Ha Hee Achoo

I'm a guy who likes a good natural phenomenon joke. Tell me all about your hail the size of frozen turkeys; I'll yuk it up. Bring me the tales of rain coming down in buckets, enough rain to swallow a truck. Even your occasional snap sandstorm has a certain comic potential.

Here in the midlands of South Carolina, though, we get what must be the least funny weather effect ever: unbelievably dense pollen.

A count of 15 per cubic meter is considered moderate, with levels of 90 or above qualifying as "high." Our local pollen count here last Thursday? 4200.

Forty two hundred. I don't know if that's grains, or particles, or little yellow creatures who burrow into your sinuses or what. I just know it's a lot.

My generally black automobile is the color of hot-dog mustard. Our back porch, recently given a fresh coat of dark blue paint by Miss Penelope, sits buried under a quilt of greenish yellow. And my friends who are allergy sufferers, well, they're just screwed.

One guy had to call into work, debilitated on the couch for a whole day. He tried to get in to see the doctor for some kind of prescription, but had to wait in line behind all the other wretched snifflers.

It's like a biblical plague, except without the drama or excitement. And it's supposed to last all through April.

Here in Columbia we're all doing raindances, whooping and yelling for any kind of liquid relief. We can't keep it up for too long, though. Our steps keep kicking up giant clouds of yellow.