Cooties

I sat on my couch and brought all my cooties together. This isn't working, I said. I can't be your host anymore. Nothing personal. Cooties are what they are. But someone-probably an actor-noticed some of you crawling down my neck. Word got out. My social life has dried up. Employees flee when I enter a restaurant. Librarians look at me askance. Hospitals spray me. My own family has turned away in disgust.
I need to take drastic action. I am giving you your freedom. Find another host. Any questions?
No, I don't know how to reach Gov. Christie. But he would provide much wider grazing territory.

Cootie Memories

This place is so familiar. I grew up here with my family. We had good times. Then, gradually, things changed. More open space. Less protection.  Sprays and lotions, designed to destroy us. We tried moving lower to the ears, but waxy buildup was an issue.
So we relocated to a host named Greta, with a bushel of hair.
Last week, after years away, we decided to pay a visit to our old haunts, namely Joe. Well, we saw right away we had made the right move by leaving. Miles of bare scalp, wrinkled and mottled.
Cooties have to be objective and unsentimental.
I'm sure Joe reaches up and scratches sometimes and wonders where his old tenants wound up. We left him sleeping peacefully and smiling. He was a good host while it lasted.