I have Con Crud.
Hmm, that sounds like something you’d catch from a toilet seat–“What is it, doc?” “Well, son, you have con crud…your tongue’s growing blue fuzz, your liver’s the size of a basketball, and your genitals are going to wither and fall off.”–but it’s actually just a sore-throat-and-snorfling cocktail acquired from exposure to nearly 2000 individuals, at least one of which had to have something.
Oddly enough, this the first plague I’ve had in a year or two. The nice thing about working at home is that you’re exposed to very few diseases–when I worked in an office, as soon as somebody got the Hacking Death, we all had it in a week. These days, nothin’. So, given my slacker immune system, con crud was probably inevitable. At first I thought it was the sore throat from talking for hours (something I generally don’t do, but it’s hard to make a sale in mime) for days on end, but it’s gotten worse, and teamed up with my sinuses, alas.
James, the joke in our Shadowrun group went, is a classic dwarf in modern dress (short, barrel-chested, bearded, good with mechanical equipment, ironclad work ethic.) He also has the classic dwarvish immunity to disease, which means that I could have the Black Death and he’d still be wandering around the house humming “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho,” and possibly getting vague urges to swing a pick-axe. Oh, well. At least I can send him out for chicken noodle soup.