Everyone from the CDC to your mom is giving you tips on how to avoid the Coronavirus as it spreads over the world like a blanket made of sickness. Instead of giving you the usual advice about washing your hands and not French-kissing outbreak patients, the Intergalactic Business Report offers 10 secret tips to stay safe. You’re welcome.
SECRET TIP ONE: Live on a different planet. The Coronavirus is a pandemic, which generally affects everyone on Earth. But if you move to another world that isn’t planet Earth, then you should be fine.
SECRET TIP TWO: Become a hermit on a remote island. This option will become harder and harder as all the islands are taken by other hermits, but if you move quickly, you could claim one all for yourself.
SECRET TIP THREE: Start a new life as a cyborg that doesn’t contract diseases. This is probably the most obvious tactic to take against the Coronavirus, since you continue to live your current life almost exactly as it is now. Only you’re a robot or whatever.
SECRET TIP FOUR: Remove your hands. Hands touch things. Things have bacteria on them. Things have the Coronavirus on them. Stop touching things by not having any hands to touch them. Brilliant.
SECRET TIP FIVE: Remove your head. This goes well with Number Four, above. The Coronavirus infects people when they breathe it in through their mouths and noses or rub their eyes with their finger (attached to hands! See above) that has the virus on it. If you have no head, this is virtually impossible, and the Coronavirus be like, “Whaaat?” And it will move on to its next victim, which isn’t you.
SECRET TIP SIX: Become a virtual version of yourself in which your avatar lives in a disease-free world. What’s best about this option is that you can come up with all kinds of cool outfits to wear, have a perfect body, and you can make your hair red (or whatever color you want).
SECRET TIP SEVEN: Have sex with an Editor from the Intergalactic Business Report. Apparently, this makes you impervious to sickness. We know. Weird, right?
SECRET TIP EIGHT: Make a “not gonna get the Coronavirus pact” with yourself. And give yourself no room to fail.
SECRET TIP NINE: Change all David Lynch movies into the Coronavirus. That way no one will ever get it.
SECRET TIP TEN: Pretend you’re a virus too, and when the Coronavirus comes for you, just be like, “Hey, what up? How’s infecting? Really? Wow. That’s way better than me. Well, see you later, I guess.”
In an article that we will submit for Pulitzer Prize consideration, Cedric Bigglestone finally exposes the truth about the academy awards.
Every February of every year since the beginning of time, I have watched the Oscars. Never invited to the actual event, I am forced to see the ceremony from the zebra skin rug that sits in front of my television in my meager apartment.
Like most of us, I masturbate during the sexy parts, like the opening with Billy Crystal, and I cry when the commercials come on. But there's something about this yearly activity that seems off or abnormal. This led me to write the most damning exposé I’ve ever done. Below is the outline of my journey:
PART ONE: I GET SUSPICIOUS.
For six years straight, no one has replied to my Oscar party invitations, which I sent through snail mail, telegram, and telepathically, assuming that one of the messages would get through to local college girls whose pictures I have seen on their sorority composites before being asked to leave the premises.
How is it possible that every single, nubile, young woman in my area is totally uninterested in coming to my place to view the biggest event in the entertainment industry? Something just isn’t right, and it pushes me to open a full-blown investigation.
PART TWO: THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS.
In the past, local police have tried to throw me off investigations of local sorority girls. They used scare tactics and intimidation by throwing out legal terms like “restraining order” and “I don’t want to ever see you near this campus again.” So, it is useless to seek help from them.
Instead, I look to an old friend who has had his own trouble with the law: Billy Crystal.*
The best host in the history of the Oscars is also someone I would do anything for, including dying, if it included him telling me I was his best friend and some sort of memorabilia, like the shirt he wore in a movie or an object that touched his lips a lot. If anyone is going to help me, it would be Billy.
PART THREE: THE INVESTIGATION STALLS.
Billy Crystal is fucking impossible to contact or find. Where do you even start? I think he lives in California, but I’m just guessing. And if he does, it sucks for me, because I don’t live near California. Fuck this. This is hard.
PART FOUR: A TURNING POINT.
At a local bar, someone asks me if I am going to watch the Academy Awards. Then it clicks. Why would some random dude in a bar ask me that? Why would my whole crotch area be suddenly wet with urine? None of it makes sense…. Except if the Oscars are fake and broadcast through a wormhole designed by a scientist who wants to destroy the movie industry from the safety of his dimension.
But who would that scientist be? And why does he hate movies?
PART FIVE: I LOCATE THE OTHER DIMENSION.
Using only nipple clamps and a bottle of drugs, I force myself out of my own mind and into the universe, where I search for the scientist who is trying to destroy Hollywood. At some point, I stop to take a dump, which I know means I am just shitting myself back on planet Earth, in my apartment, and it’s going to suck to clean it up.
But, as I am taking a dump, the scientist appears and guess who it is? Billy fucking Crystal. He laughs and tells me no one will believe my story, even if I publish it in one of the most respected news sources in the world—the Intergalactic Business Report. I feel defeated, but then I find the strength to take action.
PART SIX: I FIGHT BILLY CRYSTAL IN THE OTHER UNIVERSE.
I spring up from my imaginary toilet seat and attack Billy, who for some reason is super good at fighting and throws me around the hallucinatory bathroom. Shit is everywhere, and I know that means I’m flinging poop again in my apartment, which is, as my landlord told me, going to be the last straw and get me evicted, even though it’s not like I do it every day or anything.
Billy pins me near the sink, and then I summon my sword of knowledge and light, which is really my penis, but in the other dimension, it’s a sword. I beat the living crap out of him with it and he is vanquished.
PART SEVEN: CLOSURE.
I have saved the academy awards and evil Billy Crystal is banished to a cyborg colony in a distant, altered reality. Hollywood owes me a debt of gratitude. Also, my apartment is covered in shit.
*EDITOR’S NOTE: Billy Crystal is a law-abiding citizen. Evil Billy Crystal is an asshole, however.
Cedric Bigglestone is a self-taught journalist who exposes things through exposés. Contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Reports so secret we hide them on this page.