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11/1/2009 4:33 AM

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According to famous columnist Finley Peter Dunne, his Irish bartender, Mr. Dooley, caught "la grip" back in 1898. I myself caught it last week, and I had the same symptoms Mr. Dooley had.

Dooley's doctor told him "la grip" was caused by microbes, which Dooley translated as Mickrobes. "So I wint to bed," he said later, "an' waited while th' Mickrobes had fun with me."

"Monday all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wurruds come up between th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wexford; an' th' whole party wint over to me left lung, where they cud get th' air, an' had it out.

"Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a toboggan slide iv me spine; an' manetime some Mickrobes that was wurkin' f'r th' tilliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long.

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"They was tired out th' nex' day till about five o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begun flushin' out th' rooms; an' I knew there was goin' to be doins' in the top flat. What did thim Mickrobes do but invite all th' other Mickrobes in f'r th' ev'nin'. At six o'clock they begin to move fr'm me shins to me throat. They come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands, an' more thin wan hundhred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes on dhrays. A throlley line was started up me back, an' ivry car run into a wagonload iv scrap iron at th' base iv me skull.

"An' they had a game iv forty-fives; an' there was wan Mickrobe that larned to play th' game in th' County Tipp'rary, where 'tis played on stone, an' ivry time he led thrumps he'd like to knock me head off. 'Whose thrick is that?' says th' tipp'rary Mickrobe. 'tis mine,' says th' red-headed Mickrobe fr'm th' County Roscommon.

"They tipped over th' chairs an' tables, an', in less time thin it takes to tell, th' whole party was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull, an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin' matches in me forehead; but they all stopped to mix in.

"Oh, 'twas a grand shindig - tin million iv men, women, an' childher rowlin' on the flure, hands an' feet goin', ice, an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brickbats, an' beer kegs flyin' in th' air!

"How manny iv thim was kilt I niver knew; f'r I wint as daft as a hen, and dhreamt iv organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign Club that'd sweep th' primries, an' maybe go acrost an' free Ireland.

"Whin I woke up, me legs was as weak as a day old baby's, an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle save an' excipt thim West iv Ireland Fenians, th' Mickrobes."

I guess you've all had those attacks sometimes, too, and I wished I'd had the nerve to try Mr. Dooley's remedy, which was "one part syrup, two parts quinine and 15 parts strong waters."

Still, I'm not sure that I didn't also dream about going across to free Ireland, too.

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