When the news first arrived, I thought it had to be a joke. A deadly virus that no one could see was causing the entire world to shut down.
Then came the stay at home orders.
Let me back up just a little before I tell the rest of this story. For most of my adult life, I’ve had a simple dream—namely that I could sit in my apartment, eat whatever I liked, and drink till I was so ripped I could shit my pants and not realize it or care.
Back to the story. The stay at home orders. This fulfilled part one of my prophecy—the part about me sitting in my apartment and not having to leave. Nice, I thought.
Then I saw stuff on the news about “essential businesses,” that were staying open. Grocery Stores. Check. That’s where a lot of my food was going to come from. Then I saw Taco Bell listed. Check again, only better.
Finally, they said that liquor stores were also essential. No shit, I thought. Checkmate.
Just when I thought my life couldn’t possibly get any better, they announced that I’d get a government check, just for sitting on my ass at home. What?
Within no time, Uber Eats was bringing me Taco Bell and I was screaming at the dude from behind my plexiglass storm door. He tried to understand me but gave up. It didn’t matter because I was just yelling, “I’m drunk.”
Fast forward a little and now people start talking about “re-opening.” What the fuck is that? I wondered. Apparently, it meant the worst. That fat alcoholism was only a temporary thing and that soon I’d be expected to go back to work and talk to people without being drunk.
Side note: talking to people sober is like a disability for me. I have trouble doing it because I tend to lie a lot in that I won’t tell them to fuck off and that I hate them. When I’m drunk, I have no problem doing that. Also, I shit myself at work one time and human resources said it was “inappropriate,” and “demeaning” to the people I wiped it on. Also that I was “fired.”
Another issue I have with going back to work is the clothing crisis. Nobody likes talking about this, but many people like me don’t fit into our regular clothes anymore. Now that we’re so fat, we’ve opted for stretch pants and sweats and sometimes even wearing nothing. The last option is probably the most comfortable except when I burn my nuts with cooking oil when I’m trying to deep fry cheesecake (which doesn’t work, by the way).
I think the country might be better off if they used fat drunks to fuel our country. I assume there’s a scientific process by which we could hook up people like me to some kind of energy source and we could provide electricity to others, maybe for free. I imagine this would also fight climate change somehow.
In conclusion, I think the only way to put this is that I’ve had my dream ruined by people who would rather stop me from drinking and eating than helping America. So, in a way, I’m just fighting against Hitler, which is good, right? And anyone disagreeing with me is Hitler’s buddy, like the guy who carries his shit around for him and says stuff like, “Oh, Mr. Hitler, can I please hold your nut sack for you while you pee?”
So good job, evil nazis. You’re winning. And yeah, I’m drunk. Super drunk. And I’m about to eat a cake by myself.
UPDATE: I am currently looking for work and would be interested in anything that involves house sitting. Also, I can do long haul trucking and debt collection. Thank you.
Ed Mountaineer operates on his own, like a rogue agent (whatever that means). We do not endorse his views or support his lifestyle choices. We do print whatever he writes, but that’s not on us.
If you’ve ever watched zombie movies or television shows, you’ve probably asked yourself a simple question: Why is this in any way appealing to me or anyone else for any reason whatsoever? But once you got past that, you reveled in the frightening depictions of a decaying world in which only the strong, ruthless, or lucky survive.
The Intergalactic Business Report studied actual zombie apocalypses in order to give our readers a more realistic view of how humans survive or die. We determined that the reason so few people live through such events comes down to six stages, which we have outlined below:
During most zombie apocalypses, there’s an initial period where people freak out and hide from the zombies. This usually lasts about three months.
In stage two, most of the people get tired of hiding and decide they should maybe leave their houses. One of them usually says something like, “Listen, it’s been long enough. It’s time to get out there and re-open stuff.”
Stage three begins shortly thereafter when people start to think the zombie apocalypse was a trick by the government to keep people locked up and compliant.
A lot of questions are also asked about what the government is going to do to end the zombie problem because it’s taking forever and there doesn’t seem to be a solution.
At some point a guy from the government is on t.v. and says they’re working on it and they think they could have a cure to the zombies if they can just have more time.
Some guy in his living room yells at the t.v.: “It’s been three fucking months!”
A bunch of people say the zombies aren’t dangerous and that you could go outside and hang out with them and nothing would happen.
Others believe that even if you do get bitten by a zombie it’s not that bad.
Stage five starts a couple hours after stage four, when everyone leaves their houses and go to bars, which just got re-opened. At the bars they do stuff like try to shake hands with the zombies who wander in and take pictures with them.
Pretty much all those people get killed by the zombies and turn into zombies themselves.
The rest of the people hide indoors and say stuff like: “What a bunch of assholes. Look at them getting eaten by zombies.” The indoor people feel vindicated when they see their formerly cocky neighbor wandering around as an undead creature. The pleasure lasts about four minutes. Then they realize that might be better than hiding in their houses forever. Then they try to order Uber Eats.
ED WRITES NOVELS NOW. THESE EXCERPTS ARE TAKEN FROM RANDOM PAGES OF HIS LATEST EPIC, “FACEBLASTER.”
“Stop trying to make me into a clone!” screamed Clone134xH.
The doctor continued, as if he didn’t hear the plea.
“At least make my balls huge?” reasoned Clone134xH.
“Then you wouldn’t be an exact clone of Captain Starbuckle. You’d be him only with giant nuts.”
Captain Starbuckle unleashed his penis, which had been hidden beneath his raincoat for what seemed like hours.
Space penises like his could detach from their user and go on spy missions.
“Goodbye, penis,” he whispered soulfully. “Come back with the information I need.”
In the Blorodorian Galaxy only Flatutions were allowed to grope at the pulsating statue nipples. But Jeff did it anyway.
“Bleepz! Bleepz!” The nipples sounded the alarm, bringing the temple centurions out of their guard’s nests.
“You have violated space law 334!” one of them shouted.
Jeff squeezed his nuts violently, transporting him to the year 1983 on Earth.
“Well hello, Michael Jackson,” he said.
“Hello, Jeff,” Michael replied.
AND ANOTHER EXCERPT:
Four trillion years was a long time to grow a penis, thought Captain Starbuckle as he gazed upon his massive tool.
“Can we use it like a bridge? And walk back to Earth?” questioned Chorgo.
“Hop on and let’s find out,” Starbuckle cheered.
Look for Ed’s book at bookstores everywhere soon? -The Editors.
The Intergalactic Business Report’s singer/songwriter duo, Jeff Massengill and Summer Eve, release a blockbuster new song about how they plan to open their sex parts to coincide with America’s re-opening amidst the Coronavirus pandemic. While we can’t provide sound or melody, we are releasing the lyrics, below:
“So many weeks… So much time… I look down at my crotch… Is it still mine?”
“So many nights… I wondered when… My skanky friend… Hey how you been?”
“Need a little while to reacquaint…. With everything down there, even my taint…”
“It’s time to re-open… Time to unlock the latch… America’s open, and so is my snatch…”
“I thought I stopped baking cookies, but here’s a new batch. America’s open, and so is my snatch…”
“Lost my job drilling oil, down at the dock… Now I’m starting new drilling, this time with my cock…”
“The bank is foreclosing, I can’t get a loan… But they’ll never stop me from using my bone…”
“It’s time to re-open… Time to sing a new song… America’s open and so is my Schlong…”
“Time to shout at the sky, all the way up to Venus. America’s open and so is my penis.”
*Artist notes: REPEAT LIKE FORTY TIMES.
Ever wonder how you got your last name? Wonder how others got theirs? Today, the Intergalactic Business Report delves deep into what your name actually means, based on history and language.
LAST NAME: Dickinson.
MEANING: Son of a dick.
ORIGIN: If you were a total dick and had a son, this is what his last name would be.
LAST NAME: Dildotester.
MEANING: One who tests dildoes.
ORIGIN: Someone (your relatives?) had to test them to make sure they worked, right?
LAST NAME: Hookersassistant.
MEANING: Not a hooker, but the one who helps the hooker out.
ORIGIN: Long ago, prostitutes needed a “squire” who would carry their stuff for them and do their makeup. That was your ancestor.
LAST NAME: Fruitfucker.
MEANING: Someone who has sex with fruit.
ORIGIN: In ancient times, criminals used fruit to get off. They were banished for ruining all the produce and then went out and had babies when they used real genitalia for sex. You are the result of that.
LAST NAME: Shitstealer.
MEANING: If you take a dump and don’t clean it up, a shitstealer might take it.
ORIGIN: Feces must have been valuable at some point, because this surname suggests a whole group of people stole it and did it so often they were given this last name.
LAST NAME: Assmuncher.
MEANING: We can’t figure this one out.
LAST NAME: Penisface.
MEANING: Your face looks like a penis.
ORIGIN: Look at your face. Does it look like a penis? Probably does because why would you have that last name if it didn’t?
LAST NAME: Shitforbrains.
MEANING: Instead of a brain, there’s just a pile of shit inside your head.
ORIGIN: Someone in your family died along time ago and they opened up his skull as part of an autopsy. Shit poured out. They said, “Wow, this guy has shit for brains.” That guy was your great great great great great grandfather.
Like yoghurt, we keep it cultured actively.