Many find January to be cold, dreary, depressing, inconsiderate and poorly designed with several structural flaws, but these people have obviously never whooped it up with whooping, or "happy" cough. Most diseases are all doom and gloom (unless, of coures, someone else is suffering from them, and their suffering involves complicated pratfalls)-- not so with whooping cough, a disease that will knock you over and tear out your lungs with its boundless, merciless enthusiasm. The disease is named for the whooping crane, the wackiest of all birds except possibl the Far Northern Stoic Owl. The whopping crane soars majestically from tree to tree, coughing up blood in gallant shades of crimson while busting out "I Want Your Sex" on its personal stereo. Like the bird, sufferers of whooping cough make a lot of noise, and can fly. The only known cure is other, bigger, fiercer birds, but no one in their right mind would do anything to rid themselves of this blissful whooping. Eventually, the disease leaves by itself, taking its streamers, noisemakers and stylsih cone-shaped party hats with it.