How am I? I’ll tell you how I am! I’m running a low-grade fever with intermittent chills and sweats; my head is so plugged up, I feel like the Elephant Man with a sinus infection; my eyes are crusted over and burning and look like two p--holes in the snow; my nose is running; I am deeply congested; and, oh yes, my coughing and sneezing is keeping me up all night. Did you know that, every time you sneeze, your heart stops for a millisecond? I have sneezed so much in the last couple days, I should be in a coma. But, thanks so very much for asking how I am feeling.

I guess I have some kind of weird virus — I would say I probably have pneumonia, but I don’t know how to spell it. My wife is so concerned about how contagious I am, she keeps me quarantined in the master bedroom and feeds me a steady diet of pizza and other foodstuffs she can slide under the door. She checks on me periodically by calling me from her cell phone. I do have plenty of potable water and assorted juices and I have my martinis in the evening. Oh, I know, I know, medical science says liquor cannot cure the common cold, but neither can medical science.

You talk about a born loser — I am taking four-way cold tablets for my affliction and I am willing to bet I have a five-way cold. I suppose I should try to see my doctor about my problem but that becomes such a hassle. You wait up to two weeks for an appointment and then, when you finally get in to see the doctor, the first thing he says is, “My goodness, why didn’t you come in to see me sooner?” The waiting room drill drives me nuts. After signing in 15 minutes early, the receptionist sweetly tells you to have a seat in the waiting room and the doctor will be with you shortly. You must then join the rest of the cast of “Les Miserables” who are all hacking worse than you are. It wouldn’t be so bad if the TV were tuned to ESPN instead of those depressing soaps.

My doctor has a sign in the waiting room which says, “If you have been waiting more than 30 minutes, please check in again with the receptionist.” To be safe, I usually give them 45 minutes and then I cautiously approach the sweet reception lady with the fact that my appointment time is long past. She suddenly turns into the kind of woman you would expect to ride to lunch on a broom and says, “You get right back there to your seat in the peanut gallery and wait your turn!” The last time I was there, when I finally got called into the inner sanctum, the nurse said, “First of all, Mr. Platt, we need to determine your weight.” I said, “Rounded off, it was an hour and 20 minutes.”

I’ll tell you one thing — like most doctors, my doctor could never make it as a kidnapper because nobody could ever read the ransom note. Anyway, you must now proceed to the pharmacy with a couple of papyrus scrolls written in cursive hieroglyphics and settle in for another long wait. I can remember when the pharmacist in my home town was a friendly little old guy named “Doc” Cook who knew just about everyone. He stood behind the soda fountain in a white coat with cherry-coke stains on it selling two-dollar watches and greeting cards. He would make you a small coke and, by the time you finished it, your prescription had been filled. In contrast, pharmacists nowadays are highly educated specialists, plying their apothecary wares from hermetically-sealed cages with “Turn-in” windows and “Pick-up” windows. They dispense miracle drugs of which they know little, to cure diseases of which they know even less, into folks of which they know nothing. The pharmacy also has a sign that says check back in at the counter if the wait is too long, but don’t you do it! The lady at that counter is not happy with her lot in life and will take it out on you.

Some of our current political candidates take great pride in calling themselves “mavericks.” Please excuse my language but I say pshaw and piffle! They are mere pikers compared to me in the maverick department. Maybe Johnny Mac did vote against “Dubyah” a couple times, and maybe the Governess of Alaska did cancel the bridge, but I have been taking the Tylenol Nighttime Cold medicine in the daytime! You talk about a rebel. On my really wild days, I love to tear the labels off cushions, blankets, and pillows “Under Penalty of Law!”

Enough of this nonsense — I’ll probably be feeling better by the time this article is printed. I do want to say that my wife and I have received nothing but the very best medical care here in our fair city and there is no malice intended in my previous rant. I’ll close for now with a few doodles about being in “sickness or in health, for richer or for poorer…” as pertains to most hypochondriacs in general and my crazy cousin Teddy in particular.

Teddy is very much against antibiotics since they’ve been found to cure some of his favorite diseases.

He not only expects the worst, but he makes the worst of things when they occur.

When he has a sore throat, he sits in front of the TV with his mouth open so the actor playing the doctor can see his tonsils.

Teddy is like a cartoon character when he has a cold. He actually says “ah-choo!” and “cough-chough!”

Crazy Teddy has a pre-paid burial policy and a headstone that reads, “See, I told you I was sick!”

See ya later…

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Dick Platt is a Daily Sun columnist. His column appears on Thursdays.