Allergy Humour

[forrestsong]

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 ... HAY FEVER. 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 Saddam Hussein.


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.