Here in the US, almost half the population is fully vaccinated against Covid. In my state, it’s even higher. But in some regions, people are resisting getting the vaccine for a variety of reasons that range from understandable to supremely bogus.
I’ve read a few chin-stroking articles dedicated to teaching people how to overcome vaccine resistance, but a few state governments are cutting out the middle man and appealing to that most American of traits: Naked greed. It goes beyond the odd free donut here and car wash discount there. One state, for instance, is entering all vaccinated citizens into a lottery with a cash prize of a million dollars.
But these are strange times, and so many of our old values have been upended. Why not roll with that? If I hadn’t already signed up to get vaccinated within minutes of the announcement that I could, here are a few things that might get me off my keister and into the clinic line:
Flash your vaccine card, people have to wink at you. I may be the only one who would value this particular incentive, but I think winking is hilarious. It’s such an unnatural thing for most people to do with their faces, and it would keep me entertained through the darkest day.
The opportunity to access local birth records and fix the spelling of my kids’ friends’ names. I’m sorry. I know it’s insensitive and elitist. Blame the 5G chip. But still, phonics exists. Letters have meaning. It would benefit the entire community if no one was ever exposed to a Caedynne or a Jessieighkah every again. Or a Rachael. I said what I said.
Per jab, you get to add one book to the required reading list for high schools — or make one book disappear forever. I’d add Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis and take off Catcher in the Rye by There’s a Reason He Only Ever Wrote One Book.
You get vaxxed, you get a cape. A gorgeous, amazing, swoopy, luxuriously lined cape with deep pockets and emergency money sewn into the hem, and nobody is allowed to make fun of you even though you’re kind of short and dumpy to be swanning around in a cape.
Two weeks after your second shot, Boom: There’s no such thing as a pet gerbil or hamster anymore. We’re just done. Sorry, kids! There just isn’t such a thing. As of [checks laminated Pfizer card] last Thursday, it simply doesn’t exist. The household will have to hobble along with a mere paltry cat, dog, lizard, and bird, and we feel certain you’ll be able to provide the scrabbling sounds, the food hoarding, and the pee smells all by yourselves, without benefit of rodent.
I am not sure exactly how they would pull this off, but every Catholic who gets vaccinated is enabled to return to a blissful state wherein we have never met our bishop and have only a vague idea that there is a very nice pope indeed in Rome, wherever that is, and we must pray for him, but beyond that, it’s just our job to say our prayers and care for the poor and there is definitely no such thing as Catholic Twitter.
You get an hour of therapy once a week for the rest of your natural life. Not that people who’ve been vaccinated especially need therapy; EVERYONE needs therapy. But we gotta start somewhere.
You get to choose the next thing scientists will work on developing a vaccine against. If that thing turns out to be Jordan Peterson, so be it.
A set of steak knives. Actually, that’s second prize. First prize is you get to be vaccinated, which is PRETTY, PRETTY GOOD.