You had me worried there for a second, Professor Hawking. When I read that you had been hospitalized with a serious illness, all kinds of questions raced through my head. Would he forfeit our long-planned zero-gravity deathmatch? Would I get all of the prize money? Did I needlessly purchase a diamond-studded silk robe with the words “Baddest Cripple on the Planet” written on the back in real gold trim to wear on fight night? But such worries vanished when I read today that doctors expect you to make a full recovery.
Just to show you (and the public) that I have a soft side, I’m dispatching my personal masseuse and personal nutritionist to your bedside. They’ll have you in fighting shape in no time. But keep an eye on Kelli, the masseuse. Her hands like to roam, if you know what I mean.