Swine Before Pearls

I like entertaining the odd conspiracy theory now and again.  It is fun to debate the peculiar circumstances surrounding the JFK assassination, UFO sightings, and the existence of Sasquatch. My current curiosity revolves around this:  How in the hell did a Mexican pig get infected with a chicken virus, mix it up with a few other human flu viral strains, add a mutation or three designed to evade vaccine, and then deliver it to a human child at ground zero? 

I want to know who french-kissed that pig.

Or is it some kind of subtle grass roots mad-scientist style warfare introduced by those homicidal fanatic hater peckerheads who don't like us very much and want to weaken us where it counts?  The best and brightest generation, the kids we are depending upon to inherit this United States for us when we are aged, confused and ineffective, our adolescents and teens, are catching the worst of it. Some are dying. Obama just today declared this virus a National Emergency. Vaccine availabilities are lagging pitifully, some fear the danger that may be lurking in half-developed and possibly mercury contaminated vaccines and won't even get them when they are ready, ER's are bulging with misery.  I can hear the haters now, "Screw bringing down Wall Street, this virus is the bomb!"

The Emergency Room at Transylvania Hospital in Brevard, North Carolina didn't seem too crowded.  In fact it was kind of nifty since the windows facing out framed the heli-pad and we were treated to an exciting view of their emergency rescue 'copter humming-birding in and out.  In the waiting room with us were just a couple of people looking forlorn and uncomfortable wearing surgical masks.  I was one of them.  Seems the puking in my car was the big DING! that should've alerted me that something was indeed awry.  And in my usual state of blissful denial, I ignored the sore throat, cough, nausea and bone-snapping aches allowing that lotus-eater bliss that comes from regularly eating Aleve. (Angels sing!) When that stuff kicks in, the baseball bats raining down on my long bones and skull cease for at least 8 blessed hours.  Normal, un-cranky and even personable are descriptors for me at these times.

Truth be told, my kids were sniffly and complaining when I embarked on  my annual pilgimage to the cool serenity of the autumnal, on-fire-with-unbelieveable-color Appalachians.  My kids are always sniffly with something.  It's part and parcel of attending that giant infested petri dish we call High School.  But this was more.  After both their throats closed up in a red inflamed clench, and the fevers began their attack, they were Clinic-bound with their father.  After each receiving a swab up the nose, ("Mom I think they touched my brain!") and swabs in the throat ("Mom, I thought I was going to hurl all over the guy!"), tah-dah!  The cards they swiped with the kids' boogers revealed Swine Flu, or for the more scientifically inclined, H1N1. 

I like hi-nee.  Works for me.  Like something unwelcome up the wazoo!

"Mom, I have the Swine Flu!"

"No. You've got to be exaggerating. Can't be, my little drama queen exciteable one.  Princessa della Luna, put your Eagle Scout brother on..."

"Mom, it is H1N1 Swine Flu. I have it too. You better get checked."

"Ohhhhhhh... (Expletive deleted just this once. It was saltier than usual.)"

That's how my mother and I landed in the ER. 

And, yes, I have apparently french-kissed the pig.