I’ll take the unrehearsed, pill-addled, glitter-covered, homosexual America over whatever the fuck that was on the teevee this evening. Thank you, and don’t forget to blow your waitress.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 77 of 1031)
America? You’re at an 8 and I need you at a 2.
Touch that down! Foot that ball!
Don’t deny it, you lying motherfucker. Get your shit together.
You can make fun of Diamond Dave all you want, but the line “Gimme a glazed doughnut and a bottle of anything” is just as good as any of that macho bullshit Hemingway squirted out of his six-toed cock.
Hey, Corona Virus. Whatcha doing?
“Traveling the world. Seeing the sights. Showing my brother I’m not a fucking loser.”
Your brother?
“SARS.”
Your family is worse than the Trumps.
“Dude, don’t compare us to those pikers. We can actually beat the Chinese in something.”
Nice.
“I cam causing some serious Sino-chaos. I kinda feel bad, though.”
Guilty conscience?
“Hell, no. It’s just that the only reason I leveled up into people is that the Chinese will throw literally anything in their woks. You really shouldn’t eat bats.”
I’ve been told pointing that out is racist.
“Nah. Asking a Chinese national to pronounce ‘corona virus’ and then laughing at the result? That shit would be racist. But suggesting you shouldn’t eat bats is just common sense. You know what they smell like when you cook ’em?”
No.
“Shit. Even if you clean ’em right, the cooking flesh gives off a distinctly fecal stink. I mean, that’s a sign. Did you guys run out of chickens and pigs and cows?”
Not even close.
“You fuckers should stick to them. Remember what happened when you ate monkey? What happened?”
AIDS.
“Right! AIDS! Stop eating weird animals.”
But we also got the avian flu from chickens, the regular flu from pigs, and smallpox from cows.
…
“Huh. Guess you’re right. Have you tried being vegetarians?”
India has. But not China. They throw vegetarians in camps there. You’d rather be a Uighur than a vegetarian in China.
“Rough place. But that doesn’t matter to me anymore. How you gonna keep a boy on the farm once he’s seen the city? They call me Mr. Worldwide!”
No, they don’t.
“They will. Gimme a couple more weeks. I’m going viral.”
Right.
“Literally. I am literally–”
We all got it.
“–going viral.”
Understood.
“Well, the young people don’t understand who started that shit. Viruses were spreading throughout social networks before memes were a glimmer in Richard Dawkins’ eye.”
Everyone forgets he invented memes.
“He got religion.”
True. So you’re airborne now, huh?
“I mutated. Can humans do that?”
Isolated breeding groups evolve over time.
“No, I mean growing a third arm because you need one. And then instantly letting every other member of the species know how to do it.”
We cannot do that.
“Useful skill. Not gonna lie. Very helpful.”
I hope they invent a vaccine for you.
“Dude, you’d rather have autism than me? Rude.”
Stop that. You’re making people sick. I have every right to dislike you.
“Oh, I’m not that bad. I’m only 2% lethal.”
That means if everyone in America go you, six million people would die.
“Just old people and children and the chronically ill.”
That’s your argument? ‘I’ll only kill babies’ is your argument?
“And the elderly! Babies and Betty White.”
YOU’RE A MONSTER!
“Yeah. I’m the one who ate the bat.”
“Missed you, pal.”
“Goddammit, Mydland, is that still you in there?”
“Don’t you cos-shame me.”
“Not a thing.”
“My feelings are valid! I’ve done a lot of work in therapy to get to this point, and I will not be dismissed.”
“When did you start going to therapy?”
“Couple years after I died.”
“All right.”
“You know I’m naked in here, right?’
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“The breeze shoots right through the fur. It’s sensual.”
“GRAHAME!”
“Yes, Pop?”
“Uncle Brent is leaving.”
“Oh, okay. Goodbye, Uncle Brent.”
“I MEANT YOU SHOULD ESCORT HIM OFF THE PREMISES!”
“Oh! Okay, yeah, gotcha.”
“All I’m saying is that fiction writers should be free to write about anyone.”
“Weir, for the last time: I haven’t read that damn Mexican book.”
“Its an American book, Jer. It’s in English.”
“Don’t care, man. I like science fiction.”
“So you would read a book about Space Mexicans?”
“What the hell are Space Mexicans, man?”
“Gosh, I dunno. Maybe the piñatas are full of lasers.”
“How would that even work?”
“Crafty people, those Space Mexicans. Give a whole new meaning to the term–”
“Don’t say it, man.”
“–illegal aliens.”
“You said it.”
“Can’t keep ’em out with a wall. You’d need a Dyson Sphere or something. And, uh, he’s busy with vacuums nowadays. Completely out of the sphere business.”
“Just play the song, Weir.”
If Amy Winehouse had lived, her career would be as dead as Duffy’s.
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