I HATE You: People With Spring Colds

 

 

 I had a spring cold once. It was March of 2003, the spring of my junior year in college. Most spring colds manifest themselves as winter colds that don't go away. Mine wasn't different; it was a particularly ball-chilling winter that year so the chest raping my cold virus was giving me lasted well into the spring... it was kind of like my chest was locked in that cold virus' sex dungeon, or something. Awkward!!

Spring colds aren't  any more dangerous than winter colds (though they're certainly gayer). But the scary part about them is that they last an illogically long time to the point where you start thinking you'll never not be sick again. You make the tiny mental adjustments necessary to cope with the fact that you will forever be a sickie.

Then right then, right after you've lovingly glanced at pictures of nooses and wondered if a 20 story leap is the common cold cure that's eluded scientists for years, right when you're not looking, the ass play has ended; your cold is gone.

See I've had a sping cold. I know it sucks. I know its scary. A spring cold is like an encounter with a tansexual prostitute... everyone's had one (am I right, people??). So the anguish an SC causes does NOT excuse that horrible gurgling and wheezing that's coming out of your mouth. People, be a bit self aware: if you have a spring cold, you are a filthy, disgusting cretin who should stay away from society at large and, for the duration of the disease, live in a self-imposed quarantine.

A few days ago I was at Jim Hanley's comic store, minding my own business (aka browsing the Sailor Moon hentai), when this d bag Irish dude with a spring cold saunters in. Dude is clearly out of his element, seeing as he's a gruff construction worker with a thick Irish brogue standing in a store that has a 'secret lair' for magic the gathering tourneys. So already dude is annoying me (us nerdy types don't like scary, burly types to invade our space).

 

 

'Got any Arrrrchie comics, lad?' the monster said.

'Uh...' the too-scared-to-be-ironic store clerk began.

'Blllleeeaarrcccchhhhhdk!' the Irishman coughed. It sounded like he had eaten a strong willed puppy whole a few hours ago. 'Gllaaaaccckk!' Mister, will you shut that throat puppy up?!

I thought these things, of course. The guy was a red-headed Irish beast who was harboring a sick, midget fugitive in his chest. And yes, his size and might caused his phlegm to fly far and wide, which was terrible. But the worst part of the experience was that phlegm was flying while it was fucking 83 degrees outside. I was wearing shorts, man. I think some of his lung got on my knee. That's horrible.

But at least it didn't last too long. When the Irishman realized it had been a whole two minutes since he last had a drink, he quickly fled the scene to procure some whiskey and potatoes. I assume.

The same can't be said for the old Jamaican lady who was riding my train two days ago. New York train cars are never pleasant, but they're hell during April and May. It's hot enough that they need the air conditioning turned on but since we're not technically in the summer yet, the mofos are like Britney Spears' vagina -- hot, sticky, smelly and filled with drug addicts.

So take that atmosphere and add to it an incessant sniffling and snorting sound. And then, add to that, every other time you hear the snorting sound, the fat Jamaican chick making the sound saying, "Ohhhh datz spicy!"  

When I heard that go down, I turned to see if this spring cold harboring biznatch was munching down on some chili peppers or something. No. She wasn't eating a fucking thing. Her horrid, spring cold boogers were spicy. Good lawd.

 

People with spring colds... we don't want you to walk among us. If it's 110 degrees out and you've got the sniffles, do NOT come near me. Because I fucking HATE you.