Back when we all thought the pandemic of our age was going to be the avian flu, Steve and I came up with the bright idea of getting a parrot and teaching it to say two things: "Birrrrd fluuuu" in a hoarse, rattling voice, and "[cough]".
Today I made the mistake of reading an article in the New York Times about a pregnant woman who was struck down horribly by H1N1, inflated "like a molten balloon" by a high-pressure ventilator, delivered prematurely of her child, who did not survive, and put in a coma for four months. I have a cold at the moment so this was a spectacularly brilliant selection. Yes, you think it's just a cold, because you have no fever at all and feel entirely fine and sprightly aside from a stuffy nose, and have done for days, but you never know. It could blossom into DEADLY MOLTEN BALLOON FLU at any moment.
Also, the article was called "Flu Story: A Pregnant Woman’s Ordeal," which is impressively puerile. Toy Story, Love Story, Flu Story.
Not much more to be said, there, really. Here, have a picture of the cat in some plastic:
I'm off to steam clean my skull in an endless shower. Don't wait up.