The last four days of debilitating , 90 degree heat have left both me and my dog delusional and crumpled on the floor like dried out worms. Since it has been impossible for me to do anything but lie around like a wet mop, I’ve been romanticizing about my very beautiful and tragic consumption-esque death brought on by the Swine Flu.
I’ve been obsessively tracking the new virus via the Internet as it creeps closer and closer to Philadelphia. It will inevitably be knocking on my apartment door by Thursday and soon enough I will be coughing and zipped away in a plastic trash-bag to the nearest ER where they will keep me for 56 hours of observation until I either die (cue the violin) or get better.
America seems to find enjoyment in the morbid and the obscene. We love a good real-life scare and will allow our lives to be consumed for weeks at a time by the latest disease craze, mass shooting, or woman with sixteen uncared for children. The Swine Flu is the Avian Flu of ’09. It’s not as glamorous because the hosts do not have wings, but it will captivate the American public’s attention until it becomes old news, thrown out with yesterdays paper and cup of coffee as our attention shifts elsewhere, possibly to war again or to Great Depression V. 2.0. We will avoid eating pork for a month and wash our hands compulsively and avoid people who are coughing but once the dust has settled, everything will be as it was before. There will be no massive amounts of death brought on by this new diease. There will be no world wide pandemic. There will only be us with our tails still between our legs, cringing as we always have at the world.