idiotprufs

Read by four out of five drunken monkeys, written by the fifth.

Archive for the tag “humour”

Lost and Found?

 

On a recent trip to the supermarket a remarkable, odds defying thing occurred. A thing so against the odds of probability, I would not hesitate to use the term incalculable to describe it.

What was this thing? Was I abducted by aliens? Did I encounter Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster? Did I win the lottery as I was being struck by lightning?

Nothing that likely happened.

I was able to select my groceries without impediment. I was able to find a checkout lane astoundingly vacant of other shoppers. And most crucially, I was able to complete a successful transaction without incident.

None of the following things happened:

  • The cash register malfunctioned.
  • The cash register malfunctioned then burst into flames.
  • The cashier burst into flames.
  • A price check for an item that mysteriously seems to have never had a price.
  • A price check for an item the store claims they don’t even sell. (That really happened!)
  • A twenty minute argument between the customer ahead of me and the cashier over the validity of a ten cent coupon for instant vanilla pudding.
  • Further complications when it’s discovered the coupon is from the nation of Sikkim.
  • A twenty minute argument over what year the nation of Sikkim ceased to exist and to what extent that might have an effect upon the validity of the coupon in question.

But none of those things happened. Upon returning home, I was putting away my groceries and reflecting upon the ease of my trip to the supermarket. I contemplated the possibility of this day marking a turning point for me and my endeavors in commerce. Then I had a stark realization: I’m missing something; the cashier didn’t give me one of my bags.

Of course.

I returned to the store. I returned to check out lane where I had been cashed out. I returned to the cashier who had cashed me out.

I explained to the cashier that I had not received one of my bags. She looked at me and loudly exclaimed: “I have never seen you before in my life!”

Of course.

The level of certitude with which she made this claim was astounding. If I had asked her if she had met the ghost of Elvis on the surface of Mars, she couldn’t have been more certain of a thing not happening.

I pulled the receipt from my pocket.

“Is your name Veronica?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Is this cash register number six?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said again with slight unease.

“Then I would say you saw me not more than fifteen minutes ago,” I told her.

“Oh yeah,” she shouted as if in a moment of great discovery. It was a reaction comparable to Archimedes famous bath when he hit upon the principle of buoyancy and ran through the streets naked and shouting “eureka”.

Note: In Greek, eureka means: hey everybody, check out my penis.

She directed me to customer service (I sneer derisively at the term “customer service”) where my missing bag was said to be.

At customer service I was told, “the bag sat here so long, we put it back on the shelf.”

“It’s only been fifteen ####ing minutes,” I said, in complete control of me faculties. Then I burned the store to the ground.

I eventually got my groceries back and I didn’t burn the store to the ground…yet.

“I shouldn’t have made that crack about what bears do in the woods.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vineyard Sues Fox Over Grape Assessment

grapes for testing

The grapes in question.

North East, Pa.–A local vineyard owner has made news this week after launching a lawsuit against grape tester Myron P. Fox. It seems the vineyard owner in question, Glenn A Farmer, has contested Mr. Fox’s assessment of the grapes in his vineyard. Specifically, Mr. Farmer has taken issue with Mr. Fox’s assertion that the grapes contained an abnormally low sugar content.

“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Fox, said, “the refractometer doesn’t lie.”

“The refractometer might not lie,” Mr. Farmer responded, “but the sack of crap using the refractometer does. He didn’t even properly test the grapes, he just declared them low in sugar content.”

“First of all,” Mr. Fox said in his defense, “when I arrived to test the grapes, there was nobody to be found. I waited around forever before Mr. Farmer bothered to show up.”

“I was running a little late,” Mr. Farmer admitted.

“He’s always running a little late,” Mr. Fox said condescendingly, “It was over an hour before he arrived. When he did arrive, he was completely unapologetic.”

“Mr. Fox can shove his refractometer up his butt,” Mr. Farmer said bitterly.

When it was pointed out to Mr. Fox that there seemed to be an animosity between the two that went beyond a simple grape testing, Mr. Fox had an explanation: “Mr. Farmer and I used to work together and one day he accused me of stealing his lunch.”

“I could smell the marinara sauce on his breath,” Mr. Farmer asserted.

“Okay. I may have eaten his lunch the one time,” Mr. Fox acquiesced, “but it wasn’t very good; I threw most of it away.” He then paused reflectively for a moment. “And I might have been banging his wife at the time, but is there really a need to hold a grudge.”

When told of Mr. Fox’s admission, Mr. Farmer scowled and muttered several curse words under his breath.

“The bottom line,” Mr. Fox said, “if I don’t have access to the grapes, I have to assume they’re sour.”

mr.fox

“If he didn’t want he lunch eaten, he should have hidden it better.

Race Results Overturned by a Hare

turtle wins

The result in dispute.

LAS VEGAS, NV–In a shocking turn of events, the Nevada Gaming Commission has vacated the results of the infamous Tortoise vs. Hare race. The gaming commission, following an extensive investigation, has determined the results to have been unduly influenced by outside manipulation.

“Our suspicions were first piqued by the fact that hares tend to be very quick animals, while tortoises tend to be extremely slow animals, almost painfully so. Have you ever found yourself stuck in line at the supermarket behind a tortoise? It’s just a nightmare,” the gaming commissioner said.

The commissioner also reported suspicious activity in wagering surrounding the race. “Basically just the idea that anyone would bet heavily on a tortoise to defeat a hare in any kind of race is highly suspicious.”

Adding to the questions swirling around the race was the Hare’s sudden rise from a hole in the ground in a field, to a lush garden in a penthouse.

“I’ve invested wisely,” the Hare told us, “if you think one rabbit’s foot is lucky, I’ve got four of them.”

When pressed about alleged connections to a notorious Las Vegas bookmaker, the Hare refused comment, only pausing to mutter, “I’ve no plans to become hasenpfeffer.”

The Tortoise maintains his victory to be hard fought and legitimate. “Slow and steady wins the race,” the Tortoise reminded us.

“We have heard the ‘slow and steady’ argument before,” the commissioner replied, “but our research indicates, being slow is not a desired trait when you’re trying to win a race of virtually any kind. In fact, it tends to be quite a detriment.”

The Tortoise has filed an appeal and plans to appear before gaming commission. They’re still waiting for him to arrive; he is very slow.

gambler

The Hare’s associate claims to be on the up and up.

 

Come See the Erie Frogs: Not Everbody Gets Eaten

erie frog

Big creepy frog.

If you been through Erie, Pennsylvania, you may have noticed a big creepy frog along the side of the road. You may have noticed several big creepy frogs along the side of the road. In fact, you may have noticed big creepy frogs everywhere.

There are, in fact, about 100 eight feet tall frog sculptures littered about Erie and the surrounding area.

erie frog

The frogs are part of the Lake Erie Art Project.

“Art isn’t meant to be beautiful; it’s meant to drive us and open us up to our fears and vulnerabilities…and if we can make small children wet themselves, so much the better,” one official said of the frogs. “We took that core philosophy and we ran with it; we ran like Forrest Gump.”

erie frog

The small one hasn’t stopped crying.

“You see,” the official went on to explain, “we felt there just wasn’t enough creepy shit in Erie. Don’t get me wrong, Erie is creepy: we have Bigfoot sighting on Presque Isle, haunted cemeteries, and roving bands of inbred cannibals, but we needed something extra.”

rocky frog

Another victim of the Erie frogs.

“And the rumor that the frogs come to life and devour people has been an unexpected bonus. If we can leave visitors of Erie scarred for life–we’ve done our job.”

erie frog

Another poor soul who got a little bit too close.

 

“So come to Erie and see our frogs,” the official said, “not everybody gets eaten.”

erie frog

“Welcome to Erie. You look delicious.”

I’m a Horrible Person

futurama

I know.

I’ve recently discovered I’m a soulless monster. My children are doomed to be soulless monsters. My children’s children are doomed to be soulless monsters. In fact, all of my descendants have a bleak soulless future.

It sucks.

All of this was pointed out to me by a woman who was quite certain I was pure evil.

What did I do to incur such condemnation–such wrath?

Did I murder someone?

No.

Did I steal from anyone?

No.

Did I punch a mime in the face at a child’s birthday party?

No–and he was really asking for it.

Did I harm any person in any manner?

No.

Did I club a baby seal?

Of course not.

Did I club Seal the singer?

Never. His music brings such joy to the world.

Did I smash a neighbor’s garden gnome with a shovel then pee on its remains?

Not that he can prove.

Did I get in the 12 items or less line with more than 12 items?

No.

Did I use the word less when the word fewer applied?

Apparently.

Did I keep a library book overdue for an extended period of time?

No.

Was the library book I kept overdue for an extended period of time, a self-help book titled: How to be Prompt, responsible, and Stop Compulsively Lying About not Keeping Library Books Overdue for Extended Periods of Time?

No???

Did I casually comment that I didn’t care for the movie Dances with Wolves?

Yes!

Evidently this is the worst thing a human can do. Not only does it reveal a horribly flawed taste in cinema, but it is also a mark of disrespect for the Native American culture.

Ridiculous! Did you realize the director’s cut of the movie is four hours long? If it were an erection, I would have had to call a doctor. And I can have a lot more fun with an erection than I can with a DVD of Dances with Wolves.

I quite enjoyed Braveheart, does that mean I hate the English?

Of course not. I love the English and their delicious muffins that perfectly hold in the buttery goodness.

I liked King Kong, does that mean I don’t like giant apes, and want to drop them from skyscrapers?

I love giant apes in every incarnation, from Mighty Joe Young to Grape Ape.

grape ape

He’s a giant ape and he’s grape–what’s not to like?

I really enjoyed Mississippi Burning, does that mean don’t like the KKK?

Okay…that was a bad example.

I thought The Children of the Corn was creepy and disturbing, does that mean I think children and corn are creepy and disturbing?

Well…I don’t think corn is creepy and disturbing.

I liked Roadhouse, does that mean I have a flawed taste in cinema?

Probably, but what are you gonna do?

I didn’t like Out of Africa, does that mean I don’t like…

I have no idea what that movie is about; it was so dreadfully boring, I quit paying attention early on.

I think Lawrence of Arabia is one of the greatest movies ever made, does that mean I don’t like the Turks?

To be honest, I spend precious little time contemplating the Turks.

I liked The Road Warrior, does that mean I want cataclysmic events to wipe out the majority of the world’s population?

I’ll get back to you on this one.

The point is, I didn’t like Dances with Wolves because I didn’t like it. It’s just an opinion and I’m allowed to have it.

If you’ve read this blog to any extent, (and if you have–I apologize) you understand my personal preferences are a little off in many regards.

I’ve had many people express their distaste for this blog, and I’m perfectly fine with it. (They’re all stupid-heads anyway.)

dances with wolves

If the movie had been about this dancing dog, I would have loved it.

Questions, Tattoos, and Questions about Tattoos

questionThroughout the course of my life I’ve been asked many questions:

Is that how your face has always looked, or were you involved in some unspeakable incident involving farm equipment, a vat of boiling acid, and a pack of ravenous ostriches?

Yes, but the ostriches weren’t ravenous–they were only slightly peckish.

Do your understand your Miranda rights as they’ve been read to you?

I’ve never met Miranda, I’m sure she’s a wonderful girl, but I don’t know why the police are always going on about her.

Did you think it wise to urinate on that police officer’s foot?

My buddy Jack Daniels thought it would be hilarious.

Did you smash my garden gnome with a shovel?

Not that you can prove, but yes.

But this is the question I’ve received the most:

Do you really have a tattoo of Winnie the Pooh with his head stuck in a honey pot on your left buttock?

 

Sadly, it was only drawn in marker and my monthly shower has caused it to fade to near imperceptibility.

But it has caused me to ponder something: if I were to get a tattoo, what would that tattoo be and where would it be placed?

I’ve come up with a few possibilities.

Winnie the Pooh with his head stuck in a honey pot on my left buttock.

It’s a classic and it has to be considered.

Dolph Lundgren’s face tattooed on my face so that I look like Dolph Lundgren.

I haven’t been perfecting my Dolph Lundgren impression over the past 20 years for nothing.

dolph lundgren

“If he dies–he dies.”

A brightly colored butterfly on my forehead.

It would distract from the carnage left behind by the unspeakable incident involving farm equipment, a vat of boiling acid, and a pack of slightly peckish ostriches.

Charles Manson’s face on my chest.

I need to cover the tattoo of Ellen Degeneres’s face on my chest with something less offensive.

That Miranda chick the police are always going on about.

miranda

Carmen Miranda.

This seems like an odd person for a cop to bring up moments after you’ve peed on his foot.

Mimes, everywhere a tattoo can be put.

If I’m going to do something I may regret in the future–I might as well really regret it.

There are so many great possibilities I am in an absolute quandary.

If you have any suggestions about my tattoo, I’m keen to hear them.

It’s a classic.

Let’s Get Squatchy

bigfoot

Alleged photo of Bigfoot near Bradford, Pennsylvania. The clearest photo yet.

I am brimming with excitement and anticipation.

I am going to venture intrepidly into the wilderness in the search for answers.

Bigfoot: does he exist? Is he out there? If he is out there, can I find him? If I do find him, will I just pee myself and runaway? I probably will.

After exhaustive research (the Discovery Channel) of Bigfoot sightings, individuals who have made those sightings, and those who hunt for Bigfoot, I have prepared a list of things I will need to start my search:

  • I will need a large wooded area. Luckily for me, I live in rural Pennsylvania. I also live in an area where there have been actual Bigfoot sightings over the years. Rural Pennsylvania is also good for UFO sightings, alien abductions, haunted graveyards, and roving bands of cannibals. (I’m joking about the roving bands of cannibals–the vast majority of our cannibals tend to be quite sedentary. Probably from all the people they eat.)
  • It is also important for the area where you’re searching to have plenty of thick brush, large outcroppings of rock, and thick walls of impenetrable fog and mist. The type of things that Bigfoot can quickly duck behind before you can get a clear picture of him.
  • A camera that takes pictures that are out of focus, out of frame, and generally blurry.
  • A FLIR thermal imaging camera. They’re great for picking up clear images of indistinct blobs that could be a Bigfoot, or possibly a squirrel.
  • A motion activated camera. When motion enters the field of view of the camera, it triggers a sensor, which promptly causes the camera to malfunction and burst into flames.
  • I will need an abnormally large percentage of my clothing to be camouflage, including my underwear and wallet.
  • A gun rack for the back of my pickup truck.
  • A pickup truck. (Preferably painted in camouflage.)
  • Bullet hole decals for my pickup truck…bigfoot hunters are badass.
  • The ability to pepper my vocabulary with the word squatchy regardless of context: I love what you’re done to your hair sweetheart–it’s squatchy.
  • A skeptic.

It’s always important for any self-respecting Bigfoot hunter to be accompanied by a skeptic. The skeptic’s job is to provide a counter-balance for the over-exuberant bigfoot hunter and to insure a measure of scientific process. It also vital for the skeptic to be unnecessarily and relentlessly condescending and snarky.

Skeptics are required to possess a whiny nasal voice and for some unknown reason, skeptics usually have the physical attributes of a rat. Any good skeptic will have sharp beady eyes and a wispy, ill-conceived mustache. (Man or woman.)

Skeptics like to say things to bigfoot hunters such as:

  • It’s highly unlikely any type of simian would reside in these woods since they lack the requisite body fat for survival in a colder climate. We’re the only ones stupid enough to be stomping around the forest at night in this freaking cold.
  • Hey, don’t drop that camouflage wallet out here in the woods, or you’ll really be doing some serious hunting.
  • A shower. Just once every day or two–think about it.
  • Why do you keep asking me if I want some cheese and then laugh hysterically?
  • No. I don’t think those truck noises out by the highway have anything to do with bigfoot.
  • While a putrid sulfur smell is associated with bigfoot sightings, I don’t think that’s what this smell is from. Seriously…take a shower.

Once I have compiled all the necessary equipment from the list above and found myself a suitable skeptic, I will venture into the wilderness and I will find the truth.

I may also get lost. If you don’t hear from me, send help.

bigfoot hunters

He gets it.

A Little Advice for Living in the Age of the Coronavirus

coronaIf the Coronavirus has taught us anything, it’s to live each moment like it’s your last.

I keep seeing this phrase in meme form–what a complete load of crap.

What if your last moment is because you’ve been shot in the face with an arrow. Do you really want to walk around living each moment like you’ve been shot in the face with an arrow? I’ve never been shot in the face with an arrow, but I would hazard a guess that it blows.

It has to be hard to do even simple things with an arrow stuck in your face. I would envision a lot of writhing around, bleeding profusely, and shouting things like, “where the hell did an arrow come from?”

For example: it would be difficult to enjoy a day of antiquing with an arrow stuck in your face. It’s difficult to enjoy a day of antiquing under normal circumstances. Antiquing sucks.

Where I live, I would get very little sympathy if I were shot in the face with an arrow. If I were lying on the sidewalk with an arrow in my face, I would get the following response:

Passerby #1: It looks like someone’s finally gone and done it.

Passerby #2: Yep. It was only a matter of time before somebody snapped. Although, I thought it’d be with an axe.

Passerby #1: He just bought those sunglasses.

Passerby #2: I know. Good luck wearing those with an arrow in your eye socket.

Passerby #1: Should we help him?

Passerby #2: No. He’s all gross and bloody. Let’s go antiquing.

That’s right: they’re a coldhearted bunch where I live. A coldhearted bunch of antiquing jackasses.

If the Facebook pages of the people who post the advice: “if the Coronavirus has taught us anything, it’s to live each moment like it’s your last,” are to be believed, they would spend their last moments, sitting in the backyard, getting hammered on cheap vodka, stuffing their round faces with potato salad, and playing cornhole, as they discuss whether or not it’s legal to date your second cousin in the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Jason Aldean music is playing in the background.

(I’m just guessing about the Jason Aldean part.)

I am beginning to realize why a person might be compelled to shoot me in face with an arrow.

If you were to actually live each moment like it’s your last, shooting someone in the face with an arrow is exactly the type of thing you would do.

Admit it: if these were your last moments on Earth and there were no consequences, you’d be camped out outside of some jerks house that you hate, with a bow and arrow in your hand and Phil Collins’ I Don’t Care Anymore, playing in the background as you wait for your moment.

I’d better be careful the next time I step out of the house.

jason aldean in camo

Jason Aldean outside my house…just waiting.

Mad Dog 20/20: The Greatest Invention Ever


invention symbol

When you’re having a reflective moment and you’re pondering the greatest invention in human history, what springs to mind?

Is it fire? The wheel? The combustion engine? That little plastic thing that keeps the top of your pizza from being smeared on the box? All very important.

Perhaps it’s the written word. (Although that’s certainly not reflected here.)

You probably think it’s an advancement in medicine or technology.

Wrong! The answer is Mad Dog 20/20.

I know what you’re thinking: why am I wasting precious moments of a finite lifetime reading a bunch of drivel written by a person who is clearly unstable and who probably spent far too much of his youth eating paste and crayons.

Wrong Again! I still eat paste and crayons.

I’m going to provide five specific reasons for my assertion that Mad Dog 20/20 is the greatest invention of all time.

Reason #1

It’s not just wine–it’s a flavored fortified wine.

It’s fortified!

Fortified wines have a higher alcohol content than regular sissy wines.

Anything with the word fort in it is inherently superior to anything without the word fort in it.

Example:

Fort Worth, Texas: thriving metropolis populated with the highest caliber of people.

Worth, Illinois: total shithole filled with mimes.

Enough said.

Reason #2

If you’re anything like me, (my sympathies if you are) you are dazzled by things that are bright and shiny. Mad Dog 20/20 is available in a myriad of brightly colored flavors. There’s so many brilliant colors it’s dizzying. And if you’re into to dizziness: consuming Mad Dog 20/20 can help you with that too.

md 20/20

It’s dizzying.

Reason #3

The medical applications of Mad Dog 20/20 are practically endless.

  • It kills the Coronavirus. (It kills most living things; I assume that includes the Coronavirus.)
  • It’s essentially a cure for not having liver disease.
  • Too many pesky brain cells:? Mad Dog 20/20 is the solution.
  • It makes your vomit glow in the dark–how cool is that?
  • It makes you vomit: vomiting cleanses the body and entertains your friends.
  • It also makes your urine glow in the dark. You’d be surprised how often that comes in handy.
  • It’s a memory suppressor: if you drink a bunch of Mad Dog 20/20, and you do something crazy and stupid, you won’t remember it. (However, the authorities may remind you of what you’ve done.)

Reason #4

Applications apart from drinking it.

  • Self defense: it can be used to blind an attacker.
  • As an adhesive: it’s one of the stickiest substances known to man.
  • Entomology: it can be used to attract bees, ants, or hobos.
  • As a repellent: it repels wombats, musk oxen, and The French.
  • Monetarily: it’s used as currency in the best federal prisons.
  • Status: if you keep Mad Dog 20/20 on display in your home, people will know you’re classy.

Reason #5

Mad Dog 20/20 is produced in my hometown of Westfield, NY. It’s a wonderful small village in western New York that has produced many brilliant people…and me.

It’s surprising the word fort isn’t in the name of the village. Strictly speaking, somebody dropped the ball on that.

I think at this point you probably agree with me that Mad Dog 20/20 is the greatest invention of all time.

So drink up.

Westfield ny

Many brilliant people.

Addendum: my apologies to the citizens of Worth, Illinois, I’m sure you’re fine people.

A Postitive Take on Social Distancing

masked killer

Jason Vorhees may have brutally killed people, but he was diligent about mask wearing in public.

Some of you out there may think our country has spiraled into an Orwellian nightmare of oppressive governmental control where citizens inform upon each other to the State over the slightest infraction, resulting in the jackbooted stomping our of civil liberties into the mud like we’re the kulaks of Stalinist Russia.

Of course you are correct.

But let’s look at the bright side: with everyone wearing masks, you don’t have to look at ugly people anymore. Let’s be honest: most of the people you know are not comely. Plus, bad breath is no longer an issue with the masks and social distancing. All those people in the Gulag labor camps never had that luxury.

When your neighbor, beedy-eyed Betty, reports you to the authorities because she knows for a fact you don’t wear a mask when you’re in the shower, you can take solace in the fact that you can’t see beedy-eyed Betty’s gargoyle-like face. (That is of course, after the waves of terror and revulsion stop pulsing through your body.)

Remember: it’s a better world when most of the people you know are more than six feet away from you.

I’m just trying to keep it positive.

stalinist Russia

Not only did the kulaks suffer immeasurably, they had to do it without masks and in black and white.

 

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