Texas declared its measles outbreak over after a ceremonial press conference featuring a balloon animal epidemiologist. Officials insisted the threat has exited stage left, though a few sneezes linger in the balcony like unpaid interns.

Public health numbers looked suspiciously cheerful, like a bus driver who found the schedule on the back of a napkin. The declaration came with a caveat: victory is contagious, but maybe not properly vetted.

Town hall crowds cheered vitamins and hashtags as if a sports team had won the league. Epidemiologists cautioned that outbreaks have the endurance of a reality TV plot twist, ready to return in the ratings, or the next family reunion.

Local pharmacies reported fewer outbreaks and more misunderstandings about what counts as ‘herd immunity’ during Bingo Night. Governors reminded residents to keep the birthday party masks handy for the inevitable sequel.

Meanwhile, school districts prepared contingency snacks for the students who mistakenly thought recess was a science experiment. The state’s leadership announced a victory playlist featuring the sound of hand gel squishing, which apparently boosts morale.

Some Texans raised eyebrows, noting that declaring victory is easier than declaring consent forms for every possible cough. But the news cycle loves a good finale, especially when it involves a press conference with colorful charts and a confident haircut.

Medical experts urged caution, reminding everyone that a declared end does not erase last year’s memories of needles and awkward physicals. The public, meanwhile, treated the moment like a graduation ceremony, complete with cap tosses and awkward hugs.

Observers noticed the victory was celebrated with a parade of generic health slogans and lukewarm cupcakes. In the background, shoppers at a nearby aisle began browsing for a ‘portable air quality monitor’ as if the device could certify breath as ‘safe’.

The state asked residents to enjoy the moment, but not to forget the long tail of an outbreak that does not know social etiquette.

Politicians assured reporters that this is the end, like a season finale where the credits roll but a post-credits scene promises a reboot.

Parents hugged their kids with one arm while pretending the vaccine talk never happened. The kids looked on, already drafting a memo about how to avoid school social studies for the next few weeks.

Public health messaging shifted to motivational posters featuring cartoon syringes, while the public quietly shopped online for a ‘home disease detection kit’.

Doctors kept their stethoscopes handy, just in case the victory lap ended with a cough encore. The science desk whispered that every celebration raises the risk of a relapse to avoid awkward silence.

News crews interviewed a retiree who declared, with a straight face, that this is how democracy works: vote, celebrate, and pretend the hazard never existed.

In the lobby of a state building, a banner announced the end of the outbreak with the elegance of a hand towel sign. The janitor mopped up confetti while muttering about the budget for next year’s myth.

National observers shrugged and called it a political victory lap with a dash of theater. In truth, the outbreak had a sequel clause, written in invisible ink on the public health budget.

Residents began rescheduling dentist appointments they had postponed during the crisis, as if nothing happened. The calendar now looks like a list of excuses why vacations should be longer.

Social media filled with memes about the ‘measles myth’ and the ‘great Texas comeback tour,’ proving that information travels faster than the virus ever did.

Authorities warned that the threat looms in the form of misinformation, not measles, which is a strange consolation prize.

As the sun set over an empty schoolyard, officials declared the moment a chapter closed, with footnotes to be fixed in the next quarterly risk assessment.