By Mary Cristy
This is a spinoff on the “new virus” - a story to be told and retold to children and grandchildren, ad infinitum.
Let us begin by identifying the culprit, a nasty little twit of a microbe with aspirations. None can say from whence it was fashioned and launched, or how it came to land on our privileged shores.
But, since it was ours, we gave it a name - “1/Santa Claus virus.” After further consideration (what with issues of political correctness and possible charges of discrimination), we broadened its scope. Henceforth it would be known as “1/California virus.” This seemed more equitable, since no resident of the Golden State would feel left out.
In any case, it lost no time making its presence felt. I was among the first victims. Inopportune little brat that it is, it struck as I was about to embark on a regimen of fitness and positive thinking to lift me out of doldrums brought on by overcast skies and the relentless drip of rain on my roof, which boasts more holes than a certain Washington politician’s head.
But I digress. The miserable invader became an overnight celebrity, fanning out in all directions. But it was in west Texas that it achieved a coup, news of which came to us by a longtime friend and resident of the Lone Star State. It arrived in west Texas two days before the wedding of a prominent citizen’s beautiful daughter, landed on her arm and lodged in the gossamer folds of her bridal finery where it rested until her wedding day.
But the bride, a “show-must-go-on trooper,” despite chills and fever managed to sparkle like a Tiffany diamond. She greeted 120 wedding guests with kisses and danced until midnight, when she collapsed at last and canceled her Tuscany honeymoon.
It is not known how many wedding guests were afflicted, but the groom came through unscathed. Rumor has it he vowed vengeance on the state of California for polluting the pure air of west Texas with “vermin.” A California professor took umbrage at this and replied “vermin” was the wrong terminology for “virus” and the use of it in this context was “proof positive” that the Texan was an idiot. The quarrel escalated, and the professor threatened to fly to Texas and stomp the benedict’s 10-gallon hat.
The groom swore by the beard of Sam Huston and the defenders of the Alamo that any “airhead hombre who put a Texan’s Stetson in harm’s way could expect a letter of transit from the Angel of Death. Pronto!”
Faced with the prospect of a feud, the bride recovered quickly and whisked her hero off to Italy, where he mellowed in the sun and learned to dance the tarantella.
As for myself, I harbor no malice but confess I feel no affection for the little creep that left the scourge on my doorstep and didn’t even have the courtesy to knock.
