Singultus

If you happened to be flipping channels late last night you might have caught my television debut on the Jimmy Kimmel show. I was the second guest (appearing right after Kathy Griffin’s hilarious re-telling of a chance encounter with Nick Lachey and just before a thrilling 14-minute performance by Good Charlotte and the Los Angeles Philharmonic) in a spot commonly reserved for the human-interest guest, although the word ‘freak’ was thrown around a few times backstage.

When I was originally contacted by the show, I had naively assumed it had something to do with the vegetarian chili I had entered in the Clarence County Cook-off seven of the past nine years. Because despite not winning the competition again this year – my batch had placed 4th – it was a personal best for me. But it was, the gentleman on the phone explained, not the reason they were calling.

Unbeknownst to me I had recently been included in the Guinness Book of World Records under the heading “Longest Attack of Hiccups.” According to the editors my record-setting bout of hiccupping began in 1936, during a routine gathering of communists, and continued to this day. A total of more than 70 years, it beat the previous mark by almost 15 months. That combined with the attention garnered from the original AP story and the resulting media coverage (Paris and Lindsay are hiccupping at an alarming rate!!!) led to my fielding questions on a network talk show.

“Did you have any idea it would ever get this crazy?” Jimmy asked when the audience finally stopped clapping and sat down.

“No,” I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. It was the prepared answer provided by my publicist and not a very good one. Besides, now that I had time to reflect, there probably were a few signs.

For as long as I can remember, whenever dining at a restaurant the waiter would immediately deliver a pitcher of water to my table and with a concerned look ask, “Is there anything more I can do?” Could it be what I once believed was conscientious beveraging was in fact something else?

Or when I was stationed in Italy during the war and my commanding officer would take me aside every morning and say things like, “Why not try holding your breath or breathing into a bag?” I realize now it probably had nothing to do with mustard gas.

And just last week my wife looked up from her US Weekly and shouted, “Oh my god, will you quit it with the hiccups, already.”

After my appearance with Jimmy, I was led to a black sedan idling on the street. On the way past the protestors I saw the show’s executive producer turn to an intern and mutter, “Well, that’s the last we’ll hear from him.”

Never one to let a slam go unanswered and still hot from the studio lights, I spun around to face the woman.

“How dare you,” I shouted, waving my finger in her face.

“Bless you,” she said matter-of-factly.

“What?” I asked, recoiling slightly, concerned she might be one of those religious zealots Katie Couric liked to talk about.

“You sneezed,” she replied.

I considered that for a moment.

“Did I?”