The Cure for Swine Flu

LeeAnnRubsam.com

I know, I know.  Nobody is freaking out about swine flu anymore.  But, the experts are direly predicting a comeback of this hysteria-producing disease, come autumn.  Consequently, just in case they are right, we should all protect ourselves with a little common-sense preparation.

I’m not sure if everyone knows this, but the surefire antidote to swine flu is bratwurst.  Yes, bratwurst – not the turkey or the beef kind, mind you.  It’s gotta be the pork variety.  It’s a very simple concept: fight swine with swine. 

Before you roll your eyeballs right out of their sockets, think about it.  What did they do to stop the polio epidemic?  They injected everybody with a weakened polio virus.  How did they devastate measles, mumps, and chickenpox?  Same story. 

I’m not suggesting that we inject bratwurst into anyone’s veins.  Swine flu is a most virulent disease, and a weakened dose of pork will not do the job.  The bratwurst must be applied full strength via the digestive system, in large doses.   Besides, immunologists are just beginning to realize that the more fun a vaccine is to take, the more effective it is.  Modern science is wonderful, isn’t it?

This is why in Wisconsin, where we are progressive and savvy about most things, every man, woman, and child will be porking up on bratwurst all summer long.  Cumulative dosage is key to jump-starting the immune system.  Here in the Badger State, we are anticipating eating an average of 39.35 pounds of brats per capita between now and Labor Day. 

You may ask, “Why, if bratwurst is such a wonderful cure, was Wisconsin the #2 state in the nation for swine flu cases in the spring of 2009?”  Obviously, if you have to ask such a question you do not understand the culture and climate.  The swine flu hit before it was warm enough to grill brats outside, and we were caught off-guard.  Besides, you didn’t hear of anybody in Wisconsin being seriously harmed by swine flu, did you?  This is because, as soon as the cases started appearing in hordes at our hospitals, the medical personnel knew exactly what to do.  They started stuffing Nesco roaster-loads of brats down the patients’ gullets.  They power-dosed the victims by force-feeding them quarts of sauerkraut (loaded with vitamin C for immune system boost).  It worked, and they all went home feeling euphoric about the whole recovery experience.  Nary a complaint was heard about the deplorable state of hospital cuisine. 

As everyone knows, not all drug brands are alike.  Sometimes those generic versions do not work as well.  This is why it is important for Americans to understand that not all brats will work equally as effectively in protecting against swine flu.  Johnsonville brats are still at the top of the heap, and their priceyness is well worth it, if you want to stay healthy.  Klements are a somewhat distant second in efficacy, while the low-income or exceptionally frugal-of-heart individuals will have to muddle along the best they can with the greatly inferior store brands. 

A tragic epidemic among people of lower income could be averted if President Obama would merely issue an executive order allowing the federal government to seize ownership of the Johnsonville Sausage Company.  He could then declare free brats for everyone to make sure all is fair and square.   As a by-product, many jobs would be created, as the company would have to go through enormous expansion to meet the demands for all that free food.  The new jobs would mean more income for the IRS to abscond with, thereby creating a bottomless barrel for pork projects dear to the hearts of politicians.  More pork in the barrel would mean more swine flu antidote, and the cycle would spiral ever upward into an increasingly healthy economy. 

So there you have it, folks.  Bratwurst – the answer to all the nation’s problems, from swine flu to the economy.  You heard it here first, and I don’t mind at all if you share it with Wall Street and the American Medical Association.

LeeAnnRubsam.com

Wisconsin Statistics, Etc.

leeannrubsam.com

If you read this blog much, you know I’m from Wisconsin.  We Badger State folks are a very progressive people.  I’ve read the statistics, so I know.  Only two out of every five of us share a toothbrush with someone else.  (Yes, I agree.  I am grossed out, too — which is why I belong to the three-out-of-five group that insists on having our very own toothbrushes.)

Another two out of five still have outdoor commodes.  This surprised me, since none of my neighbors for blocks around have a little house in the backyard.  I think the census busybodies must have mistaken some of those utility sheds that house lawnmowers for outdoor facilities.  Or perhaps the stats are skewed by the cottages “up nort’.”  Now, a lot of those do not have indoor plumbing, but they are not usually primary residences.  The owners do have running water at their real houses, but the cottages are another story.  Personally, I don’t go “up nort'” for more than an afternoon visit unless I have first asked how primitive the facilities are.  I don’t particularly mind the commode, but if I must bathe in the lake or forego the pleasure entirely, I’m not staying overnight.

Contrary to rumor, most of us have not had a party line for the last forty-five years.  (For the younger set, a “party line” is not color-coordinated paper plates and napkins for a birthday bash.  Nor is it a political party slogan.  It means several people all share the same phone line and listen in on other people’s conversations when bored.)  West Virginia may still have party lines, but, true to our reputation for being progressive, Wisconsin gave them up long ago.  I miss them, to tell the truth.  When I was a small child, we got quite an education by listening in on the party line, if Mom wasn’t watching us.  But, if you breathed too loud or giggled, the yackers would suddenly discover they were being monitored and yell, “You kids get off the line!”

Most of us are well aware that Barack Obama does not live in a cave somewhere between Afghanistan and Pakistan.  We might wish he did, but we are painfully aware that he does not.  Most of us know that the Republican running mate’s last name is Palin, not Paladin, although it’s possible that “Have gun, will travel” might be her motto, too.  (Sorry, younger folks, you will have to google that one.  Wikipedia will tell you all about it.)  I do not have the statistics of how many Wisconsinites do believe Obama lives in a cave, or that Sarah’s last name is Paladin.  I don’t think they’ve been published yet, but my guess is, they would be two out of five.

Wisconsinites do not all wear red flannel union suits, either.  There was a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, some years back, who insisted we do, but it’s not true.  You can’t believe everything the media people tell you.  That’s why we have blogs these days, to set the record straight.  I have NEVER worn a red flannel union suit — not even on Christmas morning.  My husband would love to, but I won’t let him.

So, that’s one more scoop in the ol’ dumpster on life in Wisconsin.  I’m truly hoping our department of tourism is going to pay me one of these days for these plugs for the home state.  Come on up and visit sometime.

 leeannrubsam.com

Retirement Dinner

leeannrubsam.com

A couple of weeks ago, we attended the postal retirement dinner held in honor of my husband.  You might think it is odd to have a retirement party five months after the fact, but hey, they don’t call it Snail Mail for nuthin’.  Truthfully, they always have them in March, and all those who have retired during the entire previous year get their moment of glory … unless they have died before it gets a chance to happen.  The party happens even if no one has retired — because of the free dinner.

This year there were two retirees — a conventional one and the not-so-conventional one (my husband).  They both wore suits and ties, much to my surprise.  Beebee and I managed to keep our man from wearing the bowtie, so we were happy.  The conventional guy’s suit was ill-fitting, in keeping with how postal workers normally dress when not in uniform.   I have noticed this tradition before, at every retirement dinner I have attended over the last thirty years.  Mr. Not-So-Conventional looked dapper.  His suit fit him.  It did not sag and bunch in weird places.  My coaching on attire had absolutely nothing to do with it this time.  He pulled off a proper appearance all by himself.  I was proud of him.  (I married him for his elegant figure.)

We ate the standard banquet affair victuals.  Postal parties truly must be abhorred by banquet facility owners, due to letter carriers eating so much.  I do not know where they stuff it all.  Even the skinny ones manage single-handedly to put more chicken in their gullets than a whole pack of foxes invading the hen house could ever hope to accomplish.  I suppose a ten-hour day out in the cold contributes to this talent.  They slide it all down with the help of the cole slaw and jellied cranberries.

They all talked about the ten-hour days. Sixty-hour work weeks are the norm right now for everyone, and have been for the last few years.  It costs less to work them to death and then get new ones than it does to hire more help.  The morale is low.  They all thought the Emancipation Proclamation was signed in 1863, but it has not taken effect in the U.S. Postal Service yet.  (They must have an exemption clause.)  Paul was one of the fortunate ones: he had a bum ankle and a consequent doctor’s excuse that kept him to a forty-hour work week.  If that had not worked, he might have tried what some of the others did: mental distress exemptions from the psychotherapist.  (I would have felt bad if he had had to stoop that low, but some did, in order to survive.)

The union representatives’ speeches were all the same as they are every year.  We heard about how much better working conditions are now than they were before the Rebellion of 1970 (the year of the illegal postal strike, which brought the Postal Service, the President, the Congress, Wall Street, and Joseph’s Fish Market to their knees, and introduced collective bargaining).  Even with working sixty hours a week, the guys were encouraged to be grateful that they no longer work seven days a week for $.35 an hour (my slight exaggeration) and live on cat tuna and welfare assistance.  Whenever the president of the union’s name was mentioned, there were little ripples of reverence in the speaker’s voice.  Someone should have played ethereal music to enhance the moments of awe, but I guess they didn’t think of that.

The speakers encouraged us to vote for Obama or Hillary, whichever gets the upper hand, so that all our postal workers do not have to go back to cat tuna or worse.  And the guys were also encouraged to think about using the hours left after working sixty hours a week to campaign for whichever Democrat eventually wins the nomination.  They wanted them to work hard campaigning for the incumbent Democrat in Congress, too, but most of the guys probably aren’t fool enough to do that, because in the last election, he promised the postal workers at our office a big box of free doughnuts if he won, and he never came through with the food.

When the union mucky-mucks got done with their speeches, the retirees got their chance.  The conventional guy made a standard speech of gratitude which was very nice.  He had to behave himself, because he had brought a whole tableful of his relatives to the dinner.  Mr. Not-So-Conventional behaved himself relatively well, considering he can always be a bundle of surprises.  He paved the way for the rest of his speech by telling what a wonderful support his wife had been to him through thirty years.  (I was, too!)  He had gone to all the effort of tallying up how many sandwiches I had made for his lunches in all that time (about 6900, by his count — that’s a lot of Wonder Bread!).  He went on to tell his funny dog stories in his engaging way.  And he topped it off the way they had all known he would, by telling them about Jesus, and how they could be as happy as he is, if they would give their lives to Him.

They gave us gifts.  Paul received a watch, and I got a green plant the size of a cedar tree.

I think Paul enjoyed his evening immensely, and the rest of his little family were pleased for him.

leeannrubsam.com

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