I'm starting to believe that we, as a species, are being rapidly overtaken in the biological arms race. This past weekend, I had what I can only describe as a debilitating case of the flu. I should mention at this point that if you're at all bothered by descriptions of acute gastro-intestinal distress, then go on, gentle reader, get the hell on.
The last time I can remember feeling this bad was in the aftermath of my Scandinavian encounter with Mr. T, wherein we drank forty fluid ounces of high quality vodka and an equivalent amount of Redbull, then ate our body weight in preserved fish and side-dishes at the on-board buffet.
Did I mention that we were on an overnight ferry at the time? We were.
The next day, our respective lower intestines did the predictable thing, and punished us by turning any area where we laid our weary bones for more than five minutes into The House That Stank Built. By necessity, the concept of a 'courtesy flush' was extended to cover the entire period in which one was on the throne. Thankfully, the Finns seemed to have had some experience with these matters, and kindly supplied us with a john upon which one could sit side-saddle and hold the flush button down comfortably.
You can imagine why I thought that I had plumbed the foulest depths of bio-chemical digestive by-products. And if I restrict my frame of reference to man-made disasters, I may very well have been correct. I certainly hadn't seen anything half that nasty emerge from the rumbling by-ways of my gut in the ensuing year.
Our dear Mother Nature, on the other hand, was only too happy to prove her superiority, starting last Thursday, when I felt a high fever developing in the early afternoon. I spent the evening confined to a chair, alternating between sweats and chills, and wondering how the hell I'd picked up Ebola in London. When I finally got to bed, my tossing and turning was interrupted by hourly trips to the can to void things that I was much happier to have out than in.
Ebola, I thought, definitely Ebola. I'll ride this out, and see how it is in the morning. There's not much they can do for Ebola anyway. Probably just send me home with some Pepto.
For some stupid reason, I convinced myself that I felt better then next morning, put the whole thing down to some dodgy beans on toast, and went into work. After spending more time in the 'other office' than at my desk, I gave up at lunch, and headed back to the nest. Whereupon I spent the entire weekend dropping toxic gut bombs, drinking Lucozade to ward off the dehydration, and blowing blood out of my sinuses, because apparently if you run a high enough fever, you damage your lungs, amongst other vital organs (I learn something new every day. At the time, I took this as more evidence for the Ebola case). Way to go Immune System. Fucker.
We achieved solidity on Monday morning, so I figured I was good to go back to work, where I wandered around like the Living Dead until five o'clock. I'm pretty much back in action as of yesterday, but my point, other than subjecting you to an extended description of my digestive system, is that I, a fit and healthy young man, was laid low for six days by a simple virus last week. Nothing special, not a case of Multiple Resistant Heebie Jeebies or anything, just a flu. If I was in any way immunosuppressed, or elderly, or frail, I'm pretty sure I'd still be in the hospital.
Ladies and Gentlemen, our new Viral Overlords wait in the wings, and there isn't a whole fuck of a lot we can do about them. Lay in a supply of your favourite sports drink, some Imodium, and prepare for boarding.

When I look out at you today, my Hordes, I am filled with pride. When I see all that we've accomplished, I am reminded of the first among you, the first of my disciples. Long after I've gone into night, you will be led by the first of the New Marshalls, the child of my oldest brother. Soon, we will...

Yes, my flying monkeys, there is soon to be a new addition to the ranks of la famille de Marshall. Dave, the eldest of the current generation, is going to be a father at some point in the early fall.
While I harbour grave concern for the little thing (seriously, look at this family's track record), this kid will have enormous energy focused on keeping it happy, healthy, and able to realise it's innate superiority.
For starters, my Mum's frustrated desire for a daughter will guarantee a ready supply of baby-sitting services (even in the event of yet another boy).

Forward the Diaper Changers!

Also, the kid is already well supplied with uncles, an essential factor in the development of any future Supreme Leader. It'll have The Eccentric Uncle, in Alex, and The Rich Uncle, namely me. My parent's reluctance to provide funding, even in the most extreme circumstances, leads me to think that this is going to be a big role for me, and to be honest, I'm looking forward to it. We had rich cousins, but all we ever got out of them were matching sweaters, or matching boxer shorts. Needless to say, my Christmas efforts will be more along the lines of Boba Fett's Slave I than synchronised flannel.

Two battalions of Toy Spoilers, into the breach!

I wish this had happened when I was a bit more financially stable, but it won't be that big of a problem. I can produce funds almost at will, thanks to my borrowing history during school, so if the kid needs for anything, I'm reasonably certain that I can make it appear.
As Alex says, fear the New World Order. Despite the rather ineffective breeding programs of the younger members, the Hordes are growing. Once the new Officer Corps is out of diapers, we will grind you under our fallen arches.