Fuck You, Lou Gehrig

I am not a happy camper. On the contrary, I am a thoroughly fucking miserable camper. And you want to know why? I have a fucking cold.

Yeah, you can laugh. "It’s just a cold." Let’s see how funny you find it when you get one. And you will. We all will. Again, and again and again, because the cold doesn’t kill you - oh no, that would be far too easy - it just makes you wish you were dead for a week or so.

For most people this vile fucking virus turns up once or twice a year, for yet another week of your nose pissing snot like a fucking geyser. Think about that. This one virus has probably caused more misery than any other single cause throughout human history. And we still can’t do anything about it. We have the power to wipe all life from the face of this planet, but we can’t do shit about this noxious little virus but to tell people to "Soldier on with Codrell." Codrell? Glorified fucking panadol that it is.

But the bloody medical profession’s far too busy trying it on with the glamour diseases. You know, AIDS, Cancer, Lou Gehrig’s Disease. Lou Gehrig’s disease, for chrissakes! What about my blocked fucking sinuses? I’ll bet if the snot-horror had been named after someone famous they’d be doing more about it. Instead, it’s the common cold. Why the hell would anyone want to dedicate their lives to curing something with a name like that?

No, apparently they want to feel good about themselves. So they go and try to cure bloody cancer. I care nothing for your cancer! Just get rid of that filthy taste of decaying mucus at the back of my mouth. You know, the one that seems somehow reminiscent of a small vole that crawled into your mouth and died somewhere around six months ago. No fucking glamour there, I’m telling you.

So come on everybody, say it loud and say it proud: Save the nose and kill the cold!

--Hewligan