When this coronavirus is finally subdued:
- I’m afraid when I go back to work my pants won’t fit anymore.
- I won’t be able to get on an airplane without providing a blood sample.
- Friday night at the movies will become Friday night at the Hulu.
- Libraries will have all closed.
- Cruise ships will be towed off shore and sunk to build up the Great Barrier Reef (yeay!).
- You’ll need a license to go for a picnic.
- There will be home machines you can buy to turn old books and furniture into toilet paper.
- Clorox Company will buy Nabisco and make Bleach Blondie Brownies.
- A home hazmat chamber will don every frontdoor.
- Drone pilots will become an Olympic Sport.
When all this is said and done, Drumpf will have died from the virus (shot by an inoculated tranquilizer dart by Nancy Pelosi), and we’ll be resigned to living in a hyper-paranoid world where a six-foot distant “air hug” is considered affectionate. Kisses — NOT!
Is the Drive-In phenomena set to return?
We all feel safe in our cars right? Shuffle from the house or apartment, touch nothing along the way, open the door with gloves or steri-wipes and snuggle into your coronavirus free automobile. Then “Where to tonight kids?”
“To the movies!”
Or to the drive-thru eatery, the drive-thru bank, pharmacy or daiquiri fill-em-up station.
Are we about to experience a resurgence in service-by-auto establishments? Drive-in doctors? Drive-in dentists? We’ve got drive-by grocery pickup, dry-cleaning (though why anyone would dry-clean stay-at-home bathrobes?), and drive-by postal exchange.
Will there be sterilization services? Guys with hazmat suits spraying bleach from power-washers to destroy all contagions from the outside of your car before you attempt to drive it into your garage?
What else can we access from the safety of our wheeled bio-capsules?
How I love it when shit happens.
Despite anyone’s valiant attempts to strive for their personal goals, the world comes along and fucks shit up. Everyone’s shit.
And the realization that nothing you do will amount to anything, or, in Willy Wonka reverse notation, everything you do will amount to nothing, is first and foremost in everyone’s mind as the world comes apart in this /barely/ registered blip of illness called COVID-19.
Holy Hell Folks. 150,000 people die EVERY DAY on this planet. and that 15,000 “extra” dead folks after 2 months of illness is somehow a God-Enacted-Disaster is just so much bunk.
When the stock market tanks I stand up and cheer: screw you, you arrogant Wall Street fucks! (I worked writing trading software for eight years and know how it really works… Traders are assholes and corporations are the scourge of the Earth.)
So, to watch the market plummet TEN PERCENT in one day, Hallelujah, absolution is at hand. Of course, the economy is in good shape: banks, employment, oil prices, interest rates, lack of a war or agricultural calamity — good shape. When this brouhaha bleeds into the history books, the general markets will come screaming back.
But in the interim, gottdamn I love to watch the world squirm, dangling on its own false hooks.
A guy walks into a doctor’s office and says, Hey, I need an operation, will it hurt?
The doc smiles like a Cheshire cat and says, No, no, it’s practically painless. Just a little pinching and discomfort for a few days.
Well, hell, says the guy, sign me up.
Two weeks after the surgery, the guy goes back to the doctor’s office for a look-see by the doctor.
How are you feeling, sir?
What do you mean…
Well, aside from the tearing and burning and stabbing and hornets and hot match-heads, I’ve finally gotten to the point where I don’t want to hunt you down, strip you and wrap your groin in a bees nest.
Oh, I see. “Well, I’m not going to use you as a poster child for this operation…” — The doctor’s actual words!
Better and better everyday. I might actually be able to walk the stairs now without thinking someone just stuck a needle into my crotch.
It’s been just over seven days since my encounter with a mad man with a scalpel. Fortunately, I held my Stoic tongue and he only cut me twice — but in a most vulnerable location, one I use to pretty much to move my body in any direction. Gee thanks, doc.
Seven days and today is the first time I feel almost normal. No weird tearing sensation. Nor the six hornets all stinging in unison, three per side. Or the nauseating p-u-l-l of gravity at certain danglely bits. Mind you, I still ache for one of them flat icepacks. But, over all, I can finally imagine life without constant gut-clenching pain.
And to think, this was all quasi-voluntary. Sure, I’d mostly likely suffer in the future from some foolish lifting stunt. But to ask for such agony? I can only say that I’ve completed my “Man’s Cesarean” and look forward to drunken mud-bound tug-o-wars with the troops. (Anybody know any “troops” who need a crippled old programmer?)
Hell, I don’t know, a three, maybe?
Turns out my imagined pain scale placed my number rather low. I considered a one to be a bee sting and a ten to feel like I was cutting off my own left hand with a rusty hacksaw.
Given such a context, yeah, my pain registered in at a three. Well, apparently my tape measure, pulled from too many movies, belied my actual discomfort. My three is their six. Once we aligned our rulers I finally received relief.
Pain is subjective. How long is a string? How deep your depression? How high your elation?
The surgeon showed up and apologised. Surgery doesn’t always run on time. I’m glad mine did, though.
Thanks for you guys’ kind thoughts.
So, this guy is laying in a hospital bed waiting in prep for surgery. The nurse comes in and says the surgeon will be two hours late. The IV is in his arm. Everyone is on deck. Two hours to wait.
Does he get pissed? Does he curse the surgeon when he finally shows up? What? And risk an upset doctor? Hell no. I just have to lay here and wait, hungry and bored.