The Subtle Art of Not Returning a Hug
It’s the COVID-19 era. There are two people. Initially 6-feet part. One of them is hug-crazy. And the other must stop it. How do you then avert that forbidden hug from that hug-possessed individual?
Turn your back and fart. Intense, loud, and lengthy. Long enough that it reaches the 6-feet distance. Let those butts do the talking. And smelling.
The stench is critical. You must eat a high sulfuric diet for 10 consecutive meals leading up to that day. Perhaps sulfur itself. You can never be too prepared.
Make that fart pungent beyond measure. Put the damn durian to shame. Do you eat that 1 Tender Greens vegan salad or 3 McDonald’s cheeseburgers? The choice is yours, as are the farts.
If the obstinate farts refuse to do the work, call on the barfs. And the armpits. These tend to have more bandwidth, but their proficiency in maintaining the 6-feet Line of Control is still under trial.
Make those damn armpits disgust everyone away. Do you spend the morning snoring out your mucus or jogging off in your 3 dollar sweat-resistant tank tops? The choice is yours, as are the armpits.
Workout as if your life lies at its mercy. Because it does. Sweat your soul into your eccrine glands. Perhaps stick a skunk under your arms instead of that overpriced deodorant.
Raise your arms wide in the air. Peak your neck into your arms. Cringe. Declare how amazing it is not to have bathed in a quarter of a year.
If neither flatulence nor any other odorous activities lie within your realm of expertise, use your ominous imagination. Alert the very hug-hungry individual about a ghoul right behind them.
The terrified recipient turns around into the clear skies. You use those six extra ghoul-searching seconds bestowed upon you to take six more steps back.
Take each step as if your life depends on it. Because it does. Take it wide. And take it quick. Spill some pebbles on your trail. If not you, this hug-maniac can wrap his arms around the over-exploited grass.
The ghoul ploy is midway. The confused hug-greedy individual turns back in bewilderment. You are now 12 feet away. If he stays, he rocks. If he walks, he falls.
Nope, he turns around the pebbles and starts walking towards you. The ploy failed. As did the pebbles. They join the farts, barfs, and armpits in their miserable ignominies.
The hug-besotted lunatic is taking long strides towards your forbidden territory. You are running out of hug-protection measures. You have just one questionable action left — a cough.
Multiple coughs. Strong and forceful. You cough your non-coronavirus-laden salivated carbon dioxide in the dull air. It’s so fake. And so real.
And some more. And just a few more. The hug-haunted nut stops on their path, shrugs their shoulders, and declares, “It’s the COVID-19 era.”
