Instead of writing my column from the over-roasted confines of Starbucks down the street, I decided to get to my doctor’s appointment an hour early and pen this gem from the Kaiser Permanente lobby.

Note: It’s an appointment for a broken-bone check. I’m not sick. Anymore. Everybody calm down.

I opted to breathe in this deadly flu season for my convenience’s sake. I like to live on the edge. I’m playing a little lethal game of chance that we’ll call “Bitchslap the Immune System, You Silly Piece of Masochist.”

This is probably one of my more lousy ideas. I have a dash of hypochondriasis. On top of that, the whole newsroom is sick and super pissed at life. They’re so angry, they’re shooting eucalyptus oil out of their eyeballs while mad-dogging the person who just coughed.


These journalists are not happy with the unknown instigator of this sick chain.

Careless whispers. Fingers pointing. Brows furrowed.

All week: Over in this corner, we’ve got passive-aggressive social media memes blasting those who bring sick to work. Over in this corner, healthy people are storming out of the office to finish their work from home. Somewhere in the middle, I’ve been hearing a distinct, “Mommy,” followed by sniffling and thumb-sucking.

“It sounds like an infirmary in here,” says the small talk, on repeat, as we hover over the coffee machine. “I know, right. How about that wind?”

Har har har.

Things are a mess in there.

Bringing sick to work is the worst. I am lucky I can work from home when needed (which was much of February — you’re welcome). But some don’t have that option. Most of us have been in that situation. I know I have:

“I’m literally hallucinating as I sweat out my fever, boss. I just barfed out of my mouth and butt at the same time. I can’t come in today.”

“You want to keep your job? Get your fucking ass in here. There’s nobody to cover for you.”

So here I am, figuring I’d spice up the week and bring some more germs to work. The wound isn’t salty enough. I like salt. Afterward, I’ll swing by CU’s bedbug library and roll around in some nymphs. Then I’ll hit up an infested prairie dog colony and lap up some bubonic plague. Rocky Flats isn’t too far — maybe I’ll go roll my bum leg around in plutonium-soaked soil. Columnist John Bear can help me hack it off in the supply closet while the designers fashion me robot leg. Ooh, maybe an assault-rifle leg, like Rose McGowan’s machine gun gam in “Planet Terror.” Then I can run for president with the support of the NRA. Although I’d just end up blowing holes through my shiny new wood floors at home when I’m drunk because my leg can shoot *and* walk. (Neat!)

But then all the damn mice will rise from the crawl space and sleep in my bed. I’ll get hantavirus and die a painful death as my lungs fill with fluid.

My eyes are burning. Why is this dude sitting so close to me? I think I have ball cancer. Where’s the doctor? This was a horrible idea.

I don’t have balls.

Mommy! Nurse?


I’m never going to dance again. Guilty feet have got no rhythm.

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