Spring fever

by RAF KATIGBAK

Dear Horrible Flu That Is Currently Ravaging My Body,

Welcome to my immune system! Or rather, what’s left of it. I hope you’re making yourself at home. Judging by the night-sweats, constant horking and dizzying, boiling hot temperature you’ve subjected my body to, it seems like you’re doing all right in there. How are my sinus cavities? If you’re not comfy, just look for the little knob that dials the floodgates from “A little snotty” and turn it up to “Churning serious lung-butter.” Ahhh, there you go. Much better, no?

I must admit, your visit has come as a bit of a surprise to me. There I was, just going about my day reading In Touch Weekly at the grocery store, when suddenly I found myself almost passing out into a pile of salted fish. You sneaky little devil! Where did you come from? Were you hidden in that suspect glass of beer I ordered from that bar the other night? You know, the one I was convinced wasn’t washed by the bartender after he used his forearm/my glass to block his sneeze? Or were you just sitting in wait under all that snow along with the doggie bombs, yogurt containers and mysterious single shoes I keep seeing everywhere, biding your time until it all melted and you could just jump into my host body?

But hey, I’m Filipino, so I’m programmed as the consummate host, and to love it when unexpected people drop by. I must say, when you first arrived, I got excited because I thought you were actually Spring Fever, that flushed, seasonal primal pairing-urge when my nether regions are laser-guided toward anything with hips. But alas, you weren’t. How did I know? Well, my first clue was when I started hacking up weird fist-sized globules that looked like props from an old Cronenberg movie. You weren’t Spring Fever. I was a little disappointed. Not as disappointed as when I found out The Amazing Race wasn’t a show about Aryans, but still, pretty choked.

After I ruled out Spring Fever, I started getting worried and consulted an expert (the Internet). According to the doctor (Wikipedia), you were an early onset of Manopause, that middle-aged hormonal clusterfuck that happens to dudes with all the night-sweats, hot flashes and such. At first I was resistant to the idea of undergoing an early mid-life crisis, but then I got excited, because I figured if this was mid-life, then I would probably croak at 60. That means that I won’t get so old that family forgets that I’m in the same room when they talk shit about me, but I do get old enough to play the crazy old codger card and dress up in a day-glo muumuu with pipe cleaners in my hair and water gun young people on the Main. Undergoing a mid-life crisis now also means that I would have an excuse to buy a really fancy sports car, wear pants that are too tight and listen to music that I’m too old to be caught listening to. Fun!

But no, you’re not Manopause. You’re a common flu. Awww, don’t sulk like that. There’s nothing wrong with being common. Lots of great things are common: common denominators, Common the rapper… Hey, if it makes you feel better, you gave me insane fever dreams over the last four days! Like the one with the cop car and Angela Lansbury and that crazy long line for the free beef brisket? That was a doozy. Plus there’s the Nightwipes.

What? Didn’t I tell you about Nightwipes? It’s a product my friends and I cooked up after a drunken night out in Frisco. It’s a moist towelette, like Wet Wipes, but infused with whiskey and goat milk. Don’t ask. But thanks to you and the feverish haze you induced, I actually tried to make a box! Let me tell you, it does NOT help to blow your nose into one of those things. Plus, Flu, who else could I thank for my newfound addiction to cough syrup? If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have finally understood what all this Screwed and Chopped music was all about.

Okay, well, it’s been real swell talking to you and all, Flu, have a great time wreaking havoc on my body and making me miss all this wonderful weather people keep telling me about. I’d love to chat but I gotta get back to sweating and curling up in a fetal position from the aches and pains you seem so fond of hitting me with every second I’m alive.

Peace out,
RK n

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca