Still carrying more phlegm and bile than Dick Cheney waterboarding the U.S. Constitution, my cold-afflicted mug coughed, spit, and blew mucus on the formerly phlegm-free streets of my neighborhood this morning. I expected to expectorate, if not so frequently, and with such an array of colors: puce, fuchsia, taupe, mauve, lavender, chili verde-it was like a moving Jackson Pollock painting.
I remember that my dad used to run with a handkerchief-perhaps he still does-so that he wouldn't goober up the public byways. It was a very gentlemanly thing to do, a step back to an earlier time, an age before facial tissue. In those days, people felt a personal responsibility for their snot. So much so, in fact, that they would rather carry a rag saturated with it in their shirt pocket for an entire day. While I admire that ethic, pulling a drenched clot of cloth from behind your pocket protector in the age of H1N1 and the Civet Cat Crud, might just land a guy in a quarantined boat off the coast of Wahoozistan.
I mean, there just ain't enough hand sanitizer in this world...Better to get rid of it in the light of day, where sunshine and ravens can dispense with it. As long as I don't lay a lugie on a cop's shoe, I don't see any punishable offense here. And the sooner I get the junk out of my system, the sooner I can get back to being a productive, non-infectious worker bee.
Thanks for reading.
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