Tis the season of giving. And by giving, I mean inconsiderate mouth breathers giving anyone within coughing distance the flu, a stomach virus, or worse.
Illness is the gift that keeps on giving. Think of it as Nature's Fruitcake. No one wants it, so they pass it on to the next person in line, who in turn passes it on, and so on, and so on. The result is usually the Fruitcake coming full circle, with Patient Zero getting the bug all over again. A fitting vengeance for those who regift disease.
Perhaps a better analogy would be Secret Santa, except in this case it is the Secret Sickness. I doubled over with the stomach virus earlier this week and would happily repay the favor to the unknown disease carrier. Heck, I'd spit in their mouth just to make sure it took (I'm vindictive that way).
The suspects are numerous. Unlike the board game "Clue," where you have a finite number of people within a finite number of rooms using a finite number of weapons (on the unfortunate Mr. Boddy), playing Sherlock to capture the Maniacal Mucous Menace is trickier.
For, you see, if you look carefully to your left and to your right (I said carefully! You don't want to arouse suspicion) you will see the culprits, hacking away with a cough, cough, cough...a cough that will really cheese you off. A wheezy, whiny barking cacophony of sickly germs, expelled into the atmosphere for all to share. Without a care do they share, and are fully aware of your baleful glare, as obscenities blare (thanks, Theodore Geisel!).
When you enter the office with a sniffle, these hypocritical hypochondriacal malcontents are the first to threaten you within an inch of your life if you dare look sickly in their direction. Yet when a bug eventually ravages their mortal frame (and it always does), they spew germs through the atmosphere are if it were an Olympic sport, mouth proudly agape for maximum coverage.
"But wait!" you cry. "Cover your pie hole. I don't want to pick up your germs." Their reply is a sadistic grin, followed by a large, phlegmy hack from deep within their bowels, straight in your direction.
Going out in public this time of year is akin to The Walking Dead, with zombies focused on not eating your brains but trying to fill them with infection. You have not lived until someone standing behind you in a checkout line sneezes, plastering the back of your head with whatever viscous fluid their ailment generates.
Have I shared my theory about the brain? Doesn’t matter, because here it comes again. The Urban Myth is that humans only use 10 percent of their brain, leaving 90% untapped. My theory is that the other 90% is used for snot storage. I mean, where else does it all come from? Ernie the Elf from the Keebler tree moonlighting as a baker of boogers? I think not.
Here’s wishing everyone Season’s Greetings, not Season’s Sneezings, this year.