Get your feet wet

Consumption Junction

Screw the surge: if we’re serious about eradicating the insurgents, we will immediately decommission all U.S. military facilities in Iraq.

And repurpose them into DAY CARE CENTERS.

Because as the past two weeks of unintentional research has learned me, there is no more powerful biological weapon than a sick day-care kid. I’ve never visited one of these facilities myself, but apparently the chilluns there are overseen by syphilitic lepers who let them teethe on public-toilet fixtures and play dress-up with piles of filthy Kleenex THEY ARE THAT SICK AND WILL SMILE HUGE GUMMY BABY SMILES RIGHT BEFORE THEY KILL YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY. (Or your suicide-bombing faction; it’s a Grim Reaper in a poop-sagged onesie, not a discriminatory asshole.)

The timeline is this: Day One, expose Day Care Baby to unsuspecting household; Day Two, cripple male household figure; Day Four, lay low innocent household children; Day Seven, make life so miserable for household Mommy figure she now spends entire days trying to simultaneously administer Infant Tylenol, make age-targeted games out of snot bubbles, stab herself in the congested head and emasculate all Daddy’s stupid insurgent friends who couldn’t lay off the fundamentalist dogma for ONCE to spare them all this living hell, and voila! Insurgency over, relocate Cooing Bacterial Trojan Horse to next global quagmire.

Because people, they will not know what hit them. One day, they’re happily plotting the death of the Great Satan, and the next, they’re getting chest x-rays for pneumonia and Dr. David Wu MD is THISCLOSE to hospitalizing them for dehydration and that silly 103-degree temperature, but no, it’s too late now for Tamiflu and you’ll just have to go home and ride this shit out. Oh, but also? You might still be contagious, so you’ll need to spend the next week looking like this:


Cute, right? I mean, how did Anna Wintour miss THAT spring accessory? And then your whole family starts calling you “SARS” — quelle adorable! — and your eight-month-old takes to looking at you like this:


And, increasingly, like this:


The up side? You haven’t been on a diet this great since the Out-of-Season Oysters Disaster of ’97! Solid food? A HAHAHAHAHAHA. Uneaten half of Eliot’s yogurt? Good thing you’re attempting it over a sink! Glass of ice water? Oh honey, you won’t be needing that where we’re going.

And before you know it, Daron’s asking where your ass has done got off to (and you don’t care, since its obvious accomplice was mummy-tummy, and good riddance, bitch) and is hauling your frail, consumptive carcass onto a scale to reveal HIGH SCHOOL DIGITS, and then you’re all “Yeah!” (phlegm-rattled cough), and, “Silver linings!” (vom) and, “Dude, I am so gonna be the hottest slice of bikini-ass at this year’s fam reunion, woot-woot!!!” (faints in pathetic heap of delirium and skinniness.)

And that is why Infectious Disease Proving Grounds day care centers should be outsourced to China. The end.

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