Greetings, you filthy boogermonster. If you’re here, then you must be one of the growing faction of Americans who have given up hope of ever living in a society again, and forsaken your daily wash-up. Good for you! Unlike those rose-colored sunglass-wearing assholes insisting that life will get back to normal, you know instinctively that you’re gonna die soon, drowning in your own mucus in a hospital tent hurriedly erected in the parking lot of a basketball arena, or quickly thereafter in the Mad Maxian hellscape that will arise when the economy craters for good. I admire your self-honesty, friend. Come! Let’s befoul our Personal Health Radii together!

THE “S” IN “NASA” STANDS FOR STINK The Gemini missions came after the Mercury launches, and they were America’s first dual-manned spaceflights. The series of missions were primarily for testing: docking two craft together, and extra-vehicular activities, and all that technical space shit. But Gemini 7’s objective was far more primal: Could two astronauts survive for two weeks in space without contracting filth-based diseases and/or killing each other? What the men discovered was that the human body can only get so dirty. One acquires, rather quickly, a sort-of protective layer of grimy sweat that repels further funk, and the astronauts reported that the stank got no worse after the third or fourth day. As to the second question regarding killing each other, it was determined that yes two men could perform professionally in such a confined spot, but you needed to pick the right men. You couldn’t send, like, Flavor Flav and Joe Exotic.

ATTENTION MUST BE PAID Just because you’re not fully laundering your butthole doesn’t mean you can entirely ignore the area. Complete non-ablution of one’s hungry maw will lead to one’s buttcheeks gluing themselves together using dooky as mortar. Don’t let that happen; it’s how General MacArthur died.

STILL GOTTA WASH YOUR HANDS There’s a pandemic on, muchacho. Don’t be a prick.

THE OL’ TOOTHBRUSH-UP-THE-WAZOO TRICK, EH? Just because you’re no longer using your toothbrush does not mean you can send it to a friend or relative as a gift, then follow up with Polaroids of said toothbrush stuck up your ass. You may also not send anyone a box of donuts followed by snapshots of the donuts hanging from your cock. I’m pretty sure both of those are felonies now.

DOGGY DADDY! At least once an hour–more often if you’re not alone–you must sniff your own pits and let loose a glorious sound proclaiming your own stanky rankness. You may use such phrases as:

  • You can’t say Dallas doesn’t love you, Mr. Armpits!
  • Smells like victory!
  • Gimme the beat, boys, and free my soul!
  • But that I could live inside my own funk like a piston in Moloch’s infernal engine!
  • I slough off the Underwear of God!
  • ROOOOONUS! Come out and PLAAAAAAA-YAY!

And so on.

SHIT OFF THE BALCONY You’ve always wanted to. Do it. Go hang your ass over the railing and set that turd free. Do it, you pussy.

I’m gonna put an end to whatever this is now.

Good call. Was it the “shitting off the balcony” thing?

That was part of it. The whole post is a mess, but nothing good can come from giving out that kind of advice.

Hey, if people listen to me, it’s on them.