I’ve come to the conclusion that everybody in the world hates me… Or everybody in the world is deaf… Or both. Yup, that’s it. That’s the only possible explanation. The planet is full of hearing-impaired jackasses that don’t care about me. It’s a Deaf Jam Justin Slam.
Why, you ask? Well, for as long as I can remember, no one has ever acknowledged my sneezes. I never get a “bless you.” I don’t get “gesundheit.” Hell, no one even asks if I shat myself.
I suppose people have told me “bless you” before… just not for sneezes. Trust me, I’ve done other sinister things to warrant the lord’s blessings. One time I got in a fistfight. One time I was a bully at school. One time I called everybody on the planet hearing-impaired jackasses.
But that was long ago. I’m an innocent little angel now. I deserve better. When I get sick and start sneezing all over the place, I demand to be comforted. Quit giving me the common cold shoulder.
Whether it be at work, at a friend’s house, or even at Chuck E. Cheese (they serve beer now), please pay attention to my nose burps!
Okay. Fine. Perhaps you don’t all hate me. Perhaps you’re not all deaf. Maybe you’re just confused. I can understand that. I’ve been told my sneezes don’t always sound like sneezes. Sometimes they sound like roars. They can be loud, aggressive, and even scary… but this is all the more reason why you should ask me if I shat myself.
My sneeze has two parts to it. Phase One is the attack. It often sounds like the noise an ostrich would make if it stepped on its own neck. It has a “gawwwk” sound that literally makes birds fly into glass windows.
Phase Two is the half-a-second mixture of every animal mating call at once. It starts low and ends about two octaves higher. An astute listener might even hear what sounds like a car engine running on peanut butter. As the sneeze subsides, it jiggles away like Elvis is hound doggin’ up in my nose.
I asked my boyfriend to describe the overall experience, and he put it best when he said, “It sounds like somebody’s shaking a weasel.”
So there you have it. I shook the weasel. I’m a no-good weasel shaker. I probably made some little ferret somewhere an orphan.
That poor ferret. I’m ashamed. I’m guilty of a truly terrible sin. Unlike regular, innocent sneezes, my sneezes are atrocities that require divine intervention. I actually deserve to be told “bless you” more than anybody else ever.
So please bless me. Save me from this downward spiral. If things don’t change soon, when I die, I won’t even get into Hell. I’ll have to go someplace worse: Kmart.