Surviving the ‘electric blue’ flu

If you are reading this anywhere within a 15-mile radius of Homer, chances are you, or someone you know, has fallen victim to the latest round of flu. Some like to call it “swine flu,” while others prefer to refer to the vicious virus under its covert military name of H1N1.
I personally choose to call it the “Black Plague of ‘09.” (Notice that is a ‘g’ and not a ‘q.’ If you have plaque on your teeth that’s black…well, that’s just disgusting.)
Symptoms of the plague involve everything from sniffling and sneezing, to full-on, fever-raging, temple-throbbing, eyeball-oozing, covers-on, covers-off chaos. (What do you mean you didn’t experience the eyeball oozing thing?)
I have yet to contract this malevolent microbe of mayhem myself, yet I feel fully qualified explaining just what and what not to do when faced with this vile virus. Obviously I don’t speak from experience, but I did get some really helpful hints from my dogs, so I’ll probably “paws” a bit now and then to pass those on as I go. (I also drank some electric-blue cold medicine about 20 minutes ago to get in the “flu mood,” so I may have to turn this Spiew over to the cat to finish.)
Helpful Hint No. 1: Wash your hands frequently.
Oh, please! Did you really think I was going to be that predictable? Wash your hands if you want, but I’m thinking we need something like germ-ionizing faceshields to ward off bloodthirsty bacteria from those folks who get a bit too close to you when they talk. (Or, even worse, those people who spit! How many times do you have to take a loogie to the frontal lobe before you’re allowed to tell these saliva slingers they spit when they orate?)
If we can come up with something as high-tech and complex as a “sneezeguard” at salad bars and buffets, surely we can develop something to protect ourselves from those who “spray it” when they “say it.”
Here’s another helpful hint for you: If you’re talking to someone and you begin to notice random droplets of liquid forming on their glasses, nose, or forehead – those aren’t beads of sweat induced by your riveting storytelling skills. You, my friend, are a “loogie launcher.”
Don’t worry. There are much more terrible talents with which you could be burdened. Take, for example, the “farm blow,” (aka “snot rocket.”) I think most folks have figured out by now exactly what takes place when one embarks on a mucus overload deployment mission. Nevertheless, if you are ever left with any doubts, I have written instructions outlining the finer points of phlegm-flushing at your request. (Just another helpful service I strive to offer.)
And let’s not forget the ever-heinous hold of halitosis. (Or worse, chronic halitosis.) Perhaps you should just trust me when I say I’ve met plenty of people whose chronic halitosis could curl your eyebrows. There’s some stuff out there even a Tic-Tac can’t touch.
And while some people label rotted respiration as simply “bad breath,” those of us raised on TV commercials often go with the more scientific term. Thanks to endless hours growing up on Gilligan’s Island and Brady Bunch reruns, my generation could be considered fairly well-schooled on a large variety of useless, boring and often-irritating information on things like cough drops, Alka-Seltzer and seborrhea and psoriasis.
The obvious exception to the trivial, incoherent ramblings of afternoon commercial fare was Schoolhouse Rock.
“Conjunction Junction, what’s your function? Hookin’ up words and phrases and clauses.” (I would sing it for you, but it kinda loses something in the newsprint translation. This isn’t radio, people.)
Which brings us back to the electric blue cough syrup I endured as part of my relentless pursuit to bring you truth in journalism. I’m not sure how much I was supposed to take. I couldn’t really read the label because I couldn’t find my glasses, and I’m not sure if rounding up the dosage was a wise decision. Still, so far, half the bottle seems like a reasonable intake. And it certainly makes for some fairly wild and colorful hallucinations.
Well, now I got so distracted by pink dancing chickens and yodeling leprechauns, I can’t remember whether I’m actually sick or not.
Maybe one more shot of electric blue, a cozy and cuddly blanket and an afternoon of cartoons is all I really need.
And to think my wife says I want to be babied when I’m sick. Simply ridiculous.
Hang on, I gotta make sure she put my chicken noodle soup in the new, shiny SpongeBob bowl.

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