Cavemen and Germs

Greetings loyal readers,

I just got back from another trade show, this time in Dallas. The experience was pretty much the same as last time, except that, unfortunately, I've come back a little under the weather.

I'm not sure exactly what kind of ailment I've contracted, but I suppose it's best described as the “Generic Head Cold of Doom.” You know, stuffed-up nose, congestion headache, hearing that's all muffled—the whole by-numbers deal. And before you ask, no, I don't know where the “Doom” comes from. I'm not the one who names these things, after all. If you're curious, I suppose you could check something like Hyperbole and Naming Colds: An Introductory Primer. You might find an answer there.

Like most other colds, or maybe all colds on Earth, I don't have anything to blame except my own pride and neglect of promotional products. That sounds like a cheeky statement, but I'm only half-kidding. Read on and see.

During the course of my prior trip to Vegas, several of my coworkers bemoaned the fact that they were likely to get sick after the show. I listened, but did not take heed. There is some kind of vestigial caveman part of my brain that compels me to believe that:
A) I'm too strong to get sick. (Apparently my strict meathead upbringing overrides the fact that I haven't been able to bench press more than a wet towel for years.)
B) Oprah and Jon Stossel have basically created mass germophobia from the ground up using sensational and overly sappy journalism. Other lovely perks of their work would be Dr. Phil's career or Jon Stossel's mustache.

By ignoring the TV's favorite talking heads, after Vegas, my inner caveman grew stronger. We did not get sick. We thought about how tough we were, and maybe where we could get some rad furs or paintings for our cave walls. Something with Elks. We love Elks.