What do you call a magician who is sick? An ill-usionist. If a great magician is feeling under the weather, shouldn’t he be able to levitate above it? But if he truly had magical powers, he’d make the common cold disappear. Until then, he’ll just have to use that ridiculously long handkerchief from his sleeve to blow his nose.
Hopefully, it’s just a cold and not a fever. He should probably check his temperature with his magic wand. I can almost hear him now, sniffling, “And for my next trick, I will be sawing my assistant in half… but first, abracadabra. Does anyone have any aspirin? I’ve got a splitting headache. Alakazam. Or some Alka-Seltzer Plus? What? Did I forget to say the magic words? Alright then. Pretty please?”
Maybe instead of pulling a rabbit out of his hat, he can pull out a bowl of chicken noodle soup. I know magic is mainly smoke and mirrors, but all that smoke can’t be good for congestion. He should try using a Vick’s Vaporizer instead. I feel bad for the audience member he’s going to call on stage because they are probably going to catch whatever he has too. “Pick a card, any card. Okay. Good. Now give me a card, any card of a physician because I’m really sick.”
Between illusions, he starts to reminisce about his mentor, the great Houdini. “You know,” he says, pausing to sneeze, “Houdini could escape from any locked container. I, on the other hand, can’t seem to escape from this flu.”
In an attempt to redeem his act, he tries to make a bouquet of flowers appear in his assistant’s hand. With a grand flourish, he waves his wand, but instead of flowers, his assistant just starts sneezing uncontrollably. “Bless you,” he mutters, fumbling with his handkerchief again.
The grand finale is meant to be spectacular. He gathers all his energy, waves his wand, and with a loud “Hocus Pocus!” tries to produce a dove. Instead, a pigeon appears, looking equally as miserable as the magician. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says with a weak smile, “I present to you… the common cold. You’ve been a great audience this evening. Come back and see me when I’m better. Don’t forget to tip your waitstaff and wash your hands. Goodnight!”
As he shuffles off the stage, he mutters to himself, “Next time, I should probably conjure up some chicken noodle soup before the show. Or maybe just a good doctor. Now, where did I leave that magic wand-thermometer?”
