The H(uskers)1N(ebraska)1 Virus

 

. . . (R)emembering mine affliction, and my misery,

the wormwood and the gall.

My soul hath them still in remembrance,

and is humbled in me. . . .

It is of the Lord's mercies

that we are not consumed,

because his compassions fail not.

They are new every morning:

great is thy faithfulness.

The Lord is my portion,

saith my soul;

therefore will I hope in him.

The Lord is good unto them that wait for him,

to the soul that seeketh him.

                                                                        -- Lamentations 3:19-20,22-25

 

 

            I've had a horrible cold for two weeks now. It's viral, so the horse pills the doctor sent over haven't done much. I am now habitually a "mouth-breather," receiving as much oxygen lately as a bottom-feeding carp, and, consequently, I now have the IQ to match.

 

My nostrils are like manicotti stuffed with ricotta cheese. My sinuses occasionally "crack" from the movement of tectonic plates of you-know-what trapped inside. When I sniffle, it's louder than "76 Trombones." My vocal cords, coated with vanilla pudding, make me sound like I'm four inches tall. ("Follow the yellow brick road!")

 

 I try to sleep propped up by six pillows in a capital "L" shape, which my bod threatens to make its permanent posture. There are dozens of little "whitecaps" on the floor next to the bed every morning: tissues left over from pointless attempts to relieve the congestion. When I sneeze, my shoes fly off. My throat feels like it has a piano leg down there. 

 

But I'm not sad. Why not?

 

Because I've had this before . . . and it eventually goes away.

 

In the end, I win! Nanny nanny boo boo!!!!!

 

In the meantime, I figure, you might as well grin and bear it. Slack off for once! Crack some jokes! Let your family pamper you, and sponge up all the sympathy you can get!

 

That's why I have a message for the University of Nebraska Cornhusker football team, who are hurting after their third loss of the season, to a crummy team (no offense, Iowa State fans) which hadn't beaten them in Lincoln since my Beloved was attending there, and had a MULLET.

 

This perplexing, surprising loss happened yesterday, 9-7, after the Huskers committed a school record eight turnovers, four of them within the other team's 5-yard line. The errors were startling, the team's angst and embarrassment were palpable, and the crowd hushed down to funeral manners while spectating the debacle.

 

I'm thinking today of how those boys and their coaches must feel. Probably a lot like me, with this rotten cold.

 

Man, it's miserable. It sucks. It's terrible.

 

But Team, take it from Your Best Fan, the Mouth Breather:

 

This, too, shall pass.

 

You WILL play better soon.

 

When a massive virus like the one that has been causing you to make so many mistakes lately has a hold of you, all you can do is ask God to help you, hang in there, crack a few jokes to make yourself feel better . . . and then come roaring back.

 

It's good advice for any kind of tribulation.

 

Relax!

 

Rest!

 

Have faith!

 

Keep believing in yourself and those around you!

 

If I were Coach Bo Pelini, for Monday's practice, I'd borrow the cutest, fastest little pigs from Vala's Pumpkin Patch, the famous autumn recreation mecca outside Omaha. They have truly hilarious pig races this time of year. Coach Bo ought to grease up those little porkers and let them loose on the football field. Let the team run around and try to catch them and hold on to them and get their "fumble-it-is" out of their systems, laughing all the way. The game is about pigskins, after all:

 

 

 

  

 

 

            This cold and the Huskers' funk remind me of a time when "going wacky" helped me through a bad situation many years ago. My Beloved probably still had a mullet at that point, but that isn't why I was so troubled:

 

            See, I was invited to go to a small town in Nebraska and give a speech to a local Lion's Club for their autumn banquet. It was on a Saturday over the lunch hour. I was pleased to accept, then working as the courthouse reporter for the local daily and full of interesting tales to tell.

 

            The problem was, I got a bad cold that week, and by the day of the speech, it had seized my vocal cords. I had larangytis, and it was getting worse by the minute.

 

            Well, this developed too late to cancel out on the nice Lions, so I drove up there, hoping for the best. As soon as I arrived at the banquet hall, I asked a waitress for some hot tea with honey. But they didn't have any. She suggested a "hot toddy." That sounded great! I knew it had a little alcohol in it, but figured that would help my throat.

 

Little did I know how much the bartender was trying to help, too!

 

Chatting with the Lions during the gathering time left my voice raw, so I ordered another one with lunch. Then the Lions had to have their business meeting, so I ordered another hot toddy to keep fending off the larangytis. I needed it, too, the way they signaled their "aye" votes - RRRRRROAR!!!!! These WERE the Lions, after all. Who wouldn't need a hot toddy during that?

 

THEN, it seems that the pre-banquet entertainment, a herd of rosy-cheeked, middle-school band students, had arrived late - their bus broke down - so they did their half-hour performance after the business meeting, and of course, I ordered one or two MORE hot toddies, to keep fending.

 

Finally, it was my turn to speak. I had fended mag-fi-ni . . . ni-fi-cently.

 

I stood, slightly waveringly . . . and smiled, slightly crookedly . . . and sled my speech . . . I mean, said my (hiccup!) spleech. . . .

 

I HAVE NO EARTHLY IDEA WHAT I SAID, BUT I HAD A GREAT TIME SAYING IT!

 

My voice was as pure as Julie Andrews'. The Lions and the middle-schoolers gave me enthusiastic applause. I guess they never knew before that city women could be so . . . animated.

 

I couldn't have been THAT sloshed, because I got home without incident. I think the larangytis got scared off, and it took allllll these years for it to get up the nerve to come back.

 

Now, I'd never suggest that the Huskers stoop to alcohol to get their mojo back.

 

But I hope they'll keep the faith, remember that the fans still believe in them . . . and even though He may not have a mullet and never needs a hot toddy, the Lion of Judah cares about them, too.

 

And if they ask Him, and wait on Him, and believe in His faithfulness, He'll bring them roaring back. †

 

 

GO BIG RED!