Open letter to the Outbreak Monkey.

What is it with people refusing to stay at home when they are sick? I mean, GODDAMN, people.

Last week, the Diet Coke Bandit insisted on coming to work regardless of the fact that she was packing the black death. Since I grew up in a household with two smoking parents, the slightest cold sends me on a journey into the Shadow of Death. This last week, I spent a total of three full days on my sofa in a viral-fueled hallucination, coughing out husky reditions of Salman Rushdie’s “Satanic Verses.”

But what really pisses me off is the fact that I can’t talk in anything but a whisper, lest I break out in uncontrollable hacks. I can’t taste food, not even hot wings, which is a goddamn shame. And I pee my pants just a little bit every hour, on the hour, due to the sheer force of my coughing. In fact, I’m feeling a little trickle right now. Or is that an air bubble. Fuck. Me.

Following each indignity, I find myself cursing the name of DCB. Given the depths of my discomfort, I have made a conscious decision to sully DCB’s name until her dying day. Or mine. Whichever comes first. And since the lung I just coughed up is lying in repose on top of my keyboard in a heaving, steaming pile, it seems I’ve only got a few more minutes to say my peace.

First off, there is no shame in staying home from work when you are sick. It’s not considered cutting or ditching when you’re protecting the rest of us from your nastiness. On the contrary, it is a show of respect for your co-workers and their spouses and their kids and all the little minions at daycare whose soft pink lungs would be far better off without infected green loogies hanging like unripe bananas off the branches of their bronchii. But since my outrage is brutally outweighed by my amiable nature and wussiness in general, tomorrow will find me silent at my desk. But make no mistake — I WILL find the time to commando my way to the mailroom and wipe my sticky kleenex all over her mailbox when she’s not looking. Take that, beotch.