After heroically surviving the dark winter of death that Pfizer spokesman Joe Biden warned about, I have now also survived the sweaty summer of narcolepsy.
Beating the odds, disappointing the vaxxers, here I stand, quite undead despite two assassination attempts from COVID-19.
Our family’s first brush with certain death came in February of this year. It started with back pain, coughing, profuse sweating, and uncontrollable vomiting–a normal Tuesday after deadlifts and lunges.
It was 12 full hours of unrelenting severely mild symptoms, followed by a marathon of text messages and social media posts to friends, family, and complete strangers bragging about my Herculean strength and super-human resiliency. Not a day of work was missed. Just Niacin, NAC, and a steady routine of vigorous Airdyning, Vitamin D supplements, and sunbathing on the porch.
It was an honor to stand as a beacon of physical perfection, an example to my fellow man, a fearless warrior fighting blow for blow against the evil WuFlu. The entire family was victorious. We went out for pizza to celebrate the battle.
But the war was not over.
Last week, the Omicron BA.5 hit, also known as B.1.1.529, also known as WuFlu Nine-Point-Oh. It was the Big Boss of COVID, the unstoppable Ivan Drago to America’s Rocky Balboa, the Wuhan Johnny Lawrence to this New Mexican Daniel-san.
I was legit sick. Fever. Headache. Body aches. Simultaneous insomnia and narcolepsy, unable to stay awake, unable to stay asleep. The suffering was immense. It was worse than Shingles, Chlamydia, and $5-a-gallon-gas combined. I felt almost as bad as the lady who came in second place to William Thomas in the NCAA women’s swimming finals, whatever her name is.
We did nothing right, didn’t follow CDC guidance to the number, let alone the letter. No social distancing. No masks. No vax. We did question the wisdom in attending all of those COVID parties–the hugs and drink sharing and face-to-face coughing competitions (of which I was a three-time winner). The worst part was, I was losing my mind. I had no attention span and couldn’t concentrate. I would listen to a Joe Biden speech and have absolutely no idea what he was talking about. In my mental fog, every word sounded like pudding-mouthed gibberish. I even missed a day of work. Death was certain.
And then I got better. It was a miracle.
I told my family via less-enthusiastic text messages that I’d survived, again. My aunt informed me there was a Tony Fauci Achievement Award is in the mail. I think I’ll frame it. Hang it next to my 2019 Seasonal Flu Survival trophy and my prestigious 2018 Winter Cough medal.
All jokes aside, we are all thankful. To sunlight and exercise. To local grass-fed beef and fresh air. To a natural immune system and the History Channel’s excellent series Alone, which is the show to watch if you feel like death. There’s something about watching people with a tarp and a pocket knife lose 40% of their body weight on a diet of beetles and tree bark that really boosts your confidence for survival, even if it is against the most deadly virus in modern history.
Whether by luck or general health, we survived, but everyone knows more variants are coming. That is what happens when you tinker with nature. COVID is the new seasonal flu, and everybody’s going to get it. Sixty-percent of the country already has–at least once.
We need to stop fearing COVID and start embracing it. We need to be getting bigger. We need to be putting on mass. These viruses are freaks, they’re monuments to ugliness. They want blood. You might need to defend yourself against 4 or 5 at once. You need to be getting bigger.
Hit the weights, folks. Sun your balls. Eat beef. And prepare to report for endless tours of COVID duty.
Categories: COVID Counterpunch
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