Morbid Fear of Work

It was a nasty slushy morning. The early crew was busy plowing the night's accumulation of snow - about 6 inches had fallen before turning to rain. Now there was a 4 inch pack of wet snow to be scraped off the access roads and disposal areas. I was in the office, as usual, doing paperwork when the phone rang. It was Bill.
"Are you coming in today" I asked, knowing it was another sick call.
"Depends." he answered warily. "How are you this morning?"
"OK. Feeling much better." I said assuringly.
"How's Lardass feeling? Is he still coughing?" Bill was deathly afraid of catching anything. It was humorous for the rest of us, because he was a walking disease factory. He lives on a farm and is contantly at risk for contracting deadly equine diseases, tick bourne disease, feed mold and spider bites. His faithful companion and best friend is a dog - the filthiest of god's creatures, known to enjoy rolling in feces. So it was funny that Bill was afraid of contracting germs from his fellow dumpfucks - most of whom were ten times more hygienic than he. For example, I always wash my hands before returning to work.
"Oh Lardass is fine," I lied. "He's out plowing the Recycle area now."
"Good. I'll be in shortly."
"Ok, Bill, see you soon." I hung up.
Lardass, who had been in the john puking his guts out, came out as I was cradling the receiver. "Who called?" he asked, wiping his chin. Before I could answer he started yet another coughing fit. I winced, feeling his pain. Poor sick bastard didn't get his flu shot this year. After the coughing subsided I sprayed a cloud of Lysol at him. Then I answered his question.
"Nobody." I said blowing my nose into a snot drenched hanky.