie Couric on weekends. How can ANYONE be that chirpy this early in the morning?! She's a robot, I'm convinced).

Suddenly, a strange, yet very melodic song begins to play. Then there's this little boy on a tricycle. He is riding so fast, his chubby cheeks are wobbling in the breeze. His lips are pursed with concentration. There's a strange look in his eyes.

The camera pans down to the pavement just as the tricycle's front wheel makes an easter egg go "splat!"

We see that the whole length of the pavement is lined with chocolate Easter eggs. And a bunny! There's a real, live, white bunny with a trembling nose at the end of the line of easter eggs. The camera zooms out. The boy is heading straight for the other easter eggs AND THE BUNNY! HE IS GOING TO HIT THE BUNNY!

The other Easter eggs go "Splat!" "Splat!" "Splat!" as the boy rides over them. This is a little serial killer in the making. He is enjoying this far too much!

A little girl screams somewhere off camera.

The bunny is frozen... The only sign of fear in its little pink triangle of a nose, which is trembling uncontrollably.

There are only three Easter eggs left before the bunny...

"Splat!"

Two...

"Splat!"

I think I'm going to scream!

One...

Abruptly, the tricycle stops, not even an inch from the last Easter egg and the bunny.

If bunnies could look relieved, I'm sure this one wouldn't have looked it, because it was still too shocked to move anything but its trembling nose.

A few voices begin to chorus something about an Easter parade and trying Mary Sue (or something like that) candies today, bringing home the fact that the music had never stopped.

Words flash across the screen: "Some traditions are worth saving."

I zone out.

The boy brings water and medicine.

"I just had the most absurd dream," I croak through chapped lips. "There was a bunny, a real one, and this little boy on a tricycle was trying to kill it!"

The boy looks worried, leans close and feels my forehead. "You are burning up! Here, sit up and take this." He holds up the glass. I'm about to take a sip when I hear something familiar.

"THERE IT IS! MY DREAM! LOOK!" I point at the television. The excitement nearly brings on a coughing fit, but I drink the water and the boy manages to see and hear "my dream" without any interruption.

"Oooooooh!" he groans at the part where the little demon child is heading straight for the bunny.

At the conclusion, he doesn't know whether to laugh or shake his head, so he does both. "Now that must go down as one of the worst commercials I've ever seen. Did they really think that nothing will say "Easter" better than a devilish toddler on a tricycle mowing down Easter eggs and heading straight for a bunny?"

"That's probably why I thought I was hallucinating the whole thing!"

We decided that the copy writer must have dreamed up the concept while suffering from a very high fever, because honestly, since living in Maryland I've seen some rather awful commercials, but that one takes the cake... or rather, in this case... the Easter egg.

Perhaps feverish copy writing can be my new career. I don't think I'm ever going to get better anyway, so I might as well start planning my flu-ridden future.

Just: Es Aye Sea Kay

This past weekend, while doing a bit of celebratory seven* channel surfing (what... you didn't really think I was actually going to go out and shake my romp after my recent traumatising experience with an Arthur Murray Dance School instructor named Good Quality, now did you?), the boy and I tuned into a movie where a vicious fight scene - complete with the bad dubbing where the fake sounds of fists falling and karate "CHOP, CHOP, KA-CHOPPING!" were lagging just a tad behind the actual movements it was supposed to be sound-effecting - was in progress.

Being the cultured folk we are, we were instantly riveted.

The plot appeared to be quite intricate (as is usually the case with 80's films containing badly-dubbed sound-effects), but we managed to figure out that the two guys were beating each other up in order to win the affection of a girl.

I turned to the boy and said: "Except for one time when a male friend had to be dispatched to get rid of an overzealous ex-boyfriend, no man - or woman, for that matter - has ever fought for my hand or my honour. And you know, for just once in my life I would really like to see some teeth flying on my behalf."

For some unfathomable reason the boy didn't seem ONE BIT enthusiastic to make my dream come true.

So, girls (and boys! This is an equal-opportunistic website): Have fists and/or teeth ever flown on YOUR behalf?

*We get seven television channels on a GOOD day, when we manage to sit perfectly still on the couch, wire coat hangers carefully balanced on our foreheads.

My reason for making early-morning, high-pitched dolphin sounds is this!

I'm stunned, but unfortunately for everyone, not stunned enough to be quiet, ha ha ha!

I can't believe - well, so many things, really, but most of all - the category I won!! (But this is the last I'm saying about that, before they realise they've made a huge mistake, take it back, and give it to the correct person. So shhh. I'll ask the dog next door to bury it in the backyard.)

Also can't believe that people actually VOTED. For ME!?! So thank you all very, very much! Your cheques are in the mail. But even though it's only 5c (South African cents - and yes, it IS necessary to specify this), you'd better not try to cash it, unless you want to see some remarkable bouncing. (My cheques bounce higher than yooooouuuurrrrs, nah, nah, neh, NAAH naah!)

You realise of course that now, after all this voting going on on my behalf (Yeah, I KNOW that you never intended to vote for me; that your hand merely slipped on the keyboard and your mouse got stuck right when the little arrow was pointed to my name and that you merely clicked it out of anger to try and get it unstuck... Be more careful next time!), I'm seriously considering a career in politics. I'm aiming for complete and total control and domination of... Liechtenstein.

It's not that I'm lazy per se... Let's just say my ambitions might not be quite as advanced as that of people contemplating domination of the world's biggest countries. Or even - what a concept - global domination. (Just typing that made me tired.)

Yeah, okay... I'm totally lazy. In fact, I initially contemplated taking political control over Vatican City, since it's the smallest country and all (don't say you never learn anything on this site. WHADOYOUMEAN you already knew that?), but I've since gone off the idea. I mean, Dan Brown only wrote a measly little best-selling book, and look how much grief the Catholic highest-ups are giving HIM! I simply don't have the strength to wade through all that red tape while running the constant risk of being clobbered over the head with a Bishop's hat (and yeah, wise guys, I know that it's actually called a 'miter').

So maybe a career in politics isn't for me after all, but before you let out a sigh of relief... you're not rid of me yet, because I think I'll stick to this writing business.

Please don't groan so loudly... you're scaring all the small children and animals out there!

As for all the other winners and nominees - including him for visual stimulation and her for her blogilicious contributions to the world (Warning: Do not read on an empty stomach!) - congratulations!

Seriously, do yourselves a favour and click on the links to all the nominees and winners, and then you'll see that not all South Africans are savage barbarians like me.

That being said, to see photos of last night's utterly sophisticated ceremony held in Johannesburg (the Cape Town pics aren't up yet. Hung-over, Cherry? UPDATE: He promises they'll be up over the weekend), go here. As you'll be able to see, the moon(ing) was full and bright in Johannesburg last night.

Thanks to the Jo'bloggers for organising it. (No, not the moon(ing)... or did they? Well, they DID organise the event and rumour has it that they even picked up the bar tab, brave souls!)

Thanks again also to Cherryflava who decided that, in order to win anything, ever, South African bloggers needed their own awards.

But lastly, I would like to thank my own blogging benefactress Emily. If she didn't host the win-a-blog contest last year, I wouldn't even have this site right now. So thank you!!

And to all of you (yeah, I know I said 'lastly' up there... don't get so technical with me!), my readers (here she makes a sweeping arm gesture to include all three)... thank you for coming back here every day... or every week... or every month... whatever. You must REALLY be bored at work! Or is it a matter of not being able to take your eyes off a horrible car accident?

Never mind. I don't think I want to know.

Whatever your reasons are for coming back here, I'm sooo grateful that you do.

I know many bloggers out there claim not to do this for anyone but themselves, but that is certainly not me. Sure, I wish I could act all cool and nonchalant about it, but the truth is, I can't WAIT to check my e-mail to see if you've decided to comment on my drivel, because I often wonder if what I've written is making you laugh (at best) or cringe. (And if it's the latter, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT!)

Your comments are often the highlight of my day (which probably doesn't say much about my life! What do you mean go outside and play? You mean a world exists outside of this glowing monitor?!? Impossible... you MUST be making it up! Go declare your science fiction elsewhere!).

I know I'm terrible at replying to comments from you, but I promise you that I read them all (it's hard not to when you average 2 comments a day, ha ha). So thank you, and thanks for wading through my verbosity and bad puns and my gross misuse of parentheses and somehow making sense out of it all.

Okay, this is the end of today's sappiness. But - and come on, you KNOW I can't resist - it is merely the beginning of my happiness!

Don your greens, lads and lasses! St. Patrick’s Day is here!

What a fine excuse to attend authentically Irish establishments outside the emerald isle, such as this fine place. Do yourself a favour: if you ever find yourself in D.C. and you happen to be in the mood for a few pints and a great time, go there!

I really like this day. And no, not just because it calls for - no, BEGS for - the consumption of large quantities of green beer! What do you take me for? Never mind... please don't bother to answer that!

I like it, because it's the ONE time of year that I find my red hair to be a somewhat useful accessory. I pretend to be Irish and usually get away with it, even though my South African accent doesn't even come CLOSE to sounding like the beautiful Irish lilt. Luckily, after a few beers, most people don't know the difference. Or if they do, they simply couldn't give a damn!

I was surprised to learn that this celebration was a religious holiday first. It only turned into a raucous drunken brawl much later. How lucky for us that it did!

Here, in VERY loose limerick form is a brief history of St. Patrick's Day. Please keep in mind that just because I like to compose limericks (I DO! Especially when I've had a pint... or two) does not mean that I am any good at it. In fact, I'm REALLY BAD at it, but since when have I allowed slight technicalities like that to prevent me from doing something? Huh?

Exactly...

So here goes. As the orthodontist said to the crooked teeth: Brace yerselves! (See? It's already lame, and I haven't even gotten to the limerick yet! You'd better have a pint first!)

The year was Three Eighty-Five AD
When Welsh lad Maewyn the light did see
His kin was poor and tough
He himself was quite rough
And hardly well-behaved or saint-ly

A band of thieves and marauders
From Ireland crossed several borders
The boy’s home was raided
Slavery awaited*
He spent six years answering orders

It was then that Fate came a-callin'
Told young Mae to convert the fallen
"No you can't be a drunk,
You must become a monk!"
He was Bishop before he was baldin'

Mae kept that gig for thirty years
When he died there were many tears
There at his Irish wake
He got another break
Sainthood and a day of green beers

So on this fine St. Patrick’s Day
Party all your sorrows away
Don your far greenest frock
Pin to it a large shamrock
And play Irish for one whole day

*"Awaited" can only rhyme with "Raided" if you say it with an American pronunciation. Besides, you ought to be drunk by now, so it shouldn't really matter!

That then was the brief (inaccurate?) history behind the March 17th celebrations. Of course, I've omitted some stuff about snakes and leprechauns (the little green men you'll see after a night of heavy drinking). I had no choice, because I wanted to keep it short in case you read this when you're not feeling so well.

Not to worry! Coming tomorrow: a haiku on how to cure a hangover.

But, what the hell, since it's St. Pat's and I'm on a roll (albeit a very bumpy one), I can't resist writing just one more.

Last one. I promise!

Andre Agassi’s a tennis pro
He saw Steffi and said “Why, hello!”
She said her name is Graff
And they hit it right off
Do their children have tennis elbow?

UPDATE: Dedicated to all the Irish (be it by birth/drunkeness or sheer imagination), but especially to her.

I've finally descended from yesterday's little (what can I say? I'm understated!) sugar high, so now I have to resort to natural highs again, like the ones I derive from good ol'e fashioned caffeine via espresso IV's.

But today I received such great news that even the IV can wait a bit longer.

Remember how I was miraculously nominated in a few categories for the first ever South African Blog Awards? Remember how I so shamelessly hit you all up for votes?

No, my good news is not that I've won. The winners are yet to be announced, but unless you voted your little fingers off every day for a week I don't stand much of a chance anyway!

The big day is tomorrow. Ceremonies will be held in South Africa at venues in Cape Town and Johannesburg. But really, the awards are just an excuse to party. NOT that South Africans EVER need an excuse to party, mind you...

Since I'm a bit too far from those venues to attend, I jokingly asked whether I could send delegates on my behalf.

So in a very formal letter (in the form of a comment on his blog) I wrote: "May I please send delegates on my behalf? I have three sisters, two in Johannesburg and one near Cape Town. They are all hot."

I quickly received the following formal reply: "Hot sisters are always welcome!"

I forwarded all the information to the hot sisters in question and whaddayaknow? One very hot sister will be in attendance in Johannesburg tomorrow night!

So if you're in the area, and you want to meet one hot sister and a lot of other South African bloggers (yes, there are even MORE OF US out there!), be there tomorrow night at 7 PM (South African time), 11 AM (EST).

Disclaimer: The fact that I have three hot sisters does not, alas, mean that I am hot.

Yeah, unfortunately I'm like, NOT hot.

Why do I suddenly feel like Paris Hilton?

HELLO EVERYBODY!!!! YES, I REALISE I'VE NOT BEEN A GOOD BLOGGER LATELY, BUT I'VE BEEN OTHERWISE OCCUP...

I NEVER SCREAM!! YOU HEAR ME?! I SAY I NEVEE... oh.

Oops!

Sorry.

Please forgive me? I guess all the sugar has finally kicked in.

"What sugar?" you ask, not without some undeniable suspicion in your tone. (Yeah, lots of sugar also make me very sensitive to other people's feelings and tones, which is why I need to consume chocolate daily and in large quantities.)

So let me tell you what sugar.

Is there anyone in this universe who doesn't have in his/her possession a G-Mail account yet?

I have a bunch to give away, but just to be funny (oh, I'm sooooo funny it isn't even funny how funny I am!) and even more annoying than I usually am, I'm going to make you all work for it a little bit.

So, please proceed to jump through fiery hoops.

Okay. I agree. Forget about the danger, that just sounds like way too much hard work.

Fine, so if you really, REALLY want a G-Mail account without having to get up from your chair, I'll give you one. The only thing I ask for in return is that you tell us all a joke in the comments.

This shouldn't be difficult. You're already much funnier than I am anyway! And just for today, I'll humour you and let you get away with being funnier than me. But it's the last time... THE LAST TIME, I tell you!

Last week those fun-lovin' censors at ABC prevented actor/comedian Robin Williams from performing a song during the Academy Awards ceremony.

Yeah, yeah... so that's not exactly hot off the press newsworthy or anything (what else do you expect from a procrastinating journalist?), but hold yer horses, for I'm about to deliver.

Before I do (and I swear I'm not just procrastinating now for the sport of it), allow me to enlighten those of you who are perhaps still not familiar with this story.

During the Oscars, Williams was to have performed a song making fun of conservative critic James Dobson, whose group had recently criticized the popular cartoon character SpongeBob SquarePants for appearing in a video it deemed "pro-homosexual."

I say Mr. Dobson and his friends have way too much time on their hands. Most of us... well, you. (But for the sake of this stellar piece of journalism, let's forget all about what's already been written on this website about my fondness for American television, and include me in that remark). So, most of US hardly have any time to watch television, let alone study and dissect children's shows!

Or would it be wiser to speculate that Dobson and his friends are watching shows intended for children because that's what their intellects limit them to?

Whatever the case may be, Dobson and co. are hardly original.

In 1999, a publication edited by Jerry Falwell identified one of the giggling, gurgling Teletubbies - the purple-clad Tinky Winky - as a homosexual.

In the song that was yanked from the Oscars, Williams was going to refer to several other cartoon characters and describe their dark and seedy sides.

But Williams was gagged and the lyrics of the song was never revealed.

Until last night, when Williams was a guest on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.

When Leno asked him about the controversy, Williams pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and, to the delight of the audience, read a few lines from the song.

To all of you who've missed it... you can thank your lucky stars that I'm such a dextrous transcriptionist!

Here, for your Tuesday pleasure, are some of the lines from the unsung cartoon song. (Lyrics by Marc Shaiman, who is my new hero.)

If you think you are tough enough to handle the truth, read on.

Not all female bloggers are 'real-life' scary like I am!

I gained this rather depressing insight on Saturday night, when a certain Bad Kitty finally strutted into town after several noble-but-unsuccessful attempts to do so earlier last week (Damn this Maryland Transportation Authority and all their confusingly criss-crossing train tracks leading to all sorts of obscure places, except to those places where you really want to go!) and thus my cover's been blown.

Luckily she's been sworn to secrecy. If she dares to disregard her life-long gag order, the catnapping of the century will take place at her home in Michigan.

Anyway, the girl is GORGEOUS! And SKINNY! And COOL! And FUNNY!

And she was sweet enough not to recoil in horror the moment she met me.

Now I can FINALLY say that I've met another blogger!

But I've made up for lost time, because Stacy immediately introduced me to another cool, gorgeous, smart and funny blogging chick. And she's from right here in Baltimoremoremore!

Oh, it was a lovely night, this meeting of the bloggers.

There were bears, and beers, and bearsandbeers, and talking (also, briefly, on the cell phone, to her) and laughing (LOTS of laughing!) and cigar smoking.

There was a car trip, a misunderstanding, an ID check (we were carded! No, let me rephrase that: I also managed to get carded, despite being next to Miss Fountain of Youth herself! (Yes, she really is THAT gorgeous!) I never thought I'd see the day/night again, so whoo-hooooooooo! And yes, I've just realized that my excitement about being carded is yet another pitiful and sure sign that I'm getting really old).

Then there were even more introductions and at least two more realizations that the world's population might not be quite as large as we've been led to believe. I refuse to say that it's a small world, because if you've ever found yourself on a trans-Atlantic flight, then you KNOW that the world isn't small. In fact, then you know that the world is really quite, quite large.

Anyway, it was fantastic to meet and/or talk to all of you.

May we all have a speedy reunion!

P.S. Oh, and the cherry on top of all of this is that I came home to discover a voice message from my very own blogging benefactress! Thanks, Em! I'm sorry I missed your call.

No, no... don't worry. In my ongoing quest for a career I've NOT decided to venture into politics, so you needn't start making plans to leave the country a.s.a.p.

I do need your vote, though.

It turns out that I must know someone influential somewhere in South Africa, because I've been nominated in three categories (but one is for the design of this blog, which I had nothing to do with, so that nomination is rightfully hers) for the first ever South African Blog Awards.

If you're so inclined, you can please vote for me, once a day until this Friday, March 4, over here.

Please, please PLEASE don't make me beg!

UPDATE: Final day! I've changed the link after some confusion and it should now take you straight to the voting page instead of the page where all the nominees were just listed and linked. You can cast your vote until 5 p.m. EST today!

Regular posting continues below.

I don't think you Americans have ever quite recovered from the Boston Tea Party, that rebellious 18th Century act during which members of the Sons of Liberty boarded three ships in Boston Harbour and, in protest of the British tax policies, threw 9,659 Pounds Sterling worth Darjeeling tea into the sea (which is probably what sparked the recipe for the blasphemous dunking of tea bags in later years).

Because if there is ONE thing Americans can't do very well - and most of them will readily admit to it too - it's making hot tea.

Those of us who grew up in former, more recent British colonies, are used to everything from tea cozies, teapots (which are also foreign concepts in most parts of America. After a desperate search, I finally managed to buy a real teapot at Ikea, a Swedish home store), preheated cups, milk and sugar.

At best, most Americans dunk a teabag in a mug (forget about dainty cups and saucers), pour hot-but-not-necessarily-boiled water over it and voila! Tea a la America!

It's enough to cause the Queen to abdicate.

If you REALLY want to throw an American waitress off course, be daring and ask for hot tea with milk. They don't seem to be able to quite grasp the concept.

But don't despair! All is not lost on the hot beverage front in the States.

Enter that delightful (if slightly potent) brew called coffee to save the American day and people like me, who can be accurately summed up by the following witty slogan nabbed from a mug: "Instant Human. Just Add Coffee."

Let it be said early on that I'm not exactly what you'd call a coffee connoisseur. Sure, I would like to THINK that I am, but the fact that I even like airport and airline coffee would be a dead giveaway to my indiscriminate nature (and desperation. But never mind that now).

But oh, I DO love my coffee! In fact, the only time I ever venture into the coffee maker's private quarters (that room, which in other people's homes is better known as the 'Kitchen') is when I make (or try to make) myself a pot o' coffee.

My friends know that they can serve me almost anything, as long as you can't see through it. Oh, and it should at least smell like coffee. For: "No coffee can be good in the mouth that does not first send a sweet offering of odour to the nostrils." - Henry Ward Beecher.

With milk and sugar, please. Because my coffee should be like my favourite kind of guy: strong, but also very, very sweet.

Back to America, where coffeehouses like Starbucks have become all the rage (there is possibly one on every block in Washington D.C., and I do believe it's just a matter of time before they start to build more Starbucks shops in the parking lots of existing Starbucks shops).

For those of you who aren't familiar with Starbucks (ye poor deprived and sleepy fools!), they serve up the Java Juice in every possible flavour, size and form you can think of: from frothy cappuccinos, lattés, mochas and Au Laits, to jolting little espressos that will keep you awake until NEXT Thursday.

But honestly, as much as I love the coffee shops and cafés, you need a complimentary cup of coffee just to be able to navigate your way through the exasperating array of decisions to be made: choice of size (which in Starbucks is written in Italian. I've since come to realize that it's a clever ploy to make more money, because most people - okay, me - are only able to pronounce Grande, so that's what I they end up ordering), choice of coffee, flavour, milk (the choices of milk alone take up an entire aisle at the supermarket), method of sweetening... I think one deserves another complimentary cup after successfully managing one's way through that tongue-twisting and thirst-inducing list.

Simply writing about it has worn me out. Think I'll go and have a cup o' wake-up while I leave you with some quotes in defense and defiance of the brew.

You pour cereal into the coffee maker.

Previously on Redsaid...