‘Tis
the sneezin’
Insidious plague afflicts millions:
Minute airborne particles attack human respiratory systems.
Fever clogs victims’ heads, causing spasms and blurred vision.
By John Breneman
I come to you with shocking revelations about … ALLERGIES.
I must speak quickly, though, because the pollen count is
quite heavy and I don’t have much time.
Millions of people suffer from the seasonal ravages of this
miserable epidemic. It’s medical name is "pollinosis,"
which I believe is Latin for "please jam a bushel of
dried flaxseed pollen up my left nostril."
I know from experience that it is not unusual for a hay fever
sufferer to wake up and begin the day by sneezing. Maybe once.
Or maybe, like me this morning, 15-18 consecutive times.
The following is an exaggerated re-enactment of actual non-stop
sneezing fit. (Editor’s note: Do not try this at home without
the supervision of a certified allergy professional.)
7:02 a.m. — Jolted awake by that first sneeze of
the day, I yawn and gulp down 250 million airborne particles
that begin an involuntary chain reaction of misery. The invaders
anesthetize my face and begin time-releasing phlegm for the
next 1-12 hours.
7:02 a.m. — The familiar second sneeze makes my eyes
watery and impairs my vision. Hypersensitivity to any light
source adds to the fun.
7:03 a.m. — On my third sneeze, I temporarily lose
the use of my lungs, heart and pancreas.
7:03 a.m. — My fourth sneeze, a whopper, frightens
the birds and squirrels outside my window.
7:03 a.m. — With my fifth sneeze I lose the ability
to reason and wipe out two-thirds of a box of industrial-strength
Kleenex in the 4.5 seconds that elapse before …
7:04 a.m. — … sneeze number six. This one makes
me consider administering an emergency tracheotomy to maintain
my rapidly diminishing ability to breathe.
7:04 a.m. — My seventh consecutive sneeze makes me
weep like a baby. Upon realizing that I cannot remember my
name, Social Security number or species, I scrap all plans
to operate heavy machinery.
7:05 a.m. — My eighth sneeze blows out the retina
in my right eyeball and fills my brain with strange thoughts
about U.S. foreign policy and the pros and cons of deploying
ragweed-tipped missiles against Kim Jong Il.
7:05 a.m. — Sneeze number nine (I like to call it
"El Nino") induces an out-of-body experience in
which a crack team of surgical allergists sedates me with
5,000 milligrams of pseudophedrine hydrochloride and extract
from my sinus cavity a wad of goldenrod the size of a Polish
kielbasa.
7:06 a.m. — My tenth straight sneeze brings on a
sensation of vertigo, itchy lungs, sprained larynx and bronchial
tube asphyxiation.
7:06 a.m. — With cataclysmic sneeze number 11, my
head slams face first onto my hardwood floor where it considers
placing a call to noted allergy relief specialist Dr. Kevorkian.
About then, I am able to drag myself into the bathroom where
my medicine cabinet houses a mind-boggling array of pills
promising "prompt, effective relief."
Claritin, Clarinex, Chlortrimetron. I like Chlortrimetron
because the box says it contains 47 percent more "oleic
acid, potato starch and talc" than the other leading
brand.
No luck. So I take some Tavist-D and wash it down with some
Dimetapp. Or was it Drixoral? Dristan? A blast of "pump
mist" Affrin doesn’t stop the sneezing, but makes me
wonder whether there is such thing as a quadruple nasal bypass.
My roommate told me there’s a laser treatment in which they
cauterize the nasal membrane, rendering it impervious to most
known allergens. Side effects: The ocean, lilacs and beautiful
women all smell like burnt toast.
Then I remember my grandmother’s secret remedy: Stick your
head into a burlap sack filled with a mixture of baking soda,
Triple Sec and Hamburger Helper. Then breathe deeply and count
to 157.
If that doesn’t work, I’ve heard that a Sudafed factory in
the Sudan is working on a weapon of mass decongestion that
combines 30 milligrams of benadryl with aged Russian caviar,
neutralized anthrax and a cherry-flavored uranium isotope.