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It’s been like a network TV drama over here. Season finale-style. Utter chaos.

Narration voiceover commences.

In a world where a small-town reporter can marry a public school teacher in a multi-million dollar New York rooftop ceremony surrounded by exotic sushi and an infinity Dom Perignon fountain, love is in the air on NBC’s “Ice Hurricane.” News breaks that Hurricane Musk is about to raze Manhattan. The reporter stops the hurricane mere seconds before the nuptials when the journalist’s salary flashed itself to the hurricane that literally froze in its tracks. Now there’s a 100-foot-wide frozen cyclone just chillin’ over the city. Drunk uncle catches the bouquet. Credits roll.

In a small town on ABC’s “Pox Goes the Infant,” good health grows like wildflowers and kindness reigns like acid rain. Children play on highways that were abandoned for bikeways. Then the entire town contracts Monkey Pox and there’s 12 bombs on the lone city bus. A six-month-old baby steps up to the plate and detonates the bombs while simultaneously sciencing up an antidote for the community. Everybody rolls in poppies, then they spoon each other to sleep. All of the animals get high af. Credits roll.

Across the state, over on CBS’s “All Gravy, Gluten,” a mushroom cloud billows high after a nuke plant gets fresh with a gluten factory. Exploding grains begin to flood celiac hospitals. The entire city’s population sashays away from the explosion, in slow motion, whipping off their sunglasses dramatically. David Caruso emerges from the fiery rubble, cradling a baby hedgehog. Credits roll.

Over on Le Boulevard Bazaar, where the circus theme of “Entrance of the Gladiators” plays on repeat, Rona infects the household. Then after two weeks of fatigue, dry coughs and stabbing headaches, all of the trees in the world started spitting cotton on the abode. Grasses threw up pollen. Weeds crept through the cracks and deep-throated the lungs of the living. Then a hero in DoorDash garb dropped first-rate sushi and Gatorade to sate the ailing patients. But nobody could taste or smell anything, so they might as well have wiped their neighbor’s ass with a Benjamin. Credits roll.

That was fun. (I speak for us.)

So we really did get COVID over here. It’s been a fun couple weeks. Luckily, the child hardly had any symptoms. Me, on the other hand, got the whole kit and kaboodle. The whole ball of wax. The works. The full monty. Supreme pizza, dripping with cheese, that tasted like a glistening glass of water.

Water didn’t even have a taste. What a weird virus, this Rona bitch.

But nobody swooped in to save the day. No infant was here get me cough syrup when my hands were busy jamming tissue plugs up my nose. No rainbow-clad hand-held fan was around to whip open in slo-mo after I fought Rona to the death in a boxing ring.

There was just circus music circling my head like drunk tweety birds while I tried not to collapse in the kitchen after microwaving soup.

No sympathy needed. I’ve been way sicker. It wasn’t life-ending. It was just really annoying. It was like a heavy cold that never left.

But then I showed it my salary and it ran. It ran with its pants around its ankles and toilet paper stuck to its Crocs. It was in sheer disbelief.

“How did you pay for the Gatorade!” It screamed as it Froggered through boulevard traffic.

I celebrated its departure with a flax seed sandwich because I like to party. Taste is for rich people.