14: People who overreact to public health scares

April 29, 2009

God, I fucking hate people who overreact to public health scares.

Now, I understand people in ground zero of an infectious disease taking the necessary precautions. But that’s not what I’m talking about.

“Oh no, there’s swine flu in Mexico! That means I – 2,000 miles away – should hide behind this flimsy oxygen mask or, better yet, this handkerchief tied loosely around my face. That will surely stop the germs!”

Outbreaks happen, and people die. It’s been happening for years, and it will continue to happen. God forbid something crops up every now and then to remind us how fragile we, the civilized world, really are. “But surely this bottle of Purell hand sanitizer will save me the terrible fate suffered by those poor, unwashed masses in Africa, Latin America, South America,  and Southeast Asia!”

No. It won’t. If you’re meant to get [insert animal here] flu, you will. And you will suffer greatly, hopefully live and in primetime.

Speaking of, the CDC has just put out a list of possible new strains of the virus:

  • Manatee flu
  • Badger flu
  • Great Blue Heron flu
  • Earthworm flu
  • Flea flu
  • Fly flu
  • Duck flu
  • Cock flu (aka Chicken flu)
  • Glenn Beck flu
  • X-Men Origins: Wolverine flu
  • Susan Boyle flu

Prepare accordingly.


1a: People who walk and read something and don’t look where they’re going

October 12, 2008

God, I fucking hate people who walk and read something and don’t look where they’re going. This may be an epidemic local to a big city, like New York, and not those of you out in the heartland places like Boise, Idaho or Fort Collins, Colorado, or Ames, Iowa.

If so, wipe your knees off, get down on them, and thank fucking God.

These people … these fuckin’ people … good holy Christ. I may – I may, if the planets align, and someone gives me a cookie, and a big bottle of beautiful, expensive, yummy whiskey ends up on my bed – excuse the people reading a magazine. I get it. The New Yorker is fucking engrossing. Fine. I love Roger Angell as much as anybody. You started that article on the new regime in Kryzbekistan, or that one about the Large Hydron Collider just a few minutes ago. You want to finish it. Ok. Fine.

But you assholes – you goddamn wastes of fucking skin, you soulless degenerates birthed solely for the purpose of selling more shiny things – that read a fucking book, a goddamn Harry Potter novel or some mid-20s “Eat, Pray, Love” bag of repulsive, bound-for-paperback donkey shit, you have a special section of hell reserved for you.

It will involve a 19-foot, flaming, spiked club penetrating you through the anus, the ear, and twice through a hole in the throat.

And there will be 27 people waiting behind them, eagerly awaiting their turn to get by the person in front of them.

WHY IS THAT FUCKING BOOK SO IMPORTANT TO YOU? DO YOU NOT REALLY HAVE A LIFE? CAN IT NOT WAIT 10 MINUTES UNTIL YOU GET ON THAT BUS FILLED WITH SEVERAL OTHER SAD, LONELY PEOPLE? IS PAGE 148 REALLY THAT FUCKING SPECIAL?

God damn, choke on a pipe bomb. Fuck you, read-walkers. Die in a grease fire.