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Don't
Ask Me, I'm Running a Fever
by Mad Dog
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| This virus isn't helping me in the least, unless its reason for
being is to make me grateful that I don't have Ebola, which at the moment sounds like a
vast improvement. |
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They say there's a reason for everything. Of course they also say the harder
you work the more money you'll make, you’ll understand when you grow up, and Oprah
Winfrey movies are a sure fire money maker. Obviously they’re wrong about a lot of
things. What brings this to mind is
an upper respiratory infection that's had me nailed for the past week, is showing no signs
of leaving my body to vacation in the South of France anytime soon, and to tell the truth
has got me real damn cranky, so I wouldn't start any funny business right about now
because I'm really not in the mood to deal with it, okay?
The question is: What possible reason could there be for the
existence of a virus that clogs my sinuses, clouds my mind, makes me sleep sitting upright
on the couch lest those daggers it's inserting in the back of my throat come out the
front, and generally makes my life a living hell? (I know, it sounds suspiciously like the
dreaded Marquis de Sadecoccum virus that's sweeping the fetish clubs of the west
coast but the LST—the Leather and Spike Test—came back negative so that
can’t be it.)
This virus isn't helping me in the least, unless its reason
for being is to make me grateful that I don't have Ebola, which at the moment sounds like
a vast improvement. It's not helping the doctor either, since she had to put up with my
pitiful whining and whimpering when she could have been spending a perfectly nice
afternoon doing something important like finding a cure for not using your turn signal.
And it isn't helping you, the healthy, happy reader, who would rather be reading a column
about why the French take three to four times as many sedatives, antidepressants and
tranquilizers than people in any other European country and...Hey! Stop turning the
page. I'm not done with you yet!
I told you I was cranky.
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They stock assertiveness training treatises like "When I Say No I Feel Bad" and
"Get In My Way And I'll Shoot You." And of course, there's the ever-popular
"I'm OK, It's The Rest of You That Are Screwed Up." |
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As far as I can
tell, the only good this virus is doing is to boost the economy by making me buy
truckloads of tissues followed by caseloads of trash bags to cart the used tissues away
in, thereby assuring that the trashmen have plenty of work. Of course this also means
forty innocent trees were cut down to make the Puffs Ultra-Medicated Dolphin-Free tissues,
a few hundred barrels of precious fossil fuel were depleted to make the plastic trash
bags, and the city landfill is going to be clogged up that much sooner. Face it, being
sick is environmentally disastrous.
Let’s get back to our original question: Is there really a
reason for everything? It’s true fatal diseases prevent overpopulation. And if there
was no silicone then waitresses—I mean, aspiring actresses—in Los Angeles would
have chests filled with used chewing gum. But what possible explanation can there be for
Charles Nelson Reilly, in spite of the fact that he appeared on an episode of The X-Files
as a dead soul who's been lost ever since Johnny Carson retired from the Tonight Show?
It's this kind of thinking that makes the pop psychology
section of Barnes and Noble more popular than the Mustang Ranch on double discount coupon
day. They have books like "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People", "Why Good
Things Happen to Nobody You Know", and "Why Mean People Suck". They stock
assertiveness training treatises like "When I Say No I Feel Bad" and "Get
In My Way And I'll Shoot You." And of course, there's the ever-popular "I'm OK,
It's The Rest of You That Are Screwed Up."
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Anal retentives also believe everything has its place, cleanliness is next to godliness
(though it actually belongs on the other side, thank you), and that you can catch cooties
from a Big Mac if you eat it without holding the wrapping paper around it. |
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I’ve
isolated three types of people who think there's a reason for everything. First is Type A,
the analyst. This person believes in scientific reasoning, the inviolability of a cause
and effect relationship, and that all of my problems stem from my mother's inability to
demonstrate affection and emotions for me once my younger brother was born.
Sorry, that's my analyst I'm thinking of.
Next is the Type R, or anal-retentive
person. While many of us use the phrase "anal-retentive" lightly—like to
describe anyone who is neat, tidy and hates seeing...who the hell moved that piece of
lint from the left side of my belly button to the right?!—it is, in fact, a bona
fide medical term used by psychiatrists which means "Boy, is this guy an uptight
a-hole, or what?".
The anal-retentive believes there's a
reason for everything because, well, that's just the way they are. They also believe
everything has its place, cleanliness is next to godliness (though it actually belongs on
the other side, thank you), and that you can catch cooties from a Big Mac if you eat it
without holding the wrapping paper around it.
The last group of people to believe there's a reason for
everything is the Type H, or helpless person. They buy into this philosophy because they
think everything's out of their hands, meaning they can do whatever they want to
do—like make a right turn whenever the hell the mood hits them; kill, dismember and
freeze a handful of young boys; or move somebody's belly button lint without
asking!—all without fear of consequence because, well, life just isn't under
their control.
Luckily I don't fall into any of these groups, because I'm not
sure there's a reason for anything. Then again, what do I know? I'm the one who's
sick. Remember?
©1998 Mad Dog Productions, Inc. All
Rights Reserved.
These columns appear in better newspapers across the country. Read
them while you're running a fever--they might make more sense.
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