In what can only be described as the universe’s most savage punchline, a family in Uganda has been forced to inter both parents in forty-eight hours, one Ebola-stricken body per day, while the World Health Organisation presumably debated the aerodynamics of tie-dye scarves. The bereaved, currently wobbling on the precipice of sanity, have become unwilling participants in a grotesque relay race where the baton is a corpse and the finish line is a mass grave. The global health establishment, a bloated leviathan of bureaucracy, has responded with its trademark blend of hand-wringing and PowerPoint presentations.
Meanwhile, the virus, a microscopic sociopath, continues its ceaseless rampage, indifferent to the sorrow of the grieving. This is not merely a humanitarian crisis. It is a farce dressed in funeral blacks, a zombie farce where the walking dead are the ones in Geneva.
The system is broken, but the gin is flowing. Cheers, humanity.
