COVID-19 Pandemic and Racism Endemic Have Fucked the Funny Out of Me

Save me from myself, please! As I descend into a possibly terminal state of Toxic Earnestness

Hello. My Name is David and I’m—earnest.

Thanks, David! booms the twelve-step Greek chorus.

I’m an earnest, virtue-signalling piece of old jute carpet woven by cheerful, appreciative, highly-skilled and adequately-paid native workers in a tropical paradise that hasn’t been invaded by white, oil-industry-beholden kakistocrats.


I can’t remember the last time I fulfilled my self-mandated mandate for this blog, viz: make shallow, no-effort fun about stuff no one gives a flying frig about, starting with, and possibly limiting itself to, my personal life.

As I write this, a mouse scurries from underneath the shoe rack and across the multicolored painted floor of the entrance to my apartment. I shout OH!, which is my older-gent version of a schoolgirl shriek, and the mouse, I assume as shocked to see me as I am him, scurries back to its lair, or whatever mission control is called in the mouse plan for human gaslighting and assimilation.

I don’t know if it’s worse to spot him or to realize that he’s probably been scurrying about every day for fourteen years without my spotting. Either way I will soon be camping out on the balcony, eating vegan food cooked over a tea light and seasoned with my tears of self-pity while I encase my body in black electrical tape.

And when I head to the kitchen to bake oatmeal cookies—which is the beginner version of take my book to Glad Day Books, the only remaining gay bookstore in possibly the world, which I am lucky enough to live two streets away from but haven’t approached with my book in two years—I interrupt a pair of cockroaches rehearsing their tight-rope walking act on the edge of the counter.

One of them, Gaston, for they have recently auditioned for Cirque du soleil, sports a handlebar moustache and is riding a unicycle, rather skillfully I have to admit; while his partner, Fifi, navigates the zucchini peelings and garlic skins with heel-to-toe poise and even a sexy sway of her thorax, while brandishing a parasol worthy of anything no longer permissible by Colette.

But enough of this frivolité, this flânnerie! Soon you will judge me shallow, too good-time-Charlie, when in fact I’m at the nadir of the scale that goes from Ooh! lala! at the top to Lacan deconstructs Crime and Punishment at approaching zero.

I’m newly-qualified Mister Suck Out All the Fun, garnished with stale, hard-as-stone glacé cherries. But who will believe me, who drags around a glee-filled menagerie; me, the Doctor Dolittle of diatomaceous earth?

To prove my earnest chops, I just published an eggshell -walking discussion of racism on Medium; a ramped-up but still hedged about with possibly and I suspect, weasel-worded version of the rant on this blog.

Now, please be aware that it’s quite possible no one will ever see it. This is the downside to posting anything on Medium that’s not a Pulitzer Prize-winning piece of investigative journalism from The Atlantic, or a raucous discussion of how Liz Warren is actually Lizard Warmonger, an alien tasked by her overlords to make sure millennials have something to whinge about that’s not just another version of they had to push the button on the microwave themselves. Anything between those two poles is either too good or not good enough.

Damn! And just when I’d settled on a lifetime of mediocrity!

To date, my piece has received one clap. Claps are the currency on Medium and they are not “likes.” Either the person doesn’t realize that you can give up to fifty claps if you like a piece, and can any of you take a hint, or they do realize and their one clap is like when you give a nickel to the server as a tip: just rubbing the poor schmuck’s face in the fact of her indifferent service.

Her indifferent service that is probably the result of her poor pay and working conditions so the chef-owner can drive his Aston Martin from Prospect Park back to his condo on the Upper East Side.

And you dare to give her a nickel? You probably masturbate while reading Mein Kampf under the glow of a Nazi lampshade, you hooligan!

To further promulgate my earnestness, I should also do a reading from my book on Facebook live. I could do a reading of my Canada Day ode, now that Canada Day is like a distant memory, and to up the stakes I could announce the reading with ten minutes’ notice so no one attends.

Honestly, I don’t know why I’m not Head of PR for the Decorative Gourds Panel or the Small Mammalian Pest Board. I probably just missed their frantic, competitive calls while my phone was accidentally set to “airplane mode” for six months.

Or should I go to Home Hardware and buy roach powder and steel wool so the roaches will dry up and be cut to smithereens inside and the mouse will die a similarly agonized, undeserved death when all he was trying to do was live his ordinary mouse life?

Eat random food, scurry, leave droppings, make rustling sounds inside the radiators, terrorize the big mouse who shouts OH. That is the typical mouse day-planner but I can’t just let him be.

And I know what you’re thinking: I cannot possibly fill my jug of altruism from this rusty, dribbling spigot of random wokeness. To gift my circle of influence with the full litre of feces-tainted run-off, I have taken on the education of my fellow white people, who I don’t even really like very much anymore.

In fact, after an eternity of Covid-19 seclusion watching white Americans declaring their freedom to be imbeciles, churning out the coronavirus and infecting all the smart people, plus a month of race riots while the same white Americans run over protestors with their Sherman tanks, I hate white people.

I hate white people.

White people look funny. All of their skin is blue and transparent, like foreskin, except when they “tan,” when it looks like pork cracklings that have been irradiated in a particle accelerator.

They put raisins in the potato salad, their children weigh seven hundred pounds by the time they achieve puberty and they wouldn’t know an opera by Richard Strauss from a pair of stone-washed denim pants that they iron. White people ruin everything they touch, starting with Arctic ice caps and ending up somewhere around dwindling zebra herds.

White people think they own the planet and they decide who’s human, which is white people. They deep fry their hair and put conditioner on the chicken, they say “y’all” in public like it’s a real word, until you want to projectile vomit onto their Pillsbury dinner rolls.

White people make anemic art that’s all about white Jesus. Who wouldn’t want to crucify white Jesus? Gimme some wood and some nails! Look out, white Jesus! King of the White People, you bloodless, welfare-grabbing hippy, you fragile, babbling white-tard! I will cheerfully pound the nails through your delicate white hands while whistling Dixie!

White people can’t see anything but white people so they bulldoze through life, theirs and yours, casting off candy bar wrappers that smother the rain forests; and when that’s accomplished they tunnel right through the Earth to the other side out of nothing more than hunger and boredom. The Earth is in danger of snapping in half and all just so white people can pollute the oceans, then farm fish.

It would hurt white people’s feelings to be honest and rip a fish off a hook, but they’ll hang a black man up on a hook and peel his black skin off, one inch at a time.

White people are liars who celebrate their lies. They tell you their shit smells like hybrid tea roses, so they can smear it over whatever they want you to read from the Book of the Month Club. Their sweat glands have atrophied, because for generations they have had others do their filthy work, and they lie when they profess their innocence.

White people’s hands are soft as newly-butchered veal and exude the sickly-sweet odor of indigenous corpses; their breath puffs out of their mouths in stale, harsh puffs redolent of the rum they traded for slaves.

White men have hairy, disordered scrotums and, hidden somewhere in their beer bellies, tiny dicks for producing brainless white babies they can ignore, and white women’s vaginas are like swollen toothpaste tubes squeezing out blue-eyed, mint-flavored white babies that don’t even deserve to be skewered on a pike-staff. I wouldn’t even offer them as hors d’oeuvres, three white babies on a plate with peanut sauce.

That’s what I think about white people these days.

Maybe it’s the Karens who did it to me. You know, entitled white ladies from the suburbs, the ones that sprang up after the war, exclusively for white people. Black people were specifically excluded. However, the Karens are not satisfied with that full, three-course meal, plus dessert and valet parking, of exclusivity. No. They need to know that the child’s plate with the fish fingers, and the gluten-free options, and the pizza with pineapple and a dipping sauce, that they have first dibs on all of those as well.

So they pack their fat asses into their Gap jeans and stick a hand-embroidered sign over their tits that reads, “Don’t Bust My Freedom” or “It’s the Chinese Whom Did It,” because the Chinese people are the same as the Chinese government, just like Trump’s imbecility and lack of empathy is every single last American, right?

They appropriate the right not only to celebrate their tacky taste in architecture, thankfully hidden behind a concrete barrier, but their self-imposed idiocy. They reserve the right to catch the virus, and to spread it, and do you know why?

Karen lives close to a hospital, Karen has a car. Karen has someone to help with her kids were she to get sick. Karen has a big house that’s not crowded. Karen lives near a park, in a safe area. Karen has private healthcare. Karen is healthier generally. She eats well. She doesn’t worry about being hungry, she doesn’t go to a food bank.

Black people are the anti-Karens: frontliners in many essential jobs, having on average lower income, on average more likely to be unemployed and therefore with no health care. They do not have choices. Black people cannot make themselves into idiots in a game of one-upmanship. Compared to Karen, their lives are about surviving.

They are what the Karens need to measure themselves against. Karen can flaunt the fact that she has the “right,” that is to say, the choice, to decide her own level of risk. And she can reassure herself that, whatever else happens in her life, she is not black. The planets are in the correct orbits.

And they take their matching children on a walk. If the kids are lucky they’ll get to carry the assault weapon, an absolute necessity in case a mob of two black people walks by, paying no attention to them and singing Amazing Grace.

Don’t rain on Karen’s parade, because her common sense dried up with her ovaries, so now she’s just a tomatillo husk of hard, sour resentment. There isn’t enough shark collagen on the planet to plaster over those worry lines caused by black people existing.

Do you worry that there are women called Karen who aren’t useless wastes of white skin in a Range Rover? Here’s the deal:

  • Karen: if you’re a Karen who doesn’t match the characteristics of Karen, we’re confident you’ll survive.
  • Karen: If you’re a white woman calling someone Karen, look in the mirror.
  • Karen: If you’re a black person calling someone Karen, you will probably help someone, just not Karen.
  • Karen: Fun fact: Men can be Karen!

Male Karens are the guys who want Straight Pride, crave pity as murderous incels, or scorn the idea of gender non-conformity when they hang around locker rooms.

Which makes it all the more puzzling when he sneaks out of the house every Friday night while his wife is at Waxing Academy so he can get pegged by, in his sad but revealing terminology, a “chick-with-a-dick.” The heart wants what it wants, and it shall have….!

I want to go to Medium and see if anyone has commented on my piece about racism. But I so very much want to be the perfect ally that I’m stressed that I got the tone wrong, or that I’m patently virtue signaling. A black person could justifiably take me to task on my white privilege in grandstanding about racism when I haven’t had the experience.

I have had the experience of being called fag, but that is not the equivalent of being murdered in the streets. Though some gay people have been murdered in the streets.

(To be honest, I’m terrified that I will discover, to my permanent disgrace and permanent banishment, that I entered a hypnagogic state and sleep-wrote something salacious about “BBC” just before I face-planted on my keyboard.

(This is not something white guys get to say about black guys, if there was any doubt in your mind while cruising on Grindr. Something to do with, I dunno, reducing black men to a racist-sexual stereotype? Who knew!)

And I’m dreading some emotional exchange with white guys who are livid that I would presume to educate them, a challenge I have yet to really come to grips with, because angry white men already know everything, and never shut the fuck up about it in case they lose the focus for ten seconds.

But surely it’s possible to win hearts and minds with the truth? And if it’s not possible, what are we doing this for?

You see what I mean: I make a perfectly valid point, I sense your sympathetic response, then—I end a sentence with a preposition!

My piece on Medium, maybe even this blog, is like farting in an elevator, then running out. It’s a futile prank, because the elevator’s empty.

But I, at least, will have a bloody good white-guy laugh about it.


I’m Not One Hundred Percent Sure That Pandemics Bring Out the Best in Me

horizons shrink, waistlines expand, and Americans find freedom in the most unlikely places

in Ohio, protesters against the coronavirus lockdowns shout through the doors of the legislature

THERE AIN’T NO ONE IN THIS WHOLE wide world angrier than a white American CoronaZombie told they can’t go to their vacation home. “Let my people go! Tell old Pharaoh—“Naw, he sounds Muslim—tell Alex Jones instead!”

I’m conflating, maybe even extrapolating, a bit. The rather freakazoid people above are in Ohio; the people who can’t go to their vacation homes, well, there may be others, but as far as I know they are the white people of Michigan, whose governor, a Democrat and a woman, Gretchen Whitmer, has enacted just about the most rigorous stay-at-home orders in the US.

She’s had to, because apparently Michigan generally and Detroit specifically have extremely high rates of infection, the brunt of this borne by, and I hope you were holding your breath because, of course, black people.

African Americans, many of them being the people who have the jobs that keep society moving during a lethal pandemic, the fast-food workers, the health care workers, the grocery store staff, the front liners in essential businesses, have, of course, got it covered about who is going to get that fuzzy end of the coronavirus lollipop.

But the white people, the angry outraged spluttering CoronaZombies, have grabbed their rifles, their bazookas, their automatics and their semi’s that the Founding Fathers explicitly recommended—“… the right of the people to keep and bear Bazookas, shall not be infringed;” it’s right there, in fluent goose quill— and they are mad as hell and not takin’ it anymore in front of wherever Gretchen hangs out, and they are chanting “Lock her up!”

Gretchen Whitmer is called “that Michigan woman” by the Adolescent-in-Chief, Trump, who never met a broad unwilling to toss him her panties while pole-dancing that he could relate to. And it must be said: For Gretchen to be in power as a woman seems well-meaning but asking for trouble. But to be a woman in power and a Democrat seems more like just carelessness.

By the way: You ever notice how they’re never chanting “Lock him up”? This just occurred to me. Like, it’s never a guy, is it? Have you ever seen or heard the MAGA crowd chanting to lock up a guy? I think I’m on to something, don’t you?

It’s a special chant reserved for the gals, which is, I guess their way of making them feel special. Like buying the little lady some Godiva chocolates and a set of sterling silver handcuffs for Mothers Day.

So “lock her up,” meaning get the women barefoot and in their kitchens, stop them being so uppity, and get them off our backs!

This is not only misogynist but problematic in another way. You see, I have this theory that it shows maturity — remember maturity? Yeah, neither do I — when someone in their teens, or twenties, or even beyond, stops rebelling against parental controls and realizes that some of the advice is actually helpful and sensible.

One day, sick of the emotional effort of being contrary, and deciding that kicking and screaming while pounding your fists and heels on the floor looks a tad undignified, you have a satori.

The clouds part to reveal a chorus of angels and you hear them singing that the advice you found so hateful is not just offered so your parents can annoy you with a demeaning reminder that you’re a helpless, wet-behind-the-ears, financially dependent walking fetus who wouldn’t know to come inside when it’s raining and who can’t figure out how to press the “ON” button on the microwave. It’s meant to save you the heartache of repeating the same mistakes until your forehead is flatter than Saskatchewan and you’ve lost all that time.

And, to your amazement, because you’re now mature, you just go ahead and follow the advice, because now that you’re a grown-up you no longer worry so much about what other people think.

You don’t have to mimic your peer group. You don’t have to prove how cool you are, because now, without even noticing your own coolness, you actually are. You don’t have to “fit in” any more. Other people can fit in with you, instead. You’ve earned it.

You’ve discovered that, although there are seventy-eight buttons on the microwave, one of them for “popcorn” which unfailingly burns popcorn, so that everyone from Orville Redenbacher to Thomas Keller advises, “For the love of god, whatever you do, DON’T use the ‘popcorn’ button,” all you actually need is three buttons: the one for “Beverage,” a second button to choose one minute, four minutes or ten minutes, and “ON.” Microwave popcorn, pizza pocket or twelve-course tasting menu for your instructors in the George Brown College Culinary Arts Diploma course, this is how it works.

But not for the CoronaZombies. They’ve learned and earned nothing. These guys, and of course it’s mostly guys, are still in an embryonic state of helplessness, because women are their slaves, but in reality their mommies, so, stuck in eternal resentful, thwarted adolescence, they automatically rebel.

Their sense of adult, independent manhood is so tenuous, so fragile, that to follow a woman’s advice, even the advice that will save them from catching and/or spreading a potentially fatal disease, is to them tantamount to sitting once again in that highchair while she goes, “And here comes the airplane into the hangar ooogie boogie mumsy wumsy puddin’ pie!” with that spoonful of Gerber carrots.

So they take out their dicks—oh, fine, excuse me for living, guns and cars—and assert their masculinity. It’s all such a tedious, predictable shit show.

I went out of the apartment to shop for groceries during the past couple of days. I do-si-do’ed around the few people I encountered on the sidewalk, and I stood in line, six feet in front of me and six feet behind me, to enter the grocery store.

It was a sunny day, with spring being all coy about putting on her make-up and peeking around the corner in nothing but a towel. The day felt calm and there was a big world happening, bigger, at least in that moment, than anyone’s problems. There was no one complaining. There were no guns or crazy demos.

That’s because Canadians still retain the idea of the social contract. We still understand that we are not just individuals as islands of magnificent solitude and self-contained rights. Because we have universal healthcare, and revere that we have it, we still understand that we work together, through our government—which is us, because we elected them to do what we wanted—to achieve what we could never accomplish on our own. For the proof of that, I cast a glance south.

As always we have our watered down, hearts-not-in-it, bargain basement versions of the American neediest cases. We have a guy called Derek something, an actual member of the Conservative Party of Canada, standing in a field questioning whether our Chief Public Health Officer, Theresa Tam, “is working for us or for the Chinese,” a disgusting and defiantly racist comment that is universally rejected and reviled.

(There is no equivalent to the Fox Network run by Canadians, by the way. Our media, apart from one or two outliers, are firmly mainstream, and any news anchor who attributed any validity to that question or denied its racism would be fired the same day. Just ask Don Cherry.)

A comment rejected and reviled—but not by the erstwhile party leader, the gutless Andrew Scheer, who blushes and giggles like a trainee geisha when he’s asked if he will condemn the remarks.

Scheer demurs. He waffles. He prevaricates. He breaks out in more nervous dimples than a newborn baby’s butt having its first diaper change by Dad. He does everything it’s possible to do with words except answer the question or condemn the remarks.

Once again, a woman in power is targeted by whiny, insecure, immature males who just don’t know how to deal with her, and who are tacitly given the seal of approval by their wimp leader who’s scared that conservative voters won’t play with him at recess if he condemns racism and misogyny.

The only flaw in my theory about women being the targets of male rage would appear to be that Justin Trudeau also takes a lot of similar flak. But in the minds of the Conservatives and the usual gang of online incels, Justin is a woman. So my theory lives on.

We then have another guy, who I theorize will not be picking up a Governor General’s Award for logic any time soon, noting that the number of Covid-19 cases is nowhere near what was predicted, so that he questions whether all this freedom-squashing sheltering in place was necessary.

Dear Stupid Person: The reason the number of cases is lower than predicted is that we did shelter in place and it worked. Just exactly how flat does my forehead have to get?

Little Miss Shirley Temple Black CoronaZombie: the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

I DO RATHER LIKE THAT THERE’S a Democratic Governor of Michigan called “Gretchen.” This is really only the second time I’ve heard that name, the first instance being as the protagonist in a famous song by Schubert, “Gretchen am Spinnrade” or “Gretchen at the spinning wheel,” which he wrote just a few moments after he was born (child prodigy). Unfortunately, no sooner had he scraped the grape-jelly-like afterbirth residue off his velvet smoking jacket than he lost the fucking manuscript in an Uber.

Jeezus, dude! No way are you getting that iPhone!

“Das ist sooooo wie mir!” was his only comment, as the little show-off Schnozzler scrambled to write the whole thing out again from memory, this time competing with his friend Felix Mendelssohn who had himself just lost the entire score of the incidental music to “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” in a London cab a week before.

“Alvays I am immer making ze big vergessenses when my Fanny is distracting me,” Mendelssohn added, gazing at his firm, really quite toothsome bubble-behind in a huge, Baroque gilt-framed mirror. But of course, he was referring his Schwester, Fanny. “Fanny,” as you know is the diminutive of—

What is Fanny the diminutive of? Seriously.

Let’s reverse engineer this.

So “Peggy” is a diminutive of “Margaret.” So then, by analogy…

Take the “f” of “Fanny” and change it to two letters previous in the alphabet in the non-dim version. So, “D.” Then, change the “a” to “e” and then the “g” in “Peggy” represents the doubling of the third consonant, so “n.”

Ladies and gents, the mystery is solved. Felix Mendelssohn’s sister’s actual name was: Dennis Mendelssohn.

I know that Dennis isn’t really a Jewish name, but don’t forget the horrible anti-Semitism in 19th-century (not to mention 20th- and 21st-century, also this afternoon) Germany. They obviously called their only daughter “Dennis” to give her a big leg-up in society, which is extra fortunate because, if you look up any pictures of her, Dennis, that is, you’ll see she is keine Ölgemälde, not even an oil-painting-by-numbers by your six-year-old.

But getting back to Gretchen and her spinning wheel. This song is a setting of a scene from Faust, which is easy to guess because Germans have two pieces of literature: “Faust” and “Mein Kampf” and it’s a toss-up on any given day which one they prefer.

I don’t recall anyone called Gretchen in Mein Kampf, do you? Well, there you go, Faust it is.

Goethe wrote Faust; he’s kind of like the German Shakespeare, but more efficient. Germans are all about efficiency. Why have Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe both sweating buckets getting all those plays ready for the Globe when you can have an all-in-one? Goethe is the laptop where the screen comes off and turns into a tablet, of German literature. You could probably read Kindle books and make phone calls on a Goethe as well, knowing the Germans.

However, Goethe’s most famous achievement is writing the slogan for Audi, “Vorsprung durch Technik” which means “We’d spring some work on you, but technically there isn’t any.”

German is a member of the portmanteau family of languages, like Welsh, where a single word can express the universe. For example, it you wanted to say, “If you’d like to cry little pearly teardrops about the fact that there’s no work, maybe we could get together on Wednesday, please and thank you, bitte, but only if it’s together, I’m too shy on my own!” then the word for that would be:

« das EsGibtKeinArbeitAlsoMöchtenSieDiePerlenTränenTröpfchenVielleichtAmMittwochZusammenMachenAberNimmerAlleinIchBinZuvielSchüchternDankeSchön-tum! »

Then a native German speaker would add, “Sieg Heil!” Germans say “Sieg Heil!” at the end of every other sentence, which means, approximately, “Doesn’t life just suck donkey testicles?” Obviously this is formal, so they would probably preface this with something like, “Guten Abend, Gnädiges Fräulein!” (= “We could have a good evening if one of us brought some goddamn condoms or are you happy with just frottage?”)

Germans can be a bit of a downer. But at least there’s Beethoven, except he was honorary Austrian. If you want to really get up a German’s Nase, remind them about Beethoven. They’ll have das Konnipchen. Probably with a big Stein of Bier.

Germans ultimately are nice people, if you legislate that, and fairly harmless as long as you don’t let them anywhere near a munitions factory or someone who’s not blond. Or food! Don’t let a German anywhere near food! Good grief! What were you thinking?

Anyway, I didn’t mean to get all literary and intellectual on you. It’s a bit early for this, right?

THOUGH I LOVE TRAVELING IN the US, love Americans — the honest to god, warm and welcoming, sit-a-while-and-have-some-pie, passionate and outspoken, above all, decent, and, heaven knows, never boring, Americans that I meet whenever I visit—I thank god every morning that I was born Canadian.

Because in Ohio, as in Michigan, and probably the Carolinas and maybe even Virginia and Georgia, everywhere I look, Americans are always riled up about freedom.

Americans have the doggone craziest ideas about what freedom entails.

Americans are not just automatically obeying orders to shelter in place! They are not about to be told what to do, not after they dumped those boxes of Lapsang Souchong in Boston Harbor.

Americans love the idea, their idea of freedom, so much so that they have invented new kinds. As a Canadian, I can only shake my head in envy, and genuflect with respect, for Americans are the cutting edge when it comes to freedoms no one else enjoys.

The freedom to die of Covid-19: “Hell, no! You ain’t gonna quarantine MY ass!” “It’s just a plot to take away our liberty!” This includes the freedom to infect others. Remember others?

The freedom to go bankrupt: “Ain’t my fault if you can’t afford your heart operation!” “I want to choose my health care, until I get fired…” “SOCIALISM! We’ll be no different from North Korea!”

The freedom to flaunt one’s ignorance: “The earth is flat, AIDS came from a lab in the US, Hillary’s pizza parlor, vaccines kill!”

The freedom to shoot and be shot. “Nothing is more important than no background checks, not even my children’s lives.”

The freedom to start everything from scratch: “Rugged individualism! Self-made! I didn’t use the roads, the electricity, the library, the supply chain, the groceries, the fuel, the railroads, the college, the ideas, the advice, the loan from my family, the grant, the tax cuts!’

The freedom to ignore science: “You’re not gonna tell me that that huge contraption is gonna fly through the air?! It must weigh a million tons! I don’t believe it just cause some elite scientist says it!”

It’s interesting how the pandemic has changed one thing, however; one intensely satisfying development that was instantly pointed out by every progressive with a direct conduit to NBC or a WordPress blog.

Everyone’s happily taking trillions of dollars in aid.

No one’s complaining about “socialism.” Two trillion rabbits out of two trillion hats, two trillion of the money that “just isn’t there” for healthcare, Universal Basic Income or affordable housing. That is, when only the disadvantaged need it. Just isn’t there, until you need it.

Things I have baked, cooked, or bought, then eaten, by myself, in the past month:

  • Two loaves of no-knead bread; two loaves of whole wheat sandwich bread, six purchased croissants, a box of donuts, a box of Timbits;
  • A pack of Twinkies and a pack of those pink cakes with coconut on them (Dolly Partons? Hello, Dollies? something about a dolly, anyway);
  • Five batches of chappatis;
  • Two mix-in-the-pan cakes from the New York Times online;
  • An apple cinnamon cake that serves twelve;
  • Eight boxes of Kraft Dinner;
  • A bowl of buttercream frosting that was meant for the cake;
  • Burgers, French fries and onion rings, with mayonnaise, all homemade;
  • Three batches of peanut butter cookies, two batches of blondies, five batches of shortbread;
  • can, forgive me, Julia, for I have sinned, of Chef Boy-ar-dee ravioli and one of chili (the chili wasn’t entirely bad, the less said about the ravioli, which smelled like the hallway in a long-term care facility, the better);
  • Countless pouches of microwave popcorn (Beverage; 2; ON;)
  • And tonight I’m making chicken Divan, a casserole of chicken breast and broccoli bathed in a cheese béchamel sauce made with whipping cream.

Coronavirus has more than one trick up its sleeve to kill me. I see that now.

Luckily, I smoke cigarettes. Because studies currently underway in France apparently indicate—and I’m not making this up—that nicotine may protect you from infection with the novel coronavirus.



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 !!!]


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!



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!!!???