I am monitoring myself for bird flu infection

Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.

I’m the bird flu martyr.

I’m the canary in the coal mine.

If I start to develop symptoms, I’ll let you know, and you can flee to the South Pacific.

Last night as I was lying in bed listening to a thunderstorm, I felt like CHIRPING. But I DIDN’T.

My feeling was only a pre-symptom. This morning, as I was blowing my nose, an image sprang to mind:

Me, hopping from branch to branch on a tree. But I didn’t hop.

I believe I’ve got the virus under control.

It’s there in my body, but it’s not replicating.

I am, however, collecting bits of paper and twigs and old shoelaces and fragments of burnt toast from the bottom of the toaster. I presume this represents an urge to build a nest. But I resist.

I have dreams of setting up a cannon in my back yard and blasting squirrels, because they’re stealing my food from the feeder hanging from the elm tree.

Let it be known that if I turn into a bird, I want it to be an eagle.

OK, enough about me. I believe it would make sense for Joe Biden to be the first case of a politician developing bird flu. His aides could explain THAT’S why he’s been committing all these crazy gaffes. He’s turning into a fucking bird. Have pity on the President. He’s being treated with the latest drugs. He’s fighting to remain human. He’s staging an epic battle. Support him by electing him to a second term.

What kind of bird is Biden staving off so far?