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The G-Virus is what happens to you after spending a day or more on the Greyhound bus, sleeping in five-minute bursts next to a guy who reeks of cheap whiskey and bad decisions, and surviving on nothing but stale Ritz crackers and sheer rage.
I rode the Greyhound for three days. I now have the G-Virus. My face is a crime scene.
That guy next to me on the bus smells like a drunk sock drawer. I think I caught the G-Virus.
I ate six Ritz crackers. I now have the G-Virus. I’m gonna turn into a zombie and eat the rest of the bus.