The attack of the Hippopotamus Flu


Since I had the swine flu in July and what I’ve got now is much worse, I’m naming the current strain of after the biggest animal I can think of.

I woke myself up last night wheezing like a three pack a day smoker at age 95.  It was like my lungs were murmuring – “take your last breath doll, we’re tired of pumping.”  I could sing base in the Symphony Choir.

Luckily, my friend Frida has moved in for a few weeks and she’ll be around to call Welch Funeral Home when my time comes.  I’m leaving some funds earmarked for a big party for my surviving friends. (Okay, so I tend toward hypochondria, just a smidgen.)

I think I mentioned that I picked up this dreaded strain on my way home from Nashville.  I stopped at a little curb market for a cup of coffee and decided to clean out my car.  As I pitched the trash in an open dumpster, I inadvertently dumped my wallet with all the detritus.  Time for some dumpster diving.

As I tried to climb in head first, a nice man came up and asked me if I had a problem.  When I explained the situation, he volunteered to climb in and retrieve it for me.  Bless his heart.  But when he handed it over it was plastered with catsup and used Kleenex contaminated with who knows what.

I gagged all the way to the ladies room and tried to wash it off, but it’s probably still toxic five days later.  I called the CDC but they haven’t heard about the Hippopotamus flu.

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