Flu Funny Quotes

I cannot go to school today" Said little Peggy Ann McKay. "I have the measles and the mumps, A gash, a rash and purple bumps. My mouth is wet, my throat is dry. I'm going blind in my right eye. My tonsils are as big as rocks, I've counted sixteen chicken pox. And there's one more - that's seventeen, And don't you think my face looks green? My leg is cut, my eyes are blue, It might be the instamatic flu. I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, I'm sure that my left leg is broke. My hip hurts when I move my chin, My belly button's caving in. My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained, My 'pendix pains each time it rains. My toes are cold, my toes are numb, I have a sliver in my thumb. My neck is stiff, my voice is weak, I hardly whisper when I speak. My tongue is filling up my mouth, I think my hair is falling out. My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight, My temperature is one-o-eight. My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear, There's a hole inside my ear. I have a hangnail, and my heart is ... What? What's that? What's that you say? You say today is .............. Saturday? G'bye, I'm going out to play!

Facebook has been spreading across the continents faster than a highly contagious Asian bird flu!

The worst part about being sick is not getting any sympathy from my wife. She says I have the "man-flu." The Urban Dictionary defines "man-flu" as "an illness that causes the male to be completely helpless and sicker than any other family member." In females it is known as a cold.

The minute I set eyes on your mother, I felt this thing happen in my gut, like the flu bug hit me worse than any sickness I’ve ever had, worse than the bubonic plague.” His love analogy could use a little work…

When I started everything, and by everything, I mean life, suicide was a joke. If I have to ride in that car with you, I'll slash my wrists with a butter knife. It was as real as a unicorn. No, less than that. It was as real as the explosion around an animated coyote. A hundred thousand people threaten to kill themselves every day and make a hundred thousand other people laugh, because like a cartoon, it's funny and meaningless. Gone even before you turn off the TV. Then it was a disease. Something other people got, if they lived someplace dirty enough to get the infection under their nails. It was not a pleasant dinner table conversation, Cole, and like the flu, it only killed the weak. If you'd been exposed, you didn't talk about it. Wouldn't want to put other people off their feed. It wasn't until high school that it became a possibility. Not an immediate one, not like It is a possibility I will download this album because the guitar is so sick it makes me want to dance, but possibility in the way that some people said when they grew up, they might be a fireman or an astronaut or a CPA who works late every single weekend while his wife has an affair with the guy who drives the DHL truck. It became a possibility like Maybe when I grow up, I will be dead.

By educating me at home, my parents were able to give me individualized attention without the usual distractions that kids in regular school experience, like dating and friendship. Not to mention that traditional school can be dangerous. I’ve heard about kids catching the flu and chicken pox, even Judaism. And how about those poor kids lugging all those heavy books to and from school every day? My books never went anywhere, just like me. I felt so bad when I’d see kids on my street giggling and chasing each other around with those awkward backpacks.

As a group, they looked wounded. It was funny how men could look that way. For years they could violently finger and push just the tip in, all the while saying, Just the tip, just for a second, not like a question but like a mantra. They could thoughtlessly fuck you from behind, their hips on hydraulics. They could be tired, sick, sad, rageful over having the flu, yet their hips would be completely fine moving back and forth like a car part. Men were dependable fuckers. But suddenly they could look sad like that. After all, they were only trying to make conversation.

Even as we start to register the tremors of imaginal perception, we may face a concurrent barrage of disdain, disbelief, and even outright hostility from our usual reasoned rootedness in the five senses. As the subtle senses develop, and we start to actually see energy fields or feel the edges blur between our body and the person next to us, we may conclude we are exhausted, have eaten bad food, are becoming ill, or must be falling in love. We call these subtle openings "chemistry," a funny feeling, the flu, or a waking dream. On the other hand, if we can suspend our disbelief in invisibles long enough, we may find ourselves roaming in imaginal fields for longer and longer periods of time.

Another common argument is about nutrition from non-veg food. People say that non-veg food has more nutritious and keeps people healthy and strong. But if we go into more details with science and statistics, everybody can understand a simple theory that nobody can grow more than the protein/nutrition it takes in its diet.   So if I consider this, then even a chicken, goat or a bull grows this big only by taking the same nutrition from nature; mostly from grass, beans, leaves pulses and grain. With the demand of non-veg if human can grow this much of food for feeding these animals, it can directly grow the same amount of food for himself. And deficiencies are the reason of imbalance diet, which are found in both vegetarians as well as non-vegetarians, and a balance diet can keep anyone healthy without non-veg too.   One last thing you must have seen around is, human started dyeing of diseases like Bird Flu. Will you still say you keep balance in nature by eating non-veg? And if your answer is yes, then I must say: YOU ARE FUNNY!!!

I cannot go to school today" Said little Peggy Ann McKay. "I have the measles and the mumps, A gash, a rash and purple bumps. My mouth is wet, my throat is dry. I'm going blind in my right eye. My tonsils are as big as rocks, I've counted sixteen chicken pox. And there's one more - that's seventeen, And don't you think my face looks green? My leg is cut, my eyes are blue, It might be the instamatic flu. I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, I'm sure that my left leg is broke. My hip hurts when I move my chin, My belly button's caving in. My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained, My 'pendix pains each time it rains. My toes are cold, my toes are numb, I have a sliver in my thumb. My neck is stiff, my voice is weak, I hardly whisper when I speak. My tongue is filling up my mouth, I think my hair is falling out. My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight, My temperature is one-o-eight. My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear, There's a hole inside my ear. I have a hangnail, and my heart is … What? What's that? What's that you say? You say today is .............. Saturday? G'bye, I'm going out to play!” Shel Silverstein

As soon as he leaves, I make the executive decision that given the circumstances, there will be no school or work today. First I call O’Callaghan and give him some bullshit excuse, but I need something legitimate for school in case I need to stretch it out for a while. I call the attendance office and lower my voice two octaves, thickening my New England accent to play Dad. I go with the first thing that pops in my head. I tell the woman that my son, Hank, is very ill. It could be flu, but there’s a possibility it could be encephalitis. The woman sounds shocked and concerned, so I know I’ve picked a good excuse. When I hang up, Peyton starts cracking up. “What? What’s so funny?” “Encephalitis is brain inflammation.” “Shit, I overdid it. I meant bronchitis. All I know is, there’s no way I can deal with school today.

Did you make him go the doctor?" Alec asked Ryder. "Nah, he is sure it's the flu. He has a fever, a cough and is sweating like a pig, he'll be fine in a few days. You know he is loving all the attention from the girls. He pretended to pass out this morning just so Branna would lie down with him in his bed, the bastard." I burst out laughing. "He is funny." "He likes to think so.

Wow,” she said. “That’s sure generous, that you’d do all that for me…” “For us, Marcie. I’ll get a bath after you. And tomorrow I’ll stop at the coin laundry and wash up the dirty clothes. I’ll take any of yours you’d like me to. Just because you haven’t been feeling too good…” She shifted from foot to foot, chewing on her lower lip. “What’s the matter? You don’t want a bath?” “I’d die for a bath,” she said. “It’s just that…I couldn’t help but notice, there doesn’t seem to be a separate room with a door that closes… And I also noticed that doesn’t seem to bother you too much.” The corners of his lips lifted. “I’ll load the truck with tomorrow’s wood while you have your bath,” he finally said. She thought about this for a second. “And I could sit in my car during your bath?” she suggested. “I don’t think so—your car is almost an igloo now. Just a little white mound. Not to mention mountain lions.” “Well, what am I supposed to do?” “Well, you can take a nap, read a little of my book, or close your eyes. Or you could stare—get the thrill of your life.” She put her hands on her hips. “You really wouldn’t care, would you?” “Not really. A bath is a serious business when it’s that much trouble. And it’s pretty quick in winter.” He started to chuckle. “What’s so funny?” she asked, a little irritated. “I was just thinking. It’s cold enough in here, you might not see that much.” Her cheeks went hot, so she pretended not to understand. “But in summer, you can lay in the tub all afternoon?” “In summer, I wash in the creek.” He grinned at her. “Why don’t you comb the snarls out of your hair? You look like a wild banshee.” She stared at him a minute, then said, “Don’t flirt with me. It won’t do you any good.” Then she coughed for him, a long string of deep croaks that reminded them both she had had a good, solid flu. Also, it covered what happened to be amused laughter from him. While

The Zombie Firetruck by Stewart Stafford Sirens moan, grave duty's flash of red, A mortuary whiff of something dead, Hoses trained with brains they suck, Your friendly neighbourhood zombie firetruck! All that remained of the human fire team, From the zombie pandemic of 2017, Still in their uniforms, their only treasures, Apocalyptic times call for end-time measures. When they reached the fire, people did scoff, They lurched, staggered, body parts fell off, As they wandered around, fire hoses forlorn, These knightly living dead faced a blazing dawn. The chief, hat off to his skeleton crew, In a voice once alive, now croaky like flu: 'To the hydrant, my ghouls, let's save Gothik Town, Or they'll call Ghostbusters, we'll be the clowns!' A glowering inferno, a cremation scene, Zombie firefighters, brave and light green. Through smoke and ash, they gravely stand, Composed decomposition with skeletal hand. Axeman Bony Ed led their clattering charge, Into the smoke, his cadavers did barge, The townsfolk looked on in dead of night, And disbelief, tiredness and mild fright. There soon followed medic Cemetery Phil, Decaying Murphy, Old Salty, and Dead Drill, Slab Stevens, Madly Hyde and Molly Voodoo, Determined to shake their initial hoodoo. A mother and baby backed by burning drapes, Team Macabre charged up the fire escape, Saving both and getting everyone out, Drank Brainer Ade as they leaked like a spout. Somehow, undead teamwork saved the day, No lives were lost as the water sprayed, Doused the flames, cool flatlined heroes, Much zombie kudos, no longer scary zeroes. The crowd cheered, did they ever doubt it? High fives lost hands but new ones sprouted, Frankenstein proud in their flapping flesh, Sure to get medals at the HalloweenFest. With a final groan and a clatter of bones, The zombie firetruck headed back home. Rotten yet proud, in their reanimated way, The risen would fight fires another day. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

People who haven’t been depressed assume it’s sadness, but that’s not it at all. It’s not a feeling; it’s the emotional flu, and it debilitates you. Things are going on around you, but you’re too sick to care.

London returns in damp, fragmented flurries when I should be doing something else. A scrap of song, a pink scarf, and I’m back to curries and pub food, long, wet walks without a map, bouts of bronchitis, a case of the flu, my halfhearted studies, and brooding thoughts and scanning faces in every bar for you. Those months come down to moments or small plots, like the bum on the Tube, enraged that no one spoke, who raved and spat, the whole car thick with dread, only to ask, won’t someone tell a joke? and this mouse of a woman offered, What’s big and red and sits in the corner? A naughty bus. Not funny, I know. But neither’s the story of us.