Sitting at dinner, I spied an opportunity.  A chance that every dad identifies.  A partially consumed kid’s meal waiting to be finished off.

Sure enough, my son had stopped mid-burger, apparently unable to carry on.  Never fear, child.  I can help.  So I stepped up to the plate and downed the rest.  So good, so dad kind of helpful.

Later that same evening, more like middle of the night, my wife heard a rustling in the bathroom.  That same child, the child of the burger donation was vomiting.

I recalled the tasty burger.  The tasty burger that I now suspect transported so many germs from my child to me.

I was now a human host.  A petri dish for the propagation of the burger virus.  Some burgers are topped with cheese, but that one was covered with regret.