Killing Chicken Little

I’m ebola’d out.

Some dude from Liberia made it all the way to Shangri-La, checked into a Dallas hospital, and now apparently, we’re all going to die.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Anyway, I’ve been eating raw broccoli all week. I felt I should do something, and all-holy mother government, wherein resides salvation for all we Amurricuhns, can’t seem to tell us just what we’re supposed to do to stave off this calamity.

I’m washing my hands a lot. I’m not petting pets. I ask servers at restaurants to please not sneeze in my bourbon. I even listened to O’Reilly rant incessantly on the incompetence of government officials in dealing with this latest crisis. Cringeworthy as it was to listen to Ted O’Baxter, I felt it was the least I could do.

Desperate for comfort and reassurance, I searched with the TV remote and found good ol’ Jim (PTL, remember now?) Bakker on some obscure station. He was desperately telling me that Jesus is returning by 9:30 pm next Tuesday, and that for a love gift of $3000.00, I could buy survival food that would last for three years.

Say what?

I went to Walgreens, declined (yet again) the offer of a flu shot, and asked for an anti-ebola shot instead. They didn’t have one, but directed me to the aisle for BC powders, and Mirolax (the latter being the actual reason for the trek.)

Who can you trust if not Walgreens?

I’ve lost track of just what I’m supposed to be worrying about, or preparing for this week, the current week of the perpetual weekly cycle of the latest jaw-dropping, sure death-inducing crisis.

Just about the time I feel I have adequately prepared myself for the onset of the Judgement Day ramifications of global warming, here comes another calamity.

I need a secretary to help me keep up with all the stuff I’m supposed to be worried about.

Outdated light bulbs were going to kill me. Then my toilets were going to explode (or something.) Then Saddam was going to gas us all with his, uh, WMD’s.

And now, Iran – have you heard – is at the most, six months away from developing a nuclear weapon to blow us all to kingdom come. (Nevermind that 30 years ago, they were also six months away from developing a nuclear weapon to blow us all to kingdom come.)

BP blew a gasket in the gulf, and seafood gathered from there has us all dropping like flies, left and right, just like we were warned. Right?

The internal combustion engine is the greatest threat to mankind, according to that Einstein of all things scientific, algore, and so now we all have to drive a Prius (with a government-installed black box ensconced.)

(I know he is correct. He wrote all about it one night while sitting at his desk in his huge house by the rising ocean, with all his lights on, air conditioning belching out cool air, and a CD of Barbra Streisand playing in the background, the latter approved by his ex wife, Tipper.)

Enough.

I’m weary of being told what I’m supposed to worry about, hence, I’ve decided to check out of the Global Bio-Fear Sphere. True, one day, something will get me. Might well be Ebola. Might get run over by a bus of blue hairs on the way to a Mississippi casino for a weekend of debauchery. I just can’t say. Neither will I invest any time worrying about it.

Now, I’m not preaching irresponsibility. I mean, I won’t knowingly step in front of said bus. There’s an old saying: “Plan your work, and work your plan.” And that’s what I’ll do. Which means…I’ll take whatever steps I feel are necessary to safeguard myself and my loved ones from whatever creatures lurk in dark places to grab us as we walk down the fairway of the haunted golf course.

But I’m leaving the Fear Party. The punch is lame, the snacks taste like tree bark, and they don’t allow cigars (of course, because they kill you, too.)

The Ebola train will soon leave town, and we’ll be introduced to a new crisis in this national circus.

I won’t be on it. Send out the clowns.

© Copyright 2015 Tim Holcombe

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