Romance isn't dead, it has the flu

It's been quite the interesting weekend.

Not so much interesting in the 'oh how unusual, delightful, or interesting that is' kind of way, but more in the 'sweet lord is that meant to happen?' kind of way.

If a child proves to have been conceived in this cycle, I may just offer it, or myself, to a passing circus.

We had a slight dilemma. I drifted into a man cold induced hallucinogenic coma while ET drifted into a state of ripeness.

She was ready for plucking, I was fit for burial.

There was no option, no choice, no way we were going to miss the window of opportunity this month. So even in my demented state, I decreed to put my wife to the sword.

Ladies, you haven't known true pleasure until you've been clambered upon by a fever laden sweaty man, wheezing upon every thrust of passion.

You haven't been caressed in every way that a woman should, until you've felt the tickle and trickle from a runny nose on the nape of your neck.

Never before have you heard a true groan of pleasure until you've heard your man collapse beside you grasping his own aching flu ridden hips.

Don't be fooled into thinking that the physical and mental delights were not just gifted to my good wife this weekend, I too experienced wondrous moments.

Gentlemen, never will you experience such a boost to your manhood, such an indication of your prowess, such an ego lift and sign of encouragement, as when at the moment you finally deliver your 'finest', you hear the words "oh thank God".

Only three, or four, or five days to go....