According to Hofmann: Take it sneezy
Maybe itĢƵ the pandemic, but lately, I’ve really taken notice how people sneeze…and then writing down their name, license plate number and if they sneezed in their sleeve or in their hands. I send those findings to the CDC…maybe the FBI depending how they wiped their nose following the sneeze.
If they don’t cover their mouth at all when they sneeze, I call the police and a Hazmat team ASAP.
From my recent experience of observing different sneezes, I’d like to say that every individual sneeze is unique and different like a snowflake or a fingerprint, but thatĢƵ not the case.
If that were true, then police shows would have officers asking witnesses to reenact a suspectĢƵ sneeze, and Christmas songs would have lyrics like, “In the meadow, we will sneeze on a snowman. And pretend heĢƵ infected with COVID and SARS…”.
Okay. Probably not, but you get the point…or I hope you do because I have to admit I’m pretty lost myself right now.
Anyway, all I have to go on with different types of sneezes are the ones from those closest to me…six feet away, of course.
My wife, Amber, sneezes in the most confusing and terrifying way as it sounds like sheĢƵ yelling “Hey!” while fighting off demonic possession.
I can’t count the number of times I should have said “bless you”, but instead answered with, “What did I do now?!”
My stepdaughter, Emma, has an incomplete sneeze. By that, I mean she only goes “choo!,” and her sneeze is even more nasal like she didn’t even gather enough breath to put the “a” in “achoo”. Her sneeze is more like “chwph!”
Mine, on the other hand–not literally on my hand, of course–is old school.
I issue the classic sneeze of “ACHOOOO!” almost as well-defined like you’re reading it in a comic book.
However, a sneeze is like the weather and like the urge to streak at an outdoor wedding; you can’t always control it.
So, while fighting against the nearly-unstoppable force of sneezing, I often get strange results when one inevitably bursts out like “Aaaahoo!” or “Neh-choo!” or “Achaaaw!”
I also really try to put a theatrical spin in the classic sneeze buildup.
“Aaaah…aaaah,” some people start and brace themselves for the violent reaction, sometimes going as far as sticking a finger under their nose, followed by the perfectly timed “achoo!”
Not me, I hunch over and make no sound except the flow of air entering into my lungs, preparing for the upcoming explosion of disgusting filth, which is normally discharged into a tissue and then examined by myself immediately after like evidence at a crime scene.
What makes it worse for those around me is the fact I have to give a play-by-play analysis and commentary on the sneeze.
“Oh, man,” or “Woooo!” are my regular openings following the sneeze and when I’m able to regain my balance. “That rocked my internal organs…it was like I gave myself a spinal tap…I think my gallbladder made an escape through my left nostril…did I just time travel?”
My mom does a thing where she announces sheĢƵ going to sneeze and holds her arms out in front of her like sheĢƵ going to play the piano. She then reminds us sheĢƵ going to sneeze several times while keeping her arms out.
“I’m going to sneeze, I’m going to sneeze, I’m pretty sure I’m going to sneeze…,” she says.
At that point, thereĢƵ a 50/50 chance she’ll either sneeze with an “ehcoow” as her shoulders seize together, and sheĢƵ paralyzed for a moment before she can fully recover or itĢƵ a false alarm.
Waiting for either to happen matches the anticipation of someone walking through an abandoned house in a horror movie before they’re chopped up by the killer.
An ex-girlfriend of mine also used to pause whatever she was doing when she felt a sneeze coming along, but would bring both hands up to her face to cover her nose in between her fingers, appearing as though she was deep in prayer.
She then would take a deep breath, her face contorting and her internal organs apparently rupturing with her body taking the brunt of the otherwise contained explosion.
Following that was the brief, yet high pitch and tone of “ceoo!” into her hands. The sneeze was so short, she couldn’t even fit an “a” or an “h” in it!
We broke up soon afterwards because she got all offended that, even back then, I documented peopleĢƵ sneezing habits and reported it to governmental health officials.
According to Hofmann is written by staff reporter Mark Hofmann of Rostraver Township. His books, “Good Mourning! A Guide to Biting the Big One…and Dying, Too” and “Stupid Brain,” are available on Amazon.com. He co-hosts the “Locally Yours” radio show on WMBS 590 AM every Friday.