Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Life in a Peachtree dish

I've been fighting a cold with bronchitis for over a month. It started six weeks ago when a coworker returned from a three-week visit home with a mild case of nasal dysentery. Eager to resume his duties and loath to appear weak by calling in "sick", he did the only reasonable thing and contaminated every door handle, stair rail and elevator button in the office.

It was in honor of the perpetrator of this selfish act of dedication that I named my newest antibody. However poor little Sandhapani doesn't seem to be assimilating very well. I'm afraid when the time comes, his religion might forbid him from harming any bird or swine viruses. And if I'm ever exposed to bovine spongiform encephalopathy, forget it.

My best hope is the legion of defenders I've recruited since moving to the South. Given enough butter and barbecue sauce, there isn't anything they won't try to phage. (Picture a unicellular Paula Deen enveloping a sweet potato pie.) Yup, if there's ever a possum flu pandemic, I'll be sitting pretty.

They make a great addition to the multinational immunity force I inherited from my parents. One of my favorites when I'm sick are the Irish antibodies... The more I drink, the more germs they'll brawl. I just have to be sure to call it a night before they start fighting each other. A lot of autoimmune disorders, sectarian conflicts and marriages start that way.

And finally, a shout out to my LGBT-cells. Sure, they aren't allowed to serve openly in the immune system (for now) but let's face it, nobody understands cultures better and I never have to worry about being caught dead from anything last flu season.

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