Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: corona virus (Page 1 of 5)

A Partial Transcript Of Nebraska Senator Ben Sasse’s (R) Graduation Speech

“Hey, all you cool cats and kittens. Senator Sassafras here. You can call me that. It’s all right. I’m the cool Senator.

“Y’know what’s not cool, though? China, and their policy of releasing bioweapons into airports because they think it’s funny. And I think that’s the biggest problem I have with them. When America releases bioweapons, it’s for the greater good. But China’s just amusing itself. Rook at the gaijin! They die with mayonnaise! Inka dinka doo, inka dinka doo. That’s what that language sounds like to me. Inka dinka doo. I got a theory that they’re just making that crap up to be dicks, and when they’re alone they speak English or Spanish or whatever. It’s not racist to say that some languages are worse than others. It’s just observation.

“Anyhoo, they screwed you royal, kids. Surprised that any of you can sit down what with all the ass-pounding you’ve taken this year. You probably all look like gibbons back there. Bright-red giant asses, man. That’s your generation. You call it being ‘thicc,’ but you’re all just fat little fucks. Maybe the cushion helped ease the pushing? I’ve heard that, but God I hate looking at you young people and your rolls of sloth.

“You won’t miss high school. Most of your friends are gonna end up on meth, anyway. Shit, it’s Nebraska. If it wasn’t for meth, there’d be no reason at all to stay here. You’re gonna lose some of your friends to thresher accidents, possibly meth-related. We had a kid in my class, Donnie Milsap, who just disappeared. Got in his truck, left the bar, never got home. I think Donnie got Communioned, and a lot of people agree with me. So what I’m saying is: Your choices are meth or aliens.

“Some of you are gonna become hobos. You’ll get into adventures, eat beans, and have a secret glyph language. You’ll have freedom and autonomy and untreated syphilis contracted from hobo whores. A few of you are gonna be hobo whores.

“Not gonna lie to you, kids: This sucks. When I was your age, I was Mr. Tugger. You heard of the Tiger King? I was the Tugger King. The Lord said one must not fornicate before marriage, but He didn’t say anything about a well-executed beef stroking-off. Girls liked to do it, and I liked getting it done. Reach on in, I’d say. That was a childhood, but you poor bastards have no one to jerk you off. Man, that’s a rough one.

“We had beer bashes, too. Get a couple kegs, invite a couple weird kids to ritualistically humiliate, some light rape. We just called that ‘Friday Night,’ man. We’d blast Van Halen and get nuts. I don’t know what you little queers are listening to nowadays. It sounds like gay robot music. What happened to guitar solos, man? That’s why everyone thinks you kids are fags. Listen to some freaking Maiden, why don’t you?

“Don’t worry about the economy, though. It’ll pick up once we go to war with China. You’re gonna be going to war with China. Congratulations. Funny thing about those $1200 checks that everyone got: Cashing them means you enlisted in the service. We’re just gonna throw you at the Chinese. Total ‘Drown ’em in blood’ strategy.

“Oh, hey: If any of your grandparents died, that’s too bad. You’ll get through it.”

 

 

My version is no more than sightly worse than the actual address, and you don’t have to stare at unshaven Ben Sasse, who has reached Jay Cutler/Ben Affleck heights of “White Guy With No Fucks” status.

Rejected Drafts Of “Operation Warp Speed”

OPERATION WASP SPEED Enormous wasps’ nests will be installed at the CDC and hooked up to timers. If the scientists don’t invent a vaccine by November 1st, the wasps are released.

OPERATION WAMP SPEED Same basic concept as Operation Wasp Speed, but with wampas.

OPERATION WAP SPEED This one’s racist, and I apologize to any and all Italian-American Enthusiasts, even the greasy ones.

OPERATION WHOOMP SPEED “Hey, where’s the corona vaccine?” “WHOOMP! There it is.”

OPERATION WHALE SPEED How fast a whale goes depends on its species, I suppose. Killer whales? Speedy! Ambling Whales? Well, they didn’t get the name ironically.

OPERATION WATUSI SPEED Vaccine sock hop! Vaccine sock hop!

What the fuck does “Vaccine sock hop” mean?

The scientists are, like, in their socks and doing early-60’s dances. They have their PPE and their pipettes and they’re writing up grants, the whole deal, but they’re shagging and frugging and swimming and, like the name suggests, doing the watusi. Allfather Trump thinks it will improve morale.

Why would he believe that?

He’s a goddamned idiot.

Take a nap.

The Pros And Cons Of Showering

PRO: I stink, and bathing would remedy that.
CON: My stink is my friend. Why would I want to kill my friend?

PRO: The people at the supermarket would not have to smell my nastiness.
CON: Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em dry and haltingly.

PRO: I would need to wash a towel afterwards, and that would be something to do, which would be nice.
CON: Water might make me feel something, which would suck. I had an emotion yesterday, and it was awful. Not doing that again for a while.

PRO: stitute.
CON: stitute.

PRO: by, PJ.
CON: voy, we got a big ol’

Scale of 1-10, how nuts are you?

Cashews.

Buy some cashews at the supermarket.

Good idea.

And shower. I can smell you, and I’m discorporeal.

Interesting.

Are You Back On Your Bullshit?

  • Have you been accused repeatedly of being back on your bullshit?
  • Do you no longer miss your bullshit, being as that you are back on it?
  • If I asked you right now, “Where is your bullshit? would you reply, “Under me. I’m back on it.”

This is gonna stop. What’s wrong with you?

Well–and I don’t know if I’ve made you aware of this–I am losing my mind.

We have all been made aware.

BATTLING THE DARKNESS, MUCHACHO.

Stop saying “muchacho.”

And I made a decision about my encroaching mental instability. I have decided to–

Please don’t say “Turn into the skid.”

–turn into the skid.

Goddammit.

I’m embracing the breakdown. I’m gonna take my dick out in the food court.

The food court’s closed. We went over this in the previous post.

The food court is metaphorical.

Ah.

But, since it’s Florida, the food court is also open.

Huh.

Quarantine Schedule

8:00 – 10:00 AM

  • Argue with my blankets about whether or not I’m awake.
  • Lose argument.

10:00 AM – 1:00 PM

  • Boof some coffee.
  • Rip some tubes.
  • Crank one or two out.
  • Yell at Twitter.
  • Try not to throw on Tom Waits, cuz one day soon I’m gonna start the day with Tom Waits, and when you start the day with Tom Waits, it’s all fucking over.

1:00 – 2:00 PM

  • Pacin’ time!

2:00 – 5:00 PM

  • So sleepy,

5:00 – 8:00 PM

  • I wait for the night.
  • Crouched in a corner like a ninja, I wait for the night.
  • IS THAT IT?
  • No, just some cloud cover.
  • Just settle down, TotD.
  • The night will arrive.
  • And when it does, you will boof it.
  • That’s right, dipshits.
  • I boof the night.
  • Sometimes I get on my hands and knees and reach on back, and other times I go baby-style with my chubby legs in the air.
  • But I’m a rockyrolling man, and I boof the night every night.

Do I have to put a stop to this?

Did it get weird?

And unpleasant. It wasn’t weird in a nice way. Y’know how you’ll stumble on an art installation in the middle of nowhere and be all like, “Huh, that’s strange. But I enjoy it!” Well, this wasn’t that. 

I miss museums.

You never went to museums.

I could have!

Sure, sport.

8:00 – Midnight

  • Maybe write?
  • Maybe movies?
  • Maybe crank another one out?
  • Maybe combine all three and write about Crank starring Jason Statham, while interfering with myself.
  • Who knows the future?

Midnight – 3:00 AM

  • Switch to my racist Twitter handle–@notafanofethnics–and tweet out some truly heinous shit.
  • Add some yeast to my starter batch of PCP.
  • Get the PCP all over my hands.
  • Freak out superhard.
  • Hey, I got neighbors!
  • BOOF MY NEIGHBORS..

You’re done. Stop this. You cannot be trusted with language.

I’ve weaponized the alphabet.

You’re a creature. You’re just a creature.

Don’t Swab Me; I’m Only The Piano Player

Not dead, listening to live Elton John from 1971 when his band had the same configuration as Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, but a completely different hairdresser. You don’t have to worry about me as long as I’m listening to Elton John. When I throw on Tom Waits, then the end will surely be near, but old pre-crazy Elton is cheery music, even the sad songs.

My doctor is still practicing, but only online. He sends me a link to a chat site whose name was maybe in a Neal Stephenson novel. The UI of the app is straightforward and professional. There are no filters, so you can’t force the doctor to talk to you while you’re a dog or a wizard or Gritty or whatever. Very trustworthy app that I’m sure will be broken into within weeks. He is wearing a clean shirt, and has a recent haircut, and sits up straight. We all pretended it was a normal doctor’s appointment as hard as we could.

It was the sweats last night that got me on the phone with the doc. Woke myself up three times. Snoring yourself awake happens to all of us, but sweating yourself awake is a bad sign. Doing it three times is an ill omen.

I described my other symptoms to the doctor. That my spleen was bothersome, that my schnoz was cocksnootled, that the cane was twisted up on my brazos. He refused me opiates, and suggested a Covid-19 test. The state is administering them for free at several drive-through locations near my home, but the state I’m talking about is Florida, and so there have been issues with thieves sneaking into people’s trunks while the driver is distracted. And, obviously, alligators have been involved. Florida leads all states in the category of “arguments settled by one party throwing an alligator at the other.”

Some of the food trucks on the farm roads now offer testing, but they just charge ten bucks to take a picture of your dick and give you a thumbs up.

There was also a walk-in clinic half-a-mile from my house charging a hundred bucks, and I contemplated my privilege and asked myself whether I wanted to involve myself with a system nahfuckthat I immediately put on my pants and charged outside waving cash overhead like a captured flag. A q-tip was then shoved into my medulla oblongata. The physician’s assistant pressed on it one way, and I could smell my old bunk in summer camp, and then she shifted it and my eyeballs shut off.

“One, two, three–”

IT’S IN MY MEMORIES, WOMAN!

“–four, five.”

And she withdrew the stick from my brain. I ask if there’s not, say, a blood test for the virus.

“Oh, yes. But we enjoy watching you struggle. Your leg went up and down like a little doggie.”

I thank her for noticing. She refuses me opiates.

The test will be sent to a lab. Or maybe they do it in-house. Or maybe they just throw away the swab and eyeball it? However they do it, pipettes are involved. Can’t do science without pipettes. Results in three-to-five days; until then, strict quarantine.

As far as quarantines go, it’s a teddy bear gig. This is the first plague with WiFi. Used to be you were locked in your house with a Bible and your dick, but now there is a Couch Tour, and that is better. You can also access various pornographies, or have a poor person bring you a pizza. You could even have powerful cannabanoids mailed to you. Those that suffered through the Black Death of Marseille in 1720 couldn’t even get ditch weed mailed to them, so temporal gratitude is in order.

You will be kept updated.

You Can’t Telemedicine Anything

CELL PHONE NOISE

Hello?

“Good morning, Mr. on the Dead. I am calling to set up your telemedicine call with Dr.  E—-.”

Oh, great. Thank you.

“And I am also calling to see if you would like to join my OnlyFans site?”

I don’t think so.

“You will already be playing around on your phone!”

Still.

“I will send you a textual message containing a hyperlink. I had a hyper cousin growing up. We called him Impulsive Tony.”

Okay. So I follow the link.

“Unless it leads to sin. Then you must forge your own path.”

I don’t think the link will lead to sin. More likely, a website.

“Many websites are nothing but sin! I know of one where men’s feet get pooped on. It employs Impulsive Tony.”

We were talking about my telemedicine call with the doctor.

“I love that word. ‘Telemedicine’ sounds so much nicer than ‘video chatting with a Jewish fellow wearing a white coat and no pants.’ By the way, I am legally bound to inform you before your call that the doctor may or may not be wearing pants.”

Okay.

“But in the spirit of friendship, I will inform you that he is definitely not. And sometimes the popsicle slides out of the box.”

Um, sure.

“It flops out! Audibly! The doctor is a man of meat.”

None of this is helping me.

“You will need to enable access to your microphone.”

Okay.

“And your camera.”

Right.

“And all the other information in your phone. Passwords, photos, location history, everything.”

Why do you need that?

“It is not a matter of ‘need.’ The Stimulus Bill of Last Tuesday gives us the ability to demand it, and so we are following the law.”

Whatever.

“Do you own a BusbeeTech 802 E-nurse?”

A what now?

“It is an all-in-one unit that monitors 18 different bodily functions and wirelessly transmits the information back to the doctor.”

How the hell–

“It goes up your butt!”

–does that work? Ah.

“It measures temperature, pulse, oxygen levels, perspicacity, ability to do the watusi, free radicals, expensive radicals, and whether or not you have Scottie Pippen Disease.”

Scottie Pippen doesn’t have a disease.

“Look at that man’s head and tell me there isn’t something wrong with him!”

Regardless.

“The 802 E-nurse is also, as I mentioned, wireless. The 801 required both a power cable and a USB wire. Very occasionally, knotting would occur. And also one time, this lady forgot she had it in and went to fetch herself some cole slaw from the fridge. She lost her asshole!”

Irrelevant to my case.

“The doctors could not reattach it! They had to mash together bits of elbow and earlobe to create her a new pooper. I have heard it doesn’t work right.”

Can’t imagine that it would.

“Which model did you say you had, Mr. on the Dead?”

No model. I do not possess a hospital-dildo.

“Well, let me check your insurance and see if you are worthy of one.”

“Fed Ex will be at your house within 16 hours. Please immediately insert the device so that it can begin getting base-line readings of your vital signs, and stop shrieking in terror.”

What now?

“Funny story! The BusbeeTech 802 E-nurse was programmed to have a debilitating fear of buttholes.”

Why are the medical buttplugs even sentient at all?

“Funny story! Lightning hit the factory and they all came to life. Don’t think about it too much. Just shove it in your soft-soft and ignore it when it begs to be let out.”

They can talk?

“Along with the debilitating fear of buttholes, it’s a feature that perhaps shouldn’t have made the final code. What’s done is done. Most of our patients recommend sitting on a pillow, or wearing headphones. They tire themselves out pretty quick.”

I’m not using this doohickey. Don’t send me one.

“Too late. It will be there in mere minutes, as the only vehicles on the streets anymore are delivery trucks. Thank you. I have several more points to go over with you.”

We’re not done?

“Nowhere near! At the beginning of your telemedicine appointment, we would appreciate it if you smashed that Like button, and subscribed to the doctor’s channel.”

Sure.

“I would like to remind you that the more you tip, the better the doctor is.”

There’s a tip button?

“It is 2020, Mr on the Dead. All humans have tip buttons now. We are two years away from being an entirely tip button-based economy.”

You’re probably right.

“Would you like to join the doctor’s Patreon?”

No.

“Would you like to see a collection of his TikToks?”

No.

“The doctor may ask you to position your phone so that he may view your grundle. If he does, the feed will go live to an app called Grundl. And before you begin to argue–”

That was in the Stimulus Bill?

“–you should know…. Yes, the recent one. Only about 14 people have read that thing front-to-back. There is tomfoolery in there! Do you recall chattel slavery?”

Yes.

“It is back! Someone really should have skimmed that puppy, but everyone wanted their $1200 so bad!”

That’s awful. But I really just wanna see the doctor.

“Is it the kabibble?”

That’s what I want to know.

“Are you taking wagers? Because I am looking at your chart, and I believe that you have it. Your luck is poor. Twenty bucks on positive.”

No bet.

“Fifty they gotta vent you.”

Stop that. When will the doctor be calling?

“The E-nurse will notify you ten minutes beforehand.”

Notify?

“You will know. I assure you, Mr. on the Dead that you will not miss the message.”

I don’t like 2020.

“It is an unrelenting behemoth of grief and loss! You have a nice day.”

You, too.

 

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