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My stummy hurts.
Officials are investigating an outbreak of hantavirus, a rare family of viruses carried by rodents, aboard a cruise ship sailing the Atlantic Ocean.
Three passengers who were aboard the ship, the MV Hondius, have died, and five other people have shown symptoms of the rare disease, according to the World Health Organization. (NYT)
Every year, I purchase a cruise ship ticket, cheapest I can find. If the vessel contains central air, I don’t want to be there.
I prefer one where the passenger’s combined funk congeals with the oxygen, creating a kind of fog or haze, perhaps a mist ot mildew—a human-formed humidity.
One with a 24/7 open-air buffet—the shrimp taste indistinguishable from the chicken—$5 watered down margaheritas—the tequila from three cruise seasons ago, Biden-era booze—metal cutlery stained, haunted by meals past.
All. Floors. Carpeted.
Pensioners punching holes in their savings account, octogenarians sporting oxygen tanks, Budweiser-burping in your mouth at the makeshift blackjack table, the dealer’s eye patch bedazzled, Rod Stewart greatest hits booming through the sound system—and by sound system, I mean the handful of small Bluetooth speakers set atop empty stools in various room corners.
Best part? The toilet water.
Nothing more refreshing after a long day or sharing tongs with snot-dripping toddlers
But this year, something unexpected happened.
First, I developed a cough, no different from the staff who handle the food.
I figured I was just wheezing after a whiff of the 7-Eleven cologne radiating off the giggly, red-eyed teens leaving their smoke-shrouded rooms.
My stomach began to turn. No big deal. I had a lot of drinks at the bar. Maybe the creepy man hitting on the high schoolers slipped a mick into one of my Shirley Temples, instead of theirs.
Sweating is typical on these cruises, although the cool toilet water typically curbs my perspiration.
Soon, what I thought was just a tan I developed roasting under the scorching lights installed above the massive, indoor urine-caked Splish Splash pool—yea, the pool with the dead pigeon floating in the deep end—itchy, red boils and blisters everywhere.
I decided it was best to visit the onboard medical center—would hate for my oozing open sores to bother any of the unattended children taking turns sipping from a hot, stolen White Claw can.
After explaining to the nurse what I consumed that day, breakfast, the sushi rolls that had been sitting out from the night before, with a tall lipstick-crusted glass of OJ, oldy squeezed. I confessed my liquid lunch, toilet water (with lemon💅🏾). Dinner, the ship docked at Myrtle Beach, the staff marched out to collect bags and bags and bags from the closest Popeyes, ordered days before we arrived.
Desert, ice cream that had been frozen and melted, frozen and melted, frozen and melted, somehow the vanilla sweating more than I was.
My entire epidermis scabbed, head to toe. Didn’t even get a chance to tell her about my late-night mop water cocktail.
Several shrieks, gasps, FaceTimes with disease experts, calls to the president and a few whispers of “should we just put him down?”
Bloody, scaled cruise patrons swarmed the waiting room.
I didn’t realize so many people knew about the delicious toilet water.
I’m told I can’t leave quarantine until they finish collecting skin grafts from the pool drains.
Next time, I’ll bring my own toilet water from home.
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