I’m Coping Very Well by Ignoring Reality

and I cannot stop touching my face



PART 1: Hurray! A Virus that’s not gay!

IN THIS BRAVE, NEW, NOVEL CORONAVIRUS world, I’m not afraid of what I might encounter on the streets, in the produce section of Loblaw’s or on a crowded streetcar.

I’m afraid of what I’ll encounter at home.

In what should be my eighth-floor isolation tank I’m under siege, for most of my visitors at least occasionally spend their nights in a homeless shelter, and though Public Health Toronto assures me that social distancing and hand-washing are being practised to a rigorous nicety in these minus-five-star hostels, I somehow don’t totally, one-hundred percent buy it.

But no one that I know has died, yet, not even someone that a friend knows, not even a friend’s friend’s friend. Only people on TV have died, statistic people, dots on a graph, pie-chart people. Meanwhile my privileged white brain insists that white guys just don’t get sick.

But do white gay guys get sick?

Hello, heterosexuals. How are you coping?

Those of you who aren’t ornery scofflaws— who defy instructions to practise preventive measures and tell Facebook groups that“more people die of the flu” (which you can’t possibly know, because this pandemic has just begun)—are all in a panic, confused by the conflicting directions—

about using or not using masks (there is little evidence that wearing a mask protects the wearer, unless you are wearing the medical-grade NIOSH-approved masks which are in desperately short supply—in which case you are depriving a healthcare worker of that one and putting her at risk; wearing a simple or home-made mask MAY marginally protect others from you, if you are infected. If you do wear a mask you MUST STILL practice social distancing and be rigorous about hand-washing and about how you touch and dispose of the mask. If your local public health agency has mandated wearing masks, of course you must do so);

about whether you can leave the house or go to the store (I can’t really tell you, it depends on where you live. Generally, yes you can, IF you are not under orders to stay at home or self-isolate, but stay two metres away from people and keep these excursions to the absolute minimum. Listen to, trust and follow the advice of doctors and scientists, NOT politicians.);

or what’s quarantine versus isolation (quarantine is what you do for two weeks when you have no symptoms, no known exposure to the virus, OR what you do if you have recently traveled; isolation is what you do when you’re ill and actively symptomatic, or have known contact with the infected; if this is the case, you are probably under orders to do so. I repeat: Listen to and trust and follow the advice of doctors and scientists, NOT politicians.).

As the days grind into weeks, you’re probably feeling increasingly haunted, like the spooked protagonist in a slasher movie. And you have no omnipotent narrator, you have to piece together what’s happening by yourself, bit by bit.

Your paranoia and anxiety are like a nagging pain that carves sharp outlines around the smallest movement, the most insignificant thought. Someone may be watching you, calling out, “NO! For the love of god, don’t put that fork in your mouth—!!” but they’re in the audience; you’re in the movie.

You’re suddenly realizing that this is serious shit, that the novel coronavirus, SARS-CoV2, is lying in wait, everywhere.

Toxic droplets spritz out of the mouths of your co-workers, virus RNA is lurking on the loving hand you caress after dinner, orbiting your cutlery to the sound of the “Blue Danube” Waltz, sewn into your throw cushions and festering on the bathroom sink..

The virus can live, in the right conditions, for hours. Days. A touch, a breath, a few droplets of saliva in the air, and you’ll be infected. You may not know you’re infected, and there is substantial transmission from the estimated twenty-five percent of those infected who are asymptomatic. You could pass the virus on to your partner, your children. The grocery store clerk.

A woman in Vancouver sat on a church pew, contracted the virus, and died.

In fact, seventy per cent of us will contract the virus. But I promise you, we won’t call it the “Straight Disease,” or even the “Wuhan Virus,” because those terms would sound like accusations, as unwarranted and prejudicial as calling HIV a “gay virus” and AIDS the “gay disease.”


I WAS LIVING IN LONDON, ENGLAND, during the 1980s when AIDS invaded our bodies and our minds. I remember the party I attended—this must have been 1981 or early 1982—when we first started talking about the reports that were coming out about a cohort of gay men whose immune systems had broken down, a cluster of cases of rarely-seen opportunistic infections.

The three horsemen of this apocalypse were a horribly disfiguring cancer; a pneumonia so virulent that its victims turned cyanotic; dementia and blindness caused by cytomegalovirus.

The acronym AID had meant artificial insemination by donor: lesbians using turkey basters to beget children without the imposition of a dick. Now it was superseded by “AIDS,” “Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.”

“Acquired.” In other words, “lifestyle;” fags behaving badly. The medical establishment thought it was, among other lifestyle choices, “poppers:” amyl nitrate, an inhalant used medically for emergency treatment of angina and recreationally for emergency treatment of inhibition. Its blood pressure-lowering vasodilation and its ability to break down sexual boundaries as you plummeted down its elevator shaft of lust made amyl nitrate, and its country cousin, butyl, the go-to trailer trash intoxicants of the disco era.

The cause of AIDS wasn’t poppers, of course. But the discovery of the Human Immunodeficiency virus, HIV, didn’t come out until many deaths later. AIDS, therefore, is a misnomer, a relic of the few years when no one had a clue, and when taking an interest in a disease that singled out gay men was political suicide. Researchers were desperately attempting to solve the puzzle even as the political establishment, overwhelmingly white, male and Christian, refused to engage—until the mysterious small cohort suddenly exploded into an epidemic too devastating and too ugly to be ignored any longer.

AIDS, with its dramatic fast-track aging, its ability to consume the flesh and leave sufferers emaciated as famine victims, cruelly outed those gay exiles who had hidden their orientation from judgmental family and friends, left home and boogie’d on down the road to whatever big-city paradise of freedom and anonymity shone its glittery light most enticingly.

Now families were finally reunited, but it was a reunion of ashes: fathers holding the skeletal corpses of sons in hospital rooms, bellowing with grief, realizing that their rejection, tacit or explicit, had made them the vector of transmission.

Doris Day, who in her light-hearted film roles was the epitome of the independent career gal brimming with wholesome yet subversive sexuality, is shown on television hugging the wasted frame of Rock Hudson. Rock, in real life her dear friend and a bona-fide queer, is A-list Hollywood royalty, her co-star in a delightful rom-com or two and, as far as the public is concerned, the last word in dreamy, suave, six-foot tall, broad-shouldered heterosexuality. Now the question is: Who will be next?

Not next to get AIDS. Who will be the next person you never thought would be gay, but is? Your son? Your friend? Your hairdresser? Your husband?

The hug is significant: because no one knows yet what causes the disease, no one wants to touch AIDS patients.

A ghastly round of funerals, memorials, cremations becomes social life. These strange things called condoms that no one wants to use. You call a friend you had dinner with two weeks ago, and a friend or family member answers: He’s dead. This gets really interesting when it’s a friend you had sex with two weeks ago.

The first experimental treatments are out: They’re as toxic as chemotherapy, approximately as subtle, and as predictable as snake oil. Gay men are, in effect, laboratory animals. The treatments cause lipodystrophy, a disfiguring rearrangement of fat cells of the body. (Always this savage irony of maiming, of mutilation, in a subculture viciously judgmental of non-ripped bodies, of not-beautiful faces, of un-fabulous, dull, quotidian anything.) You get a hump on your upper back, a real, honest-to-god horror-movie hump, or your face hollows out; you are unrecognizable except as an AIDS Victim.

Gay men, outcasts who’ve long ago accepted their banishment and done their fearful, defiant best to stay out of sight, for their safety and society’s comfort, are made aggressively, offensively visible, marked with the stigmata of shame. Victims, male damsels in distress.

HIV is transmitted through blood contact. For gay men, this means primarily through anal sex. Heterosexuals, of course, have never in the whole history of time, ever, for any reason, practiced anal sex, and, really, how could the sexual practice of disgusting homosexuals be anything but disgusting?

Those who’ve been infected via blood transfusions, in other words, those who are not gay, are referred to in the press as innocent victims, just in case pity or compassion might moisten an eye for queers. This is enthymeme in its most sinister finery: you call gay men architects of their own, deserved destruction, without even mentioning gay men, by calling everyone but gay men “innocent.”

The cloak of deception, once put on, burns through flesh. Already consumed with guilt after hearing ourselves called “queer,” “disgusting” and “pervert” from the time we were able to understand words, we endured the horror of believing, because we were told, that the phantom of our sin was walking amongst us, arm in arm with death as he gathered up his harvest.

It could not be happening, but it was happening. The swollen splotches of blood-colored sarcoma on the faces of cadaverous frontliners who just weeks ago had been beautiful men were the flowers of our evil. We’d murdered our loved ones and sexual partners; even our own bodies loathed us.


Dr Anthony Fauci, the most trusted physician in the US, a distinguished immunologist, and the chief medical advisor to the Trump administration on COVID-19, is a familiar face to me. He was very much present during the AIDS crisis and he speaks to me directly from that time. Frustrated about the direction of AIDS research, he accepted the post of director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID) in Bethesda, and made it into the world’s biggest source of funding for AIDS research.

Funds were scarce; AIDS research was far from a priority. Reagan had just been elected, and Jerry Falwell, co-founder of the Moral Majority, had said:

“AIDS is not just God’s punishment for homosexuals. It is God’s punishment for the society that tolerates homosexuals.”


Now that a pandemic affects you, tell me how you feel. Scary, isn’t it? How are you coping? Are you afraid for your loved ones? For yourself?

Feeling a little depressed? Crying? Going stir-crazy? Are you feeling guilty about eating, hugging, shaking hands, going to church, seeing a movie, visiting your mom in the old folks’ home?

Are you having sex? Are you promiscuous?

Are you clean?


Continue to Part 2

Emotional blackmail for the unelectable?

Sander-nistas are Bernie’s desperate(ly) woke chicks


Bernie Sanders campaign material, 2020.


SANDER-NISTA CHICKS ARE HOT for Bernie. They love Bernie! They love his angry, shouty old man speeches about the economy, his absurdly over-ambitious election platform, his inability to compromise, and (or so I like to fantasize), underpinning it all like a couple of size ten granola bars, his well-worn Birkenstocks.

Sander-nista chicks love Bernie’s windswept coif which, so legend has it, was last neatly combed for three days back around 1964, about the time he was marching for civil rights in the Deep South.

(Because what could black people possibly have more need of than yet another condescending liberal white male lending his expertise so they don’t fuck it all up?)

Sander-nista chicks find it adorable that he’s able to sleep so peacefully for all those decades in such a stressful environment as the Senate, and just shake their little heads with an indulgent sigh that says, “Oh, that Bernie! isn’t he incorrigible!” every time he gets stuck in his chair and has to be pried off with a serving utensil and some WD-40.

Being on his team makes every day into a cherished childhood visit to Gramps, with the Senate standing in for the Sunset Lodge: Palliative care with debates.

He’d be perfect in one of those saucy British comedies: Sanders as Eternal Grandad, the wealthy, safely-neutered male in a bath chair who, though presenting no sexual risk, still manages to be obnoxious as he pinches a behind or leers at a “nice rack;” Sander-nista chicks are the indulgent nurses, fairly busting out of their unbuttoned uniform tops as they spoon rice pudding and Pepto-Bismol into his mouth and smack away his wandering hands.

But let’s be frank. Sander-nista chicks aren’t all dewy eyes and tenderness. This is, after all, a cohort of millennials (and some Gen Z’s). Millennials are impatient for change, they want it now, now, NOW! They are confrontational as a result; they are intolerant of compromise or even other points of view.

And millennials’ idealism and urgency come pre-packaged with healthy doses of cynicism and rage at what they’re inheriting in terms of moribund systems and collateral damage. As idealistic as they are, Sander-nista chicks have no illusions.

(Well, except thinking Sanders could ever be elected President of the United States in his lifetime or ours, and believing he’ll necessarily wake up the next time he falls asleep. But only those two illusions! Honest!)

They know, in private, that Bernie has always been a teensy bit unelectable, which unfortunately just makes them more insistent, in public, that the DNC is engaged in a vast conspiracy to interfere with the electoral process, play dirty and generally be a bunch of selfish, possibly borderline senile, boomers.

Politics is one area where a hard-line, no-compromise stance is particularly unproductive and often repugnant—witness the impeachment fiasco, where a hard-line Senate undid weeks of hearings, made a mockery of justice, and set up the perception of Democrats as vindictive liars.

Which makes Sander-nistas’ hard line on policies, their impatience and their distressing penchant for nasty ad hominem attacks on other candidates all the more regrettable, as Sanders’ policies are just the ticket for financial and social change and long overdue.

The problem comes in selling them to an American electorate scared shitless by the socialist bogeyman, and whose minds have been rolled back to pre-Depression expectations—a kind of collective gaslighting in which an entire generation’s worth of social democracy has been expunged through the power of one cleverly deployed word.

Incidentally, have you ever thought that, considering Sanders is an old, white male, his being unelectable is actually quite an impressive achievement, albeit a perverse one?

It’s like the triple-ripple-loop-the-loop-with-a-backward-flip-and-a-knickerbocker-twist of tournament ice-dancing, performed to “Bolero” by two heterosexuals; or getting hit by lightning in your bathtub, twice.

Under normal circumstances, you will recall, any human with a penis is electable.

To demonstrate the point, I sent a penis to Elizabeth Warren—I always keep a spare in the laundry room—hoping to improve her chances, but she dropped out to spend her time staring into space with a haunted expression and taking Bailey for so many walks he hides when he sees her coming. So no, pardon the expression, cigar.

She sent it back the next day, lightly used but in the original packaging, with a handwritten note:


Dave

I do appreciate the thought. At first I figured this was like those scarves they made us wear in the ’80s, but I just couldn’t get the dang thing to hang properly.

How the heck do guys manage? Jimminy Cricket! It’s always flopping out of place, you can’t really stick a brooch in it, either, and every so often it just jumps up and points right at Bernie anyway. A bit too sassy for my liking, to be honest.

Also, I’ve never been a big one for the pink-fuchsia color spectrum. I reckon I’ll just stick with what I’ve got.

And seeing that I spent all of my time thinking about it, well—now I get it about what’s going on in the male mind. I can totally see why Mitch McConnell has never come up with any idea besides “no” in eighty-five years.

Suggest—try Steve Mnuchin? Or not.

Text me if you want me to drop by for a coffee and I’ll tell you that story again, about my Daddy’s heart attack and Mom’s special interview dress. It’s a keeper and you said you loved it the first couple hundred times.

Pinky promise,

Liz

P.S.—Bailey enjoyed the pizza, just, please, no pineapple next time.

(So very much not by Elizabeth Warren)

As I write, it’s the consensus that Bernie is toast, even though he’s stubborn as a dead mule and there’s months to go. Don’t think it’s a sure thing that Bernie will throw in the towel, though. He delivered Trump four years ago, out of sheer spite, and there’s no guarantee he won’t again come November.

Bernie will have Americans eat that spinach that they resolutely keep spitting in his face. He will be right. Forget Pete Buttigieg “never going away;” it’s Bernie who’ll still be here sixty years from now, held together with electrical tape and wrapped in ice-filled, double-layered freezer bags, still as insistent, prickly and unadorable as today.

Bernie hit on the one thing in America that’s more powerful in its negativity than a penis attached to an old white neoliberal: the word SOCIALISM.

If I came to America with scientific proof that socialism would cure newborn babies of cancer in an hour, they’d scream, “Throw those babies over a cliff then grind them into sausage before we’ll let the scourge of socialism through our garden gates!”

If Jesus came to America and said He was in favor of universal health care, showed them projections proving how much better off everyone would be and how much money they’d save, they’d hold Him down, pound the nails through His hands and feet, spit in His face and taunt Him with, “Behold, the King of the Jews, funded by George Soros and the Deep State! Nice try, Commie!!

Journalist Chris Ladd, way back in 2017, saw the light—and the irony. He pointed out that white Americans who have good corporate or government jobs…

“…live in a socialist welfare state more generous, cushioned and expensive to the public than any in Europe…

…taxpayers fund our retirement saving, health insurance, primary, secondary, and advanced education, daycare, commuter costs, and even our mortgages at a staggering public cost. Socialism for white people is all-enveloping, benevolent, invisible, and insulated by the nasty, deceptive notion that we have earned our benefits by our own hand. [emphasis mine]

Chris Ladd, Forbes.com, March 13, 2017

What is the “staggering public cost” of government subsidies of white socialism?

Companies can deduct the cost of their employees’ health insurance, and employees don’t have to declare that benefit as income. In 2017, that was four hundred billion dollars annually of federal and state funds to insurers.

Mortgage interest? Up to a million dollars deductible. Seventy billion a year (roughly the cost of the food stamp program).

Other subsidies underwrite Americans’ child care expenses, college savings, commuter costs and other exemptions.

This all came to pass when Truman’s plan for universal health care was rejected in 1945. Instead, nine years later, Congress approved a plan controlled by employers and publicly funded through tax breaks, giving corporations a nice stick for beating unions. Because of worker demographics at that time, benefits thus accrued to white families via their male breadwinners.

Americans think socialism means peasants starving during Soviet famines, or dissidents dying in gulags. How does that compare, I wonder, with low-income families and their children starving in the midst of plenty in inner cities, and black men dying in privately-run, for-profit prisons?

Whether your de facto rulers are corporations and capitalist oligarchs in the land of the free, or self-confessed dictators of fungible proles, the results are remarkably similar. The one percent is the one percent, plain or fancy versions notwithstanding.

And there goes Bernie again, calling himself a socialist, unable to hold off with the perfect for the sake of the desperately needed, to relax the hard line a little, or to come down to planet earth with the rest of us and choose the language and narrative that would reassure nervous voters.

Unable, in other words, to play the political game of deal-making to take steps towards a future goal (“being a corporate lackey” as the Sander-nista chicks would say).

His insistence on revolutionary rhetoric, his Wall Street hard line, all of this suggests he loves to shock the bourgeoisie at least as much as he wants systemic change. He’s the Grand Mogul of the left, and gives every indication that he finds campaigning to be beneath him. He might prefer a coronation to an election, which is why it’s like watching Meryl Streep being forced to audition for the high school play.

You have to admire, almost, his pig-headed self-righteousness and his Mount Everest of ego upon which progressive policies which would save lives now falter and die half-way to the summit.

He’s a strange bird: A socialist claiming to work for the public good but thinking only of his profile on the currency and his arc of history that tends towards justice for his never-ending campaign.

How like a man.


Vote Berrrrnie—or the Bunny DIES.

Sander-nista chicks get the unelectable bit. That’s why they upped the emotional blackmail quotient, and maybe they’re right. Maybe “Vote Bernie or the Bunny Dies” will actually add a few more boomers or black voters to the roster. After all, starving kids are a dime a dozen, not to mention a strain on the nerves; but cute bunnies lower your blood pressure and don’t grow up and start demanding things.

Making the most efficient use possible of their time, Sander-nistas support Bernie until the very last molecule of progressive oxygen has been sucked into their high-voltage left-of-left policy purifier.

No compromise! It’s not progressive, it seems, until Wall Street, the wealthy, the middle-class, small business owners, social conservatives, older and independent voters are all scared away.

Then, once the body politic is so spooked by “socialism” that even Trump seems like the better deal, the Sander-nista chicks and Bernie chumps decide it’s just way too much trouble to actually open their front doors, walk down the street, be part of “the corrupt system”—and vote for him.


Here is the proof that Bernie’s unelectable, and that his nomination would have been—or, who the hell knows, will be—a tragedy:

  • Russia has openly admitted that they have been actively working for Bernie’s nomination.
  • Trump has been salivating at the thought of Bernie as the Democratic choice.

The President of the Russian Federation and the President of the United States, working together for a common cause. In another place, another time, with a different cast, this sort of détente could have been a million kinds of warm and fuzzy, but in reality—not the sort of reconciliation, partnership or goal one had in mind, is it?

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COVID 19: It All Comes Down to Toilet Paper

North America — and introverts — are on top of things! Sort of!


empty shelves in a Toronto Supermarket as a result of panic buying and supply chain disruptions

W orld Health Organization and traditional media:

“Wash your hands, don’t touch your face, avoid crowds and work from home.

“Take these precautions seriously, but don’t panic.”


CANADA: An Example to the World

Cana-DA ! Écoute-moi, wash yourself the hands!! And ne touche pas ton visage TABARNAK ! Tu es déjà ugly enough et ça te rendre super-malade malade malade !💊🦠 On s’en calisse le Corona virus !

Ça, c’est fucké, je m’en calisse Maxime Bernier !! Vas chier, Maxime, c’est pas possible comment que t’es cave !! Esti d’épais à marde !!!!

It’s the Chinese people! Calisse des Chinois Tabarnak !!

The CHINESE PEOPLE sent this virus on purpose AND they’re buying ALL THE CONDOS!
Nice to see you, too, buddy, have a great day!!

Ça, c’est fucké !!

[Precautions do not apply to Alberta, where Jason Kenney will be doing a laying on of hands.

[Esti d’épais à marde !!!! On s’en calisse Alberta !!!]


EMERGENCY ANNOUNCEMENT: URGENT

IGNORE, repeat, ignore the pleading of Alberta Premier Jason Kenney!

Jason is on TWITTER begging Ottawa for Federal hand-outs to help Alberta out of their financial and health crises — caused by their charging no sales tax, having a flat rate income tax, firing doctors and nurses and privatizing medical care — except for women’s health care which they’ve canceled entirely — and refusing to develop green energy alternatives because — they’ve got ALL THAT OIL AND GAS.

Lucky old Alberta, eh?

In fact, they’re so independent and so fracking sick to the top of their oil rigs with Ottawa being BOSSY, and so overflowing with OIL AND GAS dollars, why, they might just pack up and LEAVE!

So we know Jason’s kidding! We’ve figured it out! It was a test to see if Ottawa has been paying attention!

After all, Albertans don’t need our help — they’ve got ALL THAT OIL AND GAS, right? Jason, you’re funnier than saliva droplets in a malfunctioning street car! Well played! You nearly had us, you ol’ kidder, you!

IGNORE JASON KENNEY!

REPEAT: IGNORE JASON KENNEY!


SPECIAL WORK ACCOMMODATION
for Tim Hortons employees,
from the Prime Minister’s Office:

HEY, “Baristas!” Feeling under the weather and socially responsible? The best thing you could do for your fellow Canadians — well, I was going to say, stop serving Tim Hortons coffee, but that’s not really an option — is staying home when you’re sick.

And as Liberals we understand your concerns, like not getting paid for your sick time. Yeah, well. Life is hard, buckaroos! Maybe you shoulda thought of that before you left —

Ahem. Before you left your union job at General Motors and chose this minimum wage job instead.

And because we understood your concerns yesterday, and this is today, we also understand the concerns of franchise holders that workers are just a necessary burden pending the arrival of droids, but in the meantime you spend your shifts stealing extra bathroom breaks, scarfing down Timbits and generally doing everything you can to run things into the ground out of sheer spite after they’ve been good enough to give you employment.

Well, never fear — we’ve got your backs and, as usual, we’ll please everybody! In order to reassure MANAGEMENT that YOU’RE REALLY SICK and not just being a lazy-assed minimum wage slave, please obtain a doctor’s note, then 

—go into work and VOMIT ON YOUR SUPERVISOR.

Make mine a “Triple-triple Venti”! Did I get that right? Who says I don’t represent all Canadians!

— The Rt. Hon. Chrystia Freeland
Ministress of, gosh, well — Everything!!


Meanwhile, on Twitter, Introverts Finally Speak Out,
Just Really, Really Softly.

Hi, I’m Noah, spokes-sociopath for the International Introverts Association (IIA). I bet you didn’t realize there was an IIA, did you? Which isn’t surprising! We’re WAY too shy to tell you!

Anyway, we realized, independently of course, that the world was on tenterhooks (we read the dictionary a LOT!!) wondering how introverts were doing during this pandemic.

First, be it known that we’re really deserving of this attention which we’ll accept with a self-deprecating giggle! And we’d like to put your minds at rest. We know what it’s like to stay up all night worrying about something, like, whether or not introverts are getting the attention we deserve.

Well, drum roll, except not, that would be WAY too noisy! We’re doing just great! Because we stay at home all the time anyway, so it’s like, this pandemic is just specially tailored for, you know, introverts.

Excuse me while I make another cup of Herby-Time Tea, which is like, my substitute for a special friend, which I’m way too shy to make!

Mmmm, that’s delicious! As I was saying, even though people are dying by the thousands, we know that what’s really important in the big scheme of things is that your mind is at ease about whether introverts are having any problems. And — we’re not! It’s, like, perfect!

We’ll just stay in like we always do, breathing our own, solitary air and thinking about our own, solitary selves and not really concerning ourselves with mean old extrovert stuff like thinking about other people or old people or sick people!

Well, I hope you’re feeling less worried about us now! Thanks for asking, which was, like, WAY intrusive of you, but we coped, barely.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to change, which I do in my closet, for a virtual meeting of the International Insensitive Sociopathic Assholes Society, or “I-IS-ASS,” as we special introverts call it.

Thanks for not dropping By-EEEEEEE!


People’s Democratic Republic of Trumpezuela

Hmmmm… Must buy cases and cases of TOILET PAPER at WALMART in case I get PNEUMONIA and subsequent DIARRHEA of the FACE. And speaking of face, FACE MASKS because Asians always wear them and they should know! Asians are smart!

Unless they’re MUSLIM ASIANS! Is that even a thing??!! Is this Black Friday? I bet MUSLIMS are DANCING WITH JOY!!

C’mon SHEEPLE! It’s just a few SENIORS who died in Seattle. I’M not going to get sick and die. SHEEPLE are so dumb to panic!

I mean it’s not like I could have the virus and pass it on! I’m not MEXICAN!!

Damn, now I have to USE some of the toilet paper! That reminds me: MUST BUY MORE toilet paper by the case. WALMART’s ALWAYS OPEN cause their workers come in even when they’re SICK. Unlike Chinese Communist workers who are probably FORCED by their government to come in because otherwise they might not get paid!

Excuse me. Are you coming out of the BATHROOM soon? It’s nothing! Just a mild case of the STOMACH FLU! I should probably go swimming at the “Y” later!

Let me take this time perched on the toilet chatting with INCELS to FINESSE my new conspiracy theory that JOE BIDEN in cahoots with NORTH KOREA sent this WUHAN COMMUNIST VIRUS to the Ukrainian ambassador to deliberately undermine the stock market! Stupid COMMIES!

No wonder I can’t GET LAID!

I’M BORED. That must mean — it’s all a HOAX!! I’m going to LICK THE DOORKNOB of the bathroom door then scratch that pimple on my face! Couldn’t wash my hands, there was no soap, OK? Some panicky sheeple bought all the hand sanitizer!

That’s better! Hungry now. How about a BAG of POTATO CHIPS? Help yourself! Everybody dig in! FINGER-LICKIN’ GOOD! Can I lick YOUR fingers?

Want some SALSA and cheetos??!! Let’s have FONDUE!!

Next time I see Trump on TV — I’m gonna LICK THE TV!

Stay home from work? Are you nuts? I had to remortgage my home twice since last year — Kaiser Permanente prescribed me those children’s Aspirin again! And then there was MY WIFE’s DIABETES and we couldn’t afford the insulin but luckily she DIED!

Plus, Donald and Mike and Mitch and the Senate just revoked “getting paid to work”! Only SOCIALISTS expect HANDOUTS OF MONEY to work and anyway Donald was starting to think we didn’t work hard because we love him, we were just working for the WAGES!

What kind of SICKO would hurt the PRESIDENT like that — !!?

Hey, Grandma, wanna see my POWER COUGH??? Put your face RIGHT UP TO MINE, that’s perfect. ONE, TWO, THREE….. BRRRRAAAAXXCHCHCH! Sorry about the saliva! HA HA!

Hey, Donald and Mike and Mitch say the numbers are UP and they’re DOWN and it’s a PANDEMIC which means it’s just like the flu and you should STAY AT HOME and GO TO WORK.

It’s, like, an emergency but it’s not a serious emergency, but except it is! Isn’t! Wear MASKS but DON’T WEAR MASKS!

There’s plenty of tests just ask nicely there’s no tests stop panicking there’s LOTS OF TESTS AND LOTS OF MASKS! Thanks, CHINA!

How is Jack Wu, like, even a REAL NAME???!! RIGHT!!???

Now they say they’re gonna upgrade the pandemic to Level ORANGE is that like MORE OR LESS SERIOUS than RED? It’s more AND less serious!

And wait a minute — now they’re saying North Korea’s launched a missile attack AND there’s an impending asteroid collision!

Missile attack?!?!? Asteroid collision???!!! HOLY SHIT!!! MUST BUY MORE — TOILET PAPER…!

Whaddaya mean, GRANDMA — WTF???!!! WHEN DID SHE —

I just saw her two weeks ago and she was FINE!!!???

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Book Launch Teaser: I forget what number. Call it #6.

Well, are YOU keeping track? OK, then. Put down your Pulitzer Prize in Annoying and watch.

HERE I AM, POPPING UP OVER and over again like a bad penis. Also, for some reason I decided to add a “rain” effect even though I’m indoors holding a dog. That’s gonna smell real wet-dog funky, except the rain is totally fake.

PHEW! Saved by technology AGAIN!

This one isn’t live, which is why it’s a tease. I discuss the animus towards Pete the Butt, whom I mistakenly call the gay presidential candidate when he’s just currently one of the front-runners for the Democratic NOMINATION. I still know more about American government than most Americans do.

Anyway, I riff about Pete Buttigieg, possible Dem candidate and erstwhile bukkake stalwart, while lounging on my fainting mat with Luke, who will be dangled over the balcony railing if you don’t buy my book.

Well, are YOU willing to be dangled over my balcony railing? Hmmm? Ok then, well, fair’s fair.

Please buy my book so I can stop mining my snot for the extra fluids, and putting Luke’s freeze-dried feces on top of my Hamburger Helper loose-meat sandwich to get any extra nutrients that my breakfast cereal won’t just leach out of my body by tomorrow morning anyway.

Buy my book on Amazon using the link below. Then stock up on toilet paper. That asteroid’s getting pretty close.

Click here to buy my book on Amazon !

David: A Boy and His Blog


Oh, YESSSSSS! Babeh Babe!

Many of my readers have been clamoring for a brief overview of my creative lifestyle, a few tid-bits of my personal history, the secret of my success and some words of wisdom that would help them understand what makes me “tick” like a plane hijacker’s attaché case just before detonation.

Well, actually, no.

That’s not entirely correct.

No one’s really asked for any of that. But made ya look!

I do have an extremely random email from MOGO money demanding final payment on that loan they were stupid enough to give me six years ago. I mean, they expect me to keep track of this shit? What a bunch of losers!

I mean, my credit rating—currently held in a turbulent vortex at below absolute zero, at which point loan sharks and TV sets begin popping out of the singularity into your motel room—should have been a warning, right?

When you consider that it took a decades-long collaboration between me, the University of Queensland, CuteGuysInJockstraps dot com and that payment processor in Cyprus to confirm I even had a credit rating!

Though rumors had been circulating in the blogosphere ever since—well, ever since they took the concept of a free information-communication network called the world wide web, postulated that people would eventually be posting digital photos of their meals to this hub three times a day, so, a “web log,” realized that people’s attention spans would seize up like boiled yarn from keeping up with all this distraction, so that “web log” would have to become “blog” or they’d lose interest in you after thirty seconds, then tacked “osphere,” onto it, assuming it would mean anything, to be honest—

Ever since then.

But this won’t butter any parsnips! as Henry James used to say to a rapidly emptying room. Your first question is: David! Who the goldarn heck are you, anyway?


I am the old, gay white guy your parents warned you about. When I say “old,” I mean “twice your age,” and as one of the last-gasp baby-boomers you can be sure I’m voting for the upgrade that goes “seventy is the new cryogenically frozen.”

I can be spotted on Thursdays outside Shoppers Drug Mart, with my hoodie-hood pulled right up. I’ll probably be studying the weekly flyer, because it’s Ashamed to Be Almost a Senior Day, and wearing my signature size 30 stretch denims, which haven’t really fit me since I was in my twenties.

This means I haven’t exhaled completely for over forty years. There’s air in my lungs that’s older than Adele.

If you want to be my friend, please do not use the word “spry” or its cognates in my presence, or scream “I bet you were a looker when you were young!” while staring at your smartphone.

I can still bitch-slap you so hard you’ll be explaining to your grandkids about the permanent, angry red imprint of my hand on your cheek.

Just pray that I remove the clusters of cabuchon-cut emeralds first, and thanks to my very, very, dear, close, ultra-famous, black, female billionaire friend with her own magazine and TV network, whom I’ll just refer to as “the big O” to preserve her anonymity, for that “incident management” tip.

And now for a short commercial break.

Find your own person of color to stand next to on—MyWokePOCFriendify! The app that substitutes a POC for your bestie in those group shots for Instagram, but reverts them to white again when you’re in your ‘hood! Yo!


You think you OK just being white?
Yo bro, that shit don’t mean you’re woke!

Wha do I do, bro, I gotta be woke!

You gotta stand next to a
Person of Color
Don’t change your shit
Give this shit a try
called
MyWokePOCFriendify
And stand next to a
Person of Color!

I woke! Hot damn
on Instagram


That’s right muthafucka!
You seen the light!

And all I did was—

Yeah that’s right!
You didn’t change nothin’

You stayed all white, but you

STOOD NEXT TO A
PERSON OF COLOR!

But hold on, bro, yo, listen to me
I live in a gated community
Where the fuck I gotta be
To find some muthafuckin
Person of Color??!


Don’t sweat it, bro, just listen to I
Download

My—Woke—POC—Friend-i-fy!

The app that makes it so easy
To stay in your gated community
You stayed all white
But now hot damn
You woke as fuck on Instagram!

when you
STAND NEXT TO A
PERSON OF COLOR!

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(What the fuck, dude, this POC don’t go with my SHOES, yo!)

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I write. Writing is that thing where you put well-considered words one after the other to form coherent ideas and spark intelligent conversations. Sometimes laughter.

Because if you can take something as serious as your own life less seriously, you’ll be a whole lot easier to spend time with, and that’s verbatim from the staff at the Summerhill Liquor Store. So you can drop the plastic nose with moustache and the V for Vendetta mask on alternate days. No one is fooled.

It turns out I can help you with that taking life less seriously thing. In fact, I’m funny so you don’t have to be, though it would be nice if you at least gave it a shot now and then.

À propos my creative journey, it’s like, I was saving up for “Turn Out Better Lane”, but settled for shared accommodation on a mattress for five down “Stuck With It Alley”. Could you please stop hogging the duvet?

I wanted my life to be a work of art, but frankly it’s more like that macramé wall hanging Aunt Zelda crafted back in ’72. It unraveled three years later, dropping a large spider plant and its terracotta pot onto her head just as she was walking from the kitchen to the dining room, bearing a tray filled with vegan cupcakes from her self-published dessert cookbook, “More Sand, Please! High-roughage Treats Even Your Cats Will Find Useful.”

“Life is scratchy,” she used to say, and her cooking certainly reflected that.

Also her most famous gift to womankind, and bless her unshaven insteps for her unwavering self-belief. No one except Zelda ever thought wicker tampons would fly, but sales are off the charts every Burning Man event, where they’re popular as kindling.

Zelda was that rare human: a myopic dead visionary with a spider plant and shards of terracotta embedded in her brain stem.

I know that paying me a monthly stipend is probably like priority number one on your trial version of “WhatEVERRRly” and I have a solution for that as well.

While you’re here, please comment, rate and share my articles; and follow the links at the top to preview, purchase and review my book.

Reviewing my book is so important and means so much, I won’t even mind if you don’t send that cheque you promised.

I’m so glad you dropped in for a visit. In fact, I’m going to give you five stars on Gladify.

David Roddis signature

PS— But please could you still, you know.

Send the cheque.

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