Tag: corona virus (Page 4 of 8)

TotD is negative for Bonus Maronus. I repeat: no ‘ronus. The kabibble can officially go fuck itself.

Then what’s with your arm?

I am assuming terminal bone cancer.

Naturally.

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.

• Muscle pain.
• Muscle strains.
• Muscle shoals.
• Waffle Dick.
• Inflammation of the hooty, blowfish.
• Tenderness on the block.
• I’m into feet now, sexually, like Quentin Tarantino; didn’t use to be, but now I am; no kink-shaming, but I’m calling it a symptom.
• Prosopagnosia, but only for black people’s faces, and so now I don’t feel good AND everyone thinks I’m racist.
• The heebiest jeebies you ever saw, man.
• It’s 80 fucking degrees in here and I’m shivering.
• Last one wasn’t a joke.
• I don’t feel so good.
• Poppa’s gonna lay down and call the doc in the morning.
• Assuming a morning, obviously.
• Corona delenda est.

I don’t jog, but if I knew that 2020 was scheduled to suck on my ass, then I would jog. I would skip rope, and do leg lifts and burpees and maybe swing those heavy ethnic clubs around. I’d moisten my grundle like it was my job if I knew 2020 was scheduled to suck my ass. 2014? I’d shower, and fastidiously groom. I would want 2014 to enjoy the experience of deep-mouthing my tushee as much as I did the experience of getting deep-mouthed. But 20202? Indian food and Sweatin’ to the Oldies.

…………………………

America’s been at least half-yokel since her inception.

…………………………

Point to your rights. I’ve asked you to do so before, but indulge me. Point ’em out. Put your finger on your freedoms. God, we are told, imbued us with them, at least those of us birthed correctly within a certain arbitrarily-bordered landmass and a specific timeframe. God didn’t give the communist Chinese rights, and he didn’t give anyone in the Americas rights before 1781. Just us Americans. The Lord loves us, you see, and wanted to give us something to holler about.

Time exists; it goes that-a-way. Gravity exists; it sucks. Everything else is a story. You don’t have a right to assemble. You don’t have a right to free speech. You don’t have a right to bear arms. There is only what the bastards will allow, and the bastards have always ruled the world. Sometimes, they are lenient and progressive, and sometimes they are rabbit-eared and prickly, but all of them have a line that, once crossed, will cause them to send goons to your home to hit you in the head with sticks. Bastards can’t help being bastards.

Revolutions are possible, but you just end up with new bastards.

Your rights are legal fictions, and legal fictions are just children’s stories that cost $600 an hour.

…………………………

If the right people were protesting–

• The working class, such as the supermarket stocker, the long-haul driver, and the waiter.
• The blacks who are contracting and dying of the disease at a way higher rate than rich white folks because of innumerable bullshit pulled by whitey all these years,
• The piece-workers, the delivery drivers, the gig employees.
• The renters given no relief from their monthly laydown.
• The blackjack dealers and bass players and barista and bartenders and buskers and bodyguards and bouncers, and the strippers and hacks and mattress salesmen,

–then the bastards would have opened fire.

………………………..

Two million people die every year from cancer. This is one of their arguments. Two million die from cancer, and three hundred thousand from car crashes. Corona’s a fraction of that, but we’ve shut down the whole world. Seems fascistic, they say.

And you respond, Cancer and car crashes aren’t contagious, you superfluous nipple.

They don’t know what “superfluous” means. They assume it’s an insult. They draw their sword.

……………………….

Don’t go out tonight;
There’s a bad moon on the rise.

…………………….

The fuckheads in charge are dumber than broken bicycles smothered in cheese. These are people who failed high school science just as you and I did, but do not have the sense to be ashamed of the fact. Trust nothing they say, ever.

…………………….

March 1st:

• Rent/mortgage freeze.
• Utilities freeze.
• Property tax forgiveance.
• $1000 a week per person.
• $2000 a week on top pf their salaries, tax-free, to all essential workers.

Could’ve paused everything. It’s all bullshit, anyway, so just pause it. Blow the whistle. Stoppage on the field.

And while you’re doing that, supercharge testing to where several healthy random samples can be taken of each major metropolitan area. Get a handle on the situation, let the doctors and scientists come up with a plan for reopening, and then communicate that plan clearly to a frightened and punch-drunk population.

Could’ve done a lotta shit.

………………………..

I’d prefer my mother not die.

………………………..

Syphilis comes from sheep, as does anthrax and chlamydia and giardiasis. E. coli and tuberculosis and smallpox come from cows. Chickens’ pox is eponymous. Plagues arise when humans do not social distance from animals.

………………………..

Stay inside: it’s poison out there.

DON’T GO TO THE HOSPITAL

The only reason hospitals exist is so nurses can laugh at your penis. Don’t give those self-righteous fucks the pleasure. You’re an American, and so the only people who can laugh at your penis are our brave veterans. Plus, you’re an American and so you don’t have health insurance.

QUANTIFY YOUR DISCOMFORT

What kind of pain we talking about here, muchacho? Does it radiate from the shoulder? Icy waves of thick agony coming up from the wrist? Did you maybe jam a bread knife into your tricep? Is a very heavy lady sitting on the arm? Was it crushed by a garbage scow? These are questions that medical professionals will ask you after they’ve finished laughing at your penis.

BOWL ANOTHER NUMBER FOR THE ROAD

Have you been bowling for 36-48 hours straight? Cuz that’ll do it.

LEFT IS NOT RIGHT

Are you sure it’s your left arm?

NEVER RULE OUT AIDS

Let’s be honest: it’s probably AIDS. On the bright side, those 15 pounds you’ve gained during quarantine are gonna slide right off.

SUBLIMATION: GOING DOWN, DOWN

Perhaps–and I’m just spitballing here–your obdurate and unlearned resistance to caring for your mental health, along with the dangerous and stupid belief you have that “men” should “suck it up” has resulted in your poor brain calling an audible and rerouting your anxiety and semi-crazed terror into something it knows you will deal with, namely physical pain. Just spitballing, though.

GOBBLER TWINS TALK YA INTA JERKIN’ ‘EM OFF AGAIN, FUCKWIT?

Goddammit, Johnny Earl, I walk into this trailer one more time and find you double-fisting those satanic clones, and I’m leavin’. There’s other fish in the sea, an’ most o’ them fish draw the line at happy-handin’ an entire family at once. I don’t care that they brought beer, Johnny Earl. I bring you beer, Johnny Earl, and most o’ the time you just wanna slap your limpy ‘gainst my neck while Steve Harvey’s on the teevee. I agree the mans’s got some wonderful suits, but it don’t mean I cotton t’ being schlong-whomped on my tracheal area. Ain’t nothin’ you do lately that’s even a tiny bit natural, Johnny Earl. Devil’s got a hold o’ your nethers, boy.

Why don’t you go to the hospital?

Because I’m polite.

What?

If I die now, then no one has to travel for the funeral. We can do it on Zoom.

And still no one would show up.

I’ll be fine. I have a plan.

Is it to drink nine or ten beers while listening to Bruce Springsteen?

And I’m also gonna finish off the ribs in the fridge.

Move over, Dr. Fauci.

When will businesses be allowed to open up again?

No one’s stopping you from working at the supermarket.

Are we in danger of letting the cure be worse than the disease?

“The cure be worse than the disease?” Where’d you hear that? You’re not smart enough to come up with that on your own.

I’m just saying that the economy is suffering irreparable damage.

You’re gonna tell me about the economy? Pay for something for once in your life before you start talking about something you have no idea about.

Doesn’t the Constitution give us the right to assemble?

My most profound regret is that I didn’t push your pregnant mother down the steps. You’re just…you’re just an idiot. Don’t let people outside the family know you’re this dumb.

Isn’t if safer to be on a beach, in the open air, six feet from everyone else, than Walmart?

STARING FURIOUSLY WITH A TRUE GREEN 100 CLENCHED IN TEETH NOISE

Um, I said–

I heard you. I was just daydreaming about talking to someone who wasn’t a moron.

So are you gonna answer–

Do you need to go to the beach? Or are you just a selfish dick?

It’s not about need. It’s about rights. The Constitution says–

The Constitution? The Constitution! Adele! Adele, your shithead son wants to talk about the Constitution!

Why do you have to be this way?

What the fuck do you know about the Constitution? You read comic books, you little jerk. Did Spider-Man tell you about your rights? What did Spidey tell you?

God, you’re such an asshole!

Did Spidey tell you that, too?

FUCK YOU, DAD!

Go lick an Emergency Room, dumbass.

I apologize if the posting has been light lately. You see, I’m not in a comedic mood based on the fact that I fucking hate you. Not you personally–although maybe you personally–but every single human being that’s ever lived. I hate Jonas Salk right now. I hate Florence Nightingale. Harriet Tubman can go fuck herself. Remember Ryan White? He was a little kid that got AIDS from a blood transfusion. He didn’t deserve that, and he doesn’t deserve my enmity. But he’s got it: fuck him, too. If you are–or were at any point–a human being, I hate you.

So, again: I’m sorry, and I hate you, and I’m sorry I hate you.

Corona delenda est.

• You, ya nutsucking fuckmump.
• Your spouse, fourth choice that they were.
• Your kids, disappointments all.
• Your mother, who was and continues to be a hoo-er.
• Your father, who beat you too much or not enough.
• Your brother and all his fucking money.
• Your sister, who gives it up to those graffiti boys.
• Your pets, who will not be taught.
• All the new people doing the Muppets’ voices, because those aren’t the fucking Muppets’ voices.
• Anyone who gives a shit about the NFL draft.
• The entire NFL.
• Surviving members of the AFL.
• Anyone who has disagreed with me on Twitter, even mildly.
• You, again, just to be sure.

This stops now.

BUT I CRAVE THE DEATH OF OTHERS!

You shouldn’t.

Show me where it says that in the Bible.

On, like, every page. It’s one of the major themes of the book.

Reading is gay.

Gonna be one of those nights, huh?

Oh, yeah.