Get Fracula on the Phone

I had no idea we were running that low.

On the way to work, if by chance I take the Downtown Vienna route to Tyson’s Corner, I have much more to look at than interstate signs and the back of the little red Jetta that has managed to cut me off on consecutive days. Route 123 is not unlike Route 70 of South Jersey. Traffic lights and commercial establishments line the roadway, and the likelihood of hitting the lights correctly in rush hour is about as good as this has of being entertaining.

Off to the right, an freestanding electronic signboard parked in front of the INOVA Healthcare building has appeared in recent days. These are the same sort of things roadwork construction crews use to inform you that your hopes of making it home for MNF are officially dead. The board cycles between two different messages, neither of which I have paid attention to before. But today, for some reason, was different.

SUPPLY IS LOW – WE NEED YOUR HELP

was followed shortly thereafter by…

DONATE BLOOF NOW!

It’s a good thing I was sitting at a red light at the time – I would not have believed what I saw had I only seen it once. But after a confirmation, it became clear. America’s hospitals are suffering from a bloof shortage.

Now I’ve never donated bloof, but then again, no one has ever asked me to. In high school, I participated in blood drives, which were always a good time. You got to leave class at some pre-assigned time (you hoped it would be during Physics and not Gym) and head down to the gymnasium. They’d let you lie down on a table and nearly drift off to sleep in exchange for a pint of blood – which your body would replenish anyway. After naptime, you got to sit at a table and drink sugar-loaded iced tea and eat mini-frosted donettes while your non-charitable classmates were stuck in their desks learning about Kepler and Newton. You would try and look weak for as long as humanly possible before a faculty member caught onto your game and sent you back to class.

Blood Drive Day always ended with a extremely light-headed game of Ultimate on the football field.

But bloof? That’s totally a different scenario. The most terrifying thing about agreeing to donate bloof in my predicament is that I actually have no idea what it is. I could blindly agree to assist their cause, sure. But then I’d be lying down on the donation table when the doctor calmly explains that “bloof” is a medical term for something I need, like “ear.” I can’t afford that chance. I hate wearing crooked sunglasses.

And what would I get as a reward for donating my bloof? I have a feeling there will be no iced tea or donettes this time. Because bloof is no doubt more rare than blood, much of the drive’s funding probably goes to the actual extraction process. This doesn’t leave a lot of cash for refreshments. And while the inner feeling that you just helped save somebody’s life does have some value, I’m really in it for the free snacks.

And the Frisbee.