It's cute how the universe ticks.

Last rain I got so excited that I went mud-wampin'. That's when you stomp through floodwater with the long-term goal of catching pneumonia. Some people mud-wamp in their cars, searching the gutters for that log-ride effect.

I write you now with pneumonia. In all my years of wampin', I had never actually caught it, but this time I already had a cold and wouldn't you know. It's a wonder they don't issue me a helmet.

The infection moved in like a fussy houseguest, and though we bickered at first, pneumonia is starting to grow on me. Or in me. It's mostly a whooping cough along with that stuffy feeling you get when you cry nonstop for three years.

Ahem. Whoop. Cough.

People spend so much time fighting colds. If we're not bouncing back, we're trying to "feel ourselves" again. I was raised to not feel myself, but the point is that once you lean into it, sickness can be your friend.

Yesterday, for instance, I accidentally changed lanes on the freeway and didn't even notice the honking. Or the finger for "you're number one." Then I stored the milk in the cupboard and drank it anyway. If you tilt your head just right, pneumonia is like nirvana.

Ahem. Whoop. Cough.

I don't usually visit the doctor on account of my HMO: All it covers is an apple a day. Instead of anesthesia, they just punch you in the face. So it goes.

Today the nurse asked if I had been taking my prescription.

"Off and on," I said.

"Well, you may as well not take it at all."

Normally I'd counterattack -- have at you! -- but in my sweet syrup of indifference, I just swayed to the clocking of the tick (you know what I mean).

"Yes," I said. "It is like that -- like not taking the pills at all. Maybe the pharmacy will refund me."

The nurse gave an extra pump to my blood-pressure cuff and said, "Yes, maybe they will." It was the politest tension you'll find outside the British Parliament. And I didn't even point out how they had asked for my birth date and my age. I thought these people were educated. Could you see them in surgery...

"Oh, here's the problem: He's got a doohickey on his thingamabob."

The doctor walked in to relieve Nurse Ratched, who lingered at the door with the stink eye, dot dot dot. And these are Days of Our Lives. Or in this case, General Hospital.

Doctor P. listened to my lungs and asked if I'd been playing in the rain. I told him that I had. He shook his head and recommended a shrink. Doctors smile more because of the golf.

Ahem. Whoop. Golf.

The doc recommended bed rest, as opposed to the rest I was getting on the freeway. He prefers Sealy to my Spinalpedic -- oh, we were talking about mattresses. Fact is, I can't remember what we talked about, and that's the way I like it.

Pneumonia reminds me of that getting-old poem by Jenny Joseph: "When I am old I shall wear purple with a red hat that doesn't suit me ... And I'll run my stick along public railings and go out in my slippers in the rain and pick the flowers in other people's gardens ... "

And put milk in the cupboard and shun my prescription!

Doctor P. says that my condition will get worse without antibiotics; and while I may take his drugs, I have to admit that I'm tempted to explore pleurisy.

Ahem. Whoop. Cough.

As someone who lives near the beach, I feel qualified to make the following scientific observation: Seagulls are evil.

Not seagulls, you say. Yes. Seagulls. They feed on carcass, they have no friends, they crap on everything -- they're the lawyers of marine vertebrates.

A seagull's opinion of you is based largely on whether you're holding food, which includes bread, items that look like bread, and small, bread-like pets. Seagulls are timid individually, but in numbers they get in your face like hammered Irishman until, worst case, they go Alfred Hitchcock.

"He's got the size, men, but we've got the numbers."

One day I left a trash bag outside and later opened the door to a stream of coffee grinds and egg yolk leading to the street, where four seagulls were fighting over a wine cork.

Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!

Last Sunday I went to Ana Cappa Island -- or for all the guano, Ana Crappa Island -- which is the Cancun of seagull social life. Males fly in from all over to get drunk, have wild orgies, and flee like nothing happened.

"Dude, what happens in Ana Crappa stays in Ana Crappa."

Including their offspring, which females stay behind to hatch. By the time we tourists get there, the ladies are completely hormonal and lash out as you pass. Seriously, one of the little haters bit my leg when I wandered off to pee. (Good thing I'm quick with a zipper.)

Seagulls relieve themselves ten times more often than necessary, something known to ornithologists as recreational discharge. They bomb your windshield, your swimming pool, your children... Father seagulls hover above car washes teaching the ropes to their children.

"The trick to hitting a mobile target, son, is to release early like this..."

And let's not forget the seagull that dropped a turtle on that Florida highway, causing a four-car collision. Coincidence? Don't be naive.

Now, I don't believe in killing animals. As a boy, I spent two months' allowance freeing the lobsters from a local Ralphs. I crusaded for restaurants where people had to meet their food beforehand, a Meet-Your-Meat Café.

That said, I propose that we eat seagulls. Believe me: They would do the same to you. They'd kill you and beat with your own corpse. Dieticians are always promoting fish and fowl, fish and fowl. Well, with seagulls you get both.

Imagine the possibilities: seagull piccata, seagull noodle soup, Thanksgiving seagull. I'll bet if we ask nicely, Ted Nugent would try the seagull tartare.

How did seagulls make the white list anyway? Chickens and ducks get the knife, but seagulls are free to wander the skies excreting on our children. I thought the rule was that we eat animals so long as they're not smart or cuddly. Seagulls aren't bright enough to avoid large buildings and so unattractive that when they mate, they think of pelicans. So it goes.

Even as we speak -- no kidding -- there's a seagull outside my window, squawking like a madman at life, the universe, and everything. He won't look me in the eye; seagulls never do. They're like felons with dark stories.

And I'll just bet he's waiting for a target to relieve himself, painful as it is to hold the runs from a burrito he swallowed whole while the others screeched in their little lawyer voices, Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!

Hi, boys and girls. Did you know that I recently teamed up with the VC Star's one and only Gretchen Macchiarella for a weekly video feature called "Canned"? Well, I did. And you can find it by clicking on the magic genie below. That genie will become an animated Flash ad once the Flash fairies finally -- mercifully -- finish their project. Do you sense tension in the air, boys and girls? Well, here in magic genie land there is no tension, so don't make me go Willy Wonka.

Got a cat recently.

When you announce that you're having a baby, everyone applauds and cheers. Tell 'em you got a cat and they're like, "Oh, I'm sorry. I -- I didn't realize it was that bad." So it goes.

When I got the cat, the owner said that he, the animal, talks a lot; and I thought, "Hey, cool, like Garfield." Turns out that talking is more like nails on chalkboard: Meeeow. Meeeeow. But then you reach down to pet him, and he runs away.

That's the difference between a cat and a dog: A dog wants your attention; a cat wants you to be "less neglectful."

My Sam likes to sniff his butt -- and you would too if you could -- but when he looks up, he's got this crazed expression like he's sniffing a totally different kind of crack. I asked a local vet what it meant and he said, "How should I know? I fought in a war."

Then I asked a veterinarian ... and she said that cats have a sensor in their mouth that allows them to enjoy their own bouquet. The little dude spends 20% of his life probing himself. It's like an Everlasting Gobstopper.

You ever throw a toy for a cat, and he starts to chase it but then catches himself?

"Wait a minute. I'm not your monkey. I'm not here for your entertainment. And by the way, did you serve me tap water? As if."

If there is one thing that all cat owners have in common, it's this: We all have a box of stool in our house. And it's not the stand-off doodie that you wrap up and olé; you've got to get in there like a forty-niner panning for gold.

"Hey-hey, look at that nugget. Get the scale!"

While we're here ... still ... what makes a cat take off running after he dumps? My cat gains enough momentum to leave skid marks on the walls. Could you imagine if people were like that?

"Let's get this meeting started. Where's Conner?"

"Um. Sir. He's doing wind sprints in the parking lot." Then in a cupped whisper. "Number two."

Cats will tolerate a certain amount of neglect with the litter box, but around Day Three they become as one of our founding fathers.

"When in the course of events a cat cannot step into his box without facing yesterday's litter, he must deem these conditions intolerable ... and the tyrants will know his discontent by the droppings they find in the bathtub."

The other day I walked in and found Sam chewing on my lucky bamboo plant ... my lucky bamboo plant. He may as well have been taking money out of my pocket! So I bought some of that "no chew" spray that makes the plants taste bad, and the bottle read, "Does not cause stinging like other leading products."

I said, "No, I want stinging. I want stinging and burning. I want to see smoke coming out of his ears. Chew on my lucky bamboo plant."

Tidy as cats are, you wonder why they hate the bath. My cat will die before he lets me bathe him. It's like holding one leg of a terrified wishbone. Is my tongue really that repulsive?

At the airport I saw a cat carrier that read, "Careful: I scratch." That's alarming, isn't it? It means that cats can not only read, but they're making labels! You know they're onto the whole doorknob thing. One day you'll come home to an open house, the smell of keg beer, cats swinging from the chandelier...

"I've got your tap water right here. Wooooo!"

To protect the couch, I bought a jungle gym that cost more than the couch, but Sam prefers the give of designer throw pillows. Good times. Good times.

Sam plays in my office while I write, so every day is Take Your Child to Work Day. "Get away from those wires!" "Stop or I'll shoot!" Seriously, I carry on my person a spray bottle. All I need is a holster and spurs. And whiskey. Lots of whiskey.

Maybe we should adopt the spray-bottle system for humans. When someone on an airplane, for instance, can't stop complaining, we just squirt him between the eyes. Sure, he'll be angry, but he'll learn.

They say that petting a cat lowers your blood pressure, but if it weren't for the cat, maybe IT WOULDN'T BE NECESSARY. At the end of the day, though, when you look into those gooey blue kitty eyes, your heart turns to butter and you forgive all the -- "Sam! Stop it right now! I'll show you why they call that a throw pillow..."