Hello dear reader(s)!
I am sick again, which basically means being a lazy sloth, bored out of my fucking mind, and wishing for the sweet, sweet kiss of my girlfriend (no, not death, it’s like a bad cold…so far).
This bullshit happens every year once the demon spawn that is your precious little child (incubator of organisms that would otherwise have died out) goes back to school.
Little Timmy isn’t so cute when you consider he attacks more people with biological warfare than in all previous conflicts combined.
Little Timmy goes off to school and plays on the new safe plastic playground equipment because metal is so much more dangerous right after some kid with a snotty version of Ebola picked up from his best friend’s Lego collection. Timmy touches the same snot covered surface near the top of the slide as the previous incubator and then, because he is a kid and you think it’s cute, he picks his fucking nose. Now Timmy is a host to this modern plague and is also really gross. Timmy plays for a while, until he starts feeling a little tired. Meanwhile, the other kid is home, likely laying in bed eating chicken soup with a warm rag neatly folded on his head as his mommy and daddy pick up the virus doting all over his gross little Petri Dish of a body.
Timmy then gets in your car, and after more nose picking, leaves snot and many newly replicated copies of the virus on every single surface of your car he touches, which, because he is a kid, is every possible surface.
You go to pizza night and as soon as you pick him up from his Evenflo Ultra Safe Deluxe Special 3000 Titanium Five-Star Executive Custom Special First-Class Rugged Car Seat, you are now covered in the viruses yourself.
Meanwhile, the other family, (the previous incubator and his mommy and daddy), have bled out, containing the spread from that side.
Timmy and you are now covered, and Timmy is infected. It is likely too late for Timmy, but you could have stopped the spread. You could have washed your fucking hands.
Instead, you are tired, and rub your eyes from the eye strain your shitty life in front of a computer brings you. Now you are infected. You order the pizza as Timmy touches all of the things at the pizza place, leaving the virus all over everything there.
Now, this shitty pizza place is a home for parents. It isn’t a place I frequent anyway. Sure, many of its patrons will be lost, but likely it will be a relatively contained outbreak because some people wash their fucking hands. But not you, Martha.
You go home, and Timmy is doing really bad. His little child immune system is not equipped enough to handle this infection, and he starts whining. He gets really cranky, and so you pull out your cure-all, the chicken soup and saltines, and put on a low-quality, direct-to-video Disney movie for him to mindlessly stare at as his internal organs break down, leaving the body as more copious amounts of snot.
You attempt to care for him, but realize you are not feeling all that well yourself. Your throat feels scratchy and so you cough into your hands instead of your sleeve like you’ve been living under a fucking rock your whole life. You turn your house into a hot-zone.
The next morning, you aren’t feeling well and don’t realize that Timmy has passed in the night. You assume your nanny will take care of him when he wakes up and so you go off to work despite the fact you don’t feel well, because some asshole boss once convinced you that your fucking TPS Report is more important than the prevention of a pandemic.
You are coughing and sneezing like a motherfucker, and can barely keep your car on the road, almost causing a pile-up. You finally make it into your shitty drone job and leave your germs on the door handle of the building.
You sit at your desk, totally unproductive and scaring the shit out of everyone who works with you. They all look at you like the piece of shit you are. You hack and sneeze, coating every nearby surface in a fine mist of snotty Ebola. You print off a memo about initiating a proper cost-benefit analysis for your committee on the study of setting up a commission to study the impacts of doing cost-benefit analyses by committee properly and then pass the memos out to your unsuspecting co-workers, many of whom are not in your sight-line, and do not know they need to handle everything you have touched with gloves and a mask.
You receive a phone call from your nanny who has discovered that Timmy has bled-out and rush home.
My roommate gets your memo and comes home after her day. She has not touched her face or any other orifice, and so she has avoided infection. Not having an incubator child, it does not occur to her that Martha’s lack of hygeine has turned her into a carrier. She goes to the kitchen, to get a glass for her juice-cleanse and picks one up that she deems too small. She then sees that there is a larger glass in the sink and washes it and her hands for the juice cleanse, thus avoiding infecting herself.
I get thirsty, and want a lemonade. I choose the glass with the viruses on it that my roommate had touched. And now I am sick.
Meanwhile, the family that bled-out earlier have risen from their graves and are out in search of brains, Timmy soon to join.
The zombie apocalypse is now upon us, and I am infected, all because people didn’t wash their fucking hands!
Thanks for the infection, Martha!