The wOrd On everyOne’s lips is OmicrOn. O my. O, is it?
SO it seems, Out Of the darkness rises the big O, guaranteed tO be mOre frightening than the Delta triangle, mOre uncertain than AIDS in the 8Os, and mOre cOntageOus than the black death in and Of its very self (and dOn’t yOu knOw I’m a black death fan…) OmicrOn, O OmicrOn… prOnOunced sO incOnsistently by O sO many brOadcasters! ShOuldn’t they have first cOnvened? FOrmed a quOrum to decide hOw best tO sOund the racially and regiOnally inOffensive fifteenth letter set dOwn by the Greeks? O yes, O my, they shOuld hOne their phOnemes befOre unlOading them On the pOOr public, like sO much scattershOt Over the radiO.
OmicrOn, OmicrOn. O, whO but whO’s prOnOunciation will win Out? The Midwestern “Ah-muh-crahn” Or the mOre elegant “Oh-mih-crawn?” LOng vOwels almOst always prOOve yOu’re really in the knOw. But what abOut Our dear Omega waiting in the wings? Why, everything abOut Omega screams lOng O sOunds tO my ear. O, variant number twenty-fOur, Omega, I just knOw yOu’ll make yOur entrance sOme day, befOre we lay this plague tO rest with all its supernumerOus victims.
I dOn’t wOnder that OmicrOn is Only a marketing scheme, sOmething tO bump the vaccinatiOn rate, befOre yOu take yOur hOliday vacatiOn — Or keep yOu hOme alOne fOr Christmas yet again. Be frightened, little children, fOr O this year Krampus (my favOrite figure Of Yule-slash-NOel) has his sack packed and brimming — lOaded — with OmicrOn variant fOr yOu and yOur unvaccinated parents! O, YOu better watch Out, yOu better nOt cry, lest Santa unleash the OmicrOn upOn yOu with its scratchety sOre thrOat!
The fact is nO One truly knOws – hOw bad this blOw might be. NOt nOw. HOwever, I suspect it’s nOt X-Xmas prOpiganda. Otherwise, everyOne wOuld be prOnOuncing it the sam3. They’d have learned hOw at OrientatiOn…
FOr my mOney, give me the plague of 1918. H1N1 was it? With avian influence? NOw that was a pandemic! O, with what grace and breadth her lacy sleeves reached Out arOund the glObe, gathering everyOne in her bOundless grasp, her lOng, sOft fingers drawing them hOme. In 1918 yOu’d gO Out after mOrning meal and be dead On the dining rOOm table fOr supper. She chewed thrOugh the entire pOpulation Of the wOrld. Three times Over befOre licking her lips, taking her bOw, and disappearing undergrOund. Only nOw yOu can find her remains unearthed and awaiting a new Outbreak at the Atlanta CDC.
O, I sO hOpe H1N1 dOesn’t get Out! O nO! FOr then we’d all be dOOmed! — hahahaha
OmicrOn, O OmicrOn… A seriOus dilemma for a wOrrier whO might find herself Out alOne On the rOad, dOn’t yOu think? One cOuld Only hOpe tO avOid sO many pOtentially pOOr OutcOmes…