Me:  What’s up, Sisyphus?

Sisyphus:  Not this Zeusdamn bolder.

Me: That bad, eh?

Sisyphus: Could be worse.

Me: Oh?

Sisyphus:  I could be campaigning for Universal Health Care in the United States.

Me: Definitely stick to pushing boulders. Unless you’d like to swap jobs with me and grade my endless stack of high school English papers. 

Sisyphus:  No thanks. I might be a glutton for punishment, but I’m not fucking crazy. 

Me: Duly noted. 

Sisyphus: Welp, gotta run…

Heavenly Prospects herded by gates subcontracted from summer festival venues on Earth

Tweet: What the hell do these ungrateful Angels want now? I already cut their Sunday shifts in half, so they’d have more time to worship ME. Have you seen MY ratings since then? AMAZING! It’ll be a cold day in Hell before I give them “essential worker” They just want more money and harp time. I’m the ONE making ALL the sacrifices around here! So Selfish!!!

God’s latest Tweetstorm was ignited by Saint Peter, who reached out to the Almighty for some godly assistance on the front lines. “We cannot keep up with the current deluge of bodies clamoring at the Pearly Gates and demanding that they get into Heaven,” Saint Peter texted to God. “And now the pandemic is rapidly spreading from Earth to the Heavens and the Gatekeepers, who we assumed had reached an immortal status, are falling ill and dying in vast numbers.”

Dr. Gabriel Horowitz, director or the Heavenly Pestilence Center, corroborated Saint Peter’s concerns. “We thought Heaven was immune to COVID-19 before we unleashed it upon Earth to help thin the Libertarian herd,” Dr. Horowitz said. “Not only did we underestimate Human’s capacity for blind ignorance but we also learned that the virus has no boundaries, including those of us who now call Heaven “Home’”.

Tweet: So now it’s MY FAULT that the Earth Virus is making its rounds in MY Kingdom?!!! I think we ALL know who the real culprit is here. #SATANGATE

Saint Peter also informed the Almighty that they’ve reached a tipping point and can no longer handle the influx of souls. “We’ve enacted a lottery system to determine who gets into hell and who is sent back down to wander Earth until the Heavenly Climate Change Center finishes processing the planet for recycling.”

Tempers continue to boil at the Pearly Gates as patience is on the cusp of extinction. Heavenly Prospects have started removing their masks and refuse to stand six feet behind one another, risking contamination of the very same virus that killed them in the first place.

Satan’s Spokesman, Alex Jones, leads protesters at the Pearly Gates in a call-response chant: “Live Free or Die Again”

Meanwhile, God has shut himself up inside the Kingdom on the Hill and refuses to conduct any more briefings after a female Angel of the Heavenly Press asked Him if He was going to wear a mask as a sign of solidarity and to model precautionary measures.

“I don’t need to wear a mask. I’m God, Dammit!” the Almighty bellowed before storming off in a Biblical rage.

Pandemic Ghost of COVID-Future : Boys, girls, and gender neutrals, I remember my first pandemic as if it were only yesterday… Gather ’round the Hologram fire, sit down on your social-distance squares and let me tell you about the Pre-COVID golden days back when people shook hands, most Americans couldn’t pronounce bidet, and household disinfectants were not one of the four major food groups*.

(*Sarcasm Disclaimer: Under no uncertain terms does the Say Something Funny Administration suggest or condone the injection of household disinfectants (e.g. Lysol, bootleg whiskey. etc.) as preventive care or a remedy for the Covid-19 virus. If unsure whether anything in an SSF post is supposed to be taken literally or sarcastically, please do call the Sarcasm Hotline: 1-WHAT-DA-FUCK. Our operators will be standing by to take your calls and listen to your concerns.)

Pandemic Ghost of COVID-Present (COVID blocks Pandemic Ghost of COVID Future): However, before you listen to more yarns of conspiracy theories and the COVID Disinformation Center (C.D.C.) lifts the temporary ban on the future, we need to begin hoarding some of the messages that Covid-19 has already taught us.

COVID Disinformation Center (C.D.C.)

Lesson No. 1: 10 Seasons of The Walking Dead Have Taught Us Nothing

When I first watched The Walking Dead, I knew it was prophecy at first sight. Having seen my share of the Walking Living, I knew that shit was about to get real and the Zombies were not only an existential threat to our way of life but a living metaphor for whatever pandemic was Amazon primed from above to pick up where Jesus and other prophets had failed us. The Walking Dead is the new and improved Testament and Rick Grimes is the new Messiah. Unfortunately, the Walking Living, in particular Red-White-and-Blue Blooded Americans, have mastered the art of ignoring awful truths at their own peril.

While Rick and his disciples spend most of the early seasons scouring abandoned pharmacies and box stores for penicillin and ammunition, the today’s Walking Living spent the early stages questing and fighting over toilet paper. That’s right folks, squeezable Charmin Ultra-Soft Asswipe had become the Holy Grail of the new Pandemic.

Thanks to COVID-19 the lovable Mr. Whipple of yore has now become the poster boy for Pandemic Creepers. “Mr. Whipple, please don’t squeeze the Charmin.”

During the first season of COVID-19, state governments urged citizens to adopt voluntary house arrest, so they could sit in the comfort of their own homes watch the federal and state governments slowly unravel on television and the internet. Messiah Rick and his Disciples faced a similar debate early on as to whether they should stay or go – eventually opting for a hybrid model. Meanwhile, the carefully cast Noahs arc of diversity was not content with Anarchy or Libertarianism, so they went window shopping and tried on new governments to see if they could find one size that fits all. Like a band of fickle teenagers, they were never satisfied:

Teen Extra 1:   “OMG, this Dictatatorhip makes me feel so secure but there’s something about that Governor dude and his creepy eye patch that makes my skin crawl.”

Teen Extra 2:  “I know, right. l and, like, totally makes my skin break out in rashes. 

Teen Extra 1:  “Besides, I’m like more of Self-Sustaining, Cooperative Living Minimalist kinda girl.”

Teen Extra 2:  “Fo’ sure.. Could you hand me some of those abandoned holy jeans and sweaters?”

Teen Extra 1:  “Totes retro…”

In less than three months of COVID-19, we’ve learned that our current form of Democracy is no better than a pair of old-school, holy jeans. While they look Chic on the outside, all it takes is a major storm to hit for us to realize that the majority of Americans are a few threads away from being pantless (hence, the birth of Zoom video conferencing, where pants are optional).  Leading up to the pandemic, both sides of Democracy’s aisle decried Socialism as the faux patch to our social fabric, only to adopt its’s tenets when the government quickly unraveled. 

And now that the Libertarian seeds of dissent have had time to sprout conspiracy theories percolating from the Alt-right wing of the Dark Web and take root in voluntary captivity, it’s time for the Dead to unplug, tear off their masks, and take to the empty streets to demand the return of Freedom. Let the Zombie Apocalypse begin! 

All signs, figurative and literal,  point to the end of the world as we know it…

Inspired by the cult-classic film, “Shaun of the Dead”, protestors stormed Ohio statehouse, chanting, “MAKE AMERICA UNDEAD AGAIN!”

 “Haircuts are a right, not a privilege!”

“Science is Satan’s Pawn!”

“Our ignorence is not 4 cell. You cant by our silence 4 $1,200!”

“Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad!”

“Life is a Beach, not a DEATH SENTENCE!”

Rick 3:13:  “Thou shalt not covet thy partner’s wife.”

FADE OUT:

“I had to tell staff security a lie ‘this big’ in order to see you without a mask,” Mike Pence tells his captive audience of one. 

While recently visiting the Mayo Clinic, Pence — the Head of the Coronavirus Task Force — opted to buck the clinic policy and go full-monty and not wear a mask. This would be akin to the famed sex therapist, Dr. Ruth, telling her young lover, “You don’t need to wear a condom. I’m clean.”

Invariably, a tweet from rogue a reporter went viral on social media and unmasked Pence’s hypocrisy for the quarantined world to see. Before stepping into his Boss’s playing-dumb footsteps, Pence played the executive white-privilege card and confessed that he’s tested daily for Covid-19.

What the Fake News failed to report are some of the excuses that Pence and his staffers spit-balled before committing to the top-down, Play Dumb Strategy: “I wasn’t aware that was the Mayo Clinic policy”:

Top 10 Excuses Pence & the Gang Considered for Not Wearing Mask to Mayo Clinic Before Opting to Play Dumb(er)

1. I left my mask in the glove compartment aboard Air Force 2
2. I was under the impression that we would be touring a Mayonnaise factory
3. I’m still getting used to having to DO stuff
4. I could not find any scripture that supports wearing a mask during a global pandemic
5. Alex Jones Obama told me NOT to wear one
6. Wanted to cheer patients up by showing them my smile
   

   The staff at SSF scoured the internet for a picture of Pence smiling and this is the closest we could find. 

7. It was a security precaution. What most people don’t realize is that the majority of masks are Made in U.S.A. China
8. You can’t believe everything you see or hear on Trump’s Daily Covid-19 Briefing Fake News
9. I left it on my printer at home. I swear to God that I’ll wear it the next time I tour the Mayo factory
10. I loaned my mask to a nonessential worker who gave it away to his wife, Melania

Bonus excuse dialed in by Mikey’s wife, Karen, before she adopted the play-dumb stance:

• Had I known it was Mayo Clinic policy, I would have packed a mask in Mikey’s suitcase between his CliffsNotes Holy Bible and rainbow boxer shorts

Multiple annotated reads of George Orwell’s 1984 have taught me all of the mathematical concepts this struggling prole needs to know in order to survive our pre-apocalyptic world – preemptively dubbed the “Tin Foil Hat Era”:

1. 2 + 2 = 5

2. The proles (i.e. 99 Percenters) – sex, booze, Cliffsnotes, drugs, Little Debbies, televised sports, People Magazine and the lottery = 100-percent fucked (metaphorically speaking of course, given sex has been removed from the equation)

3. Proletariat – Hope = Total Anarchy*

*Imagine President Donald Trump with a Purple Crayon

Initially these concepts were immaculately conceived by God Big Brother, who impregnated the first sets of televisions, which eventually begat computers when Big Brother’s wandering eye preyed upon a younger, prettier, albeit more promiscuous medium of its former self. Big Brother’s minions, the One-Percenters, know these concepts as well, which is why they stoked the Hope Machine by adding the Powerball Lottery to its fire, which is currently burning in our collective underbelly to the tune of an estimated $1.5 billion ($930 million cash value, so not quite a billion dollar haul, unfortunately).

You heard me right, suckers: $1.5 billion — the asking price for the western half of Iowa. (For the record: Nobody’s asking.)

The One-Percenters also know that the lottery, like the U.S. tax code and ATM surcharges, is completely rigged in their favor. Even so, Powerball Fever has swept the nation as the proles push their other addictions distractions aside, hit the ATM machines,  and bow and pray before the Almighty Powerball God that He will spit out the winning numbers.

69 coupling balls in Big Brother’s ball, pushing and shoving to be the next in line

Tragically, these gateway prayers lead to more dangerous, irrational behaviors and illusions of grandeur that, given the 1 in 292,000,000 odds of winning, the Almighty Powerball God will pick you (and the IRS) to be the Chosen One. This would be akin to thinking that of the estimated 2.2 Christians on Earth, God picked you of all people to run for president of the United States, so you could fuck up Earth,  one of his most disappointing creations — second only to Man. Other symptoms of Powerball Fever include speaking in prime numbers, talking about the lottery in lieu of the weather or that game last night and/or filling out paperwork to run for public jester office.

Although the conspiracy theory side of my brain is convinced the lottery is rigged, the left side reminds me that I was one number away from winning the Iowa Lottery 27 years ago. Having recently finished my two-year tour with Uncle Sam at the time, I was trying to plant my financial feet in the civilian world and recall saying, “If I just had $500 dollars, I could pay all my bills, buy some new pants for work, and have money left over to splurge on libations for my friends.” Two days later, I hit five of the six numbers and won $600. Had I prayed to God for a “34,” I would have won $3.8 million. Both of these numbers have haunted me ever since.

I took my winning ticket to the nearby Super Value grocery store on 42nd and University in Des Moines, and the customer service representative was in a state of shock when he ran my ticket. Without missing a beat he slipped me six bennies, and I was on my way to living the dream. I took my winnings and, as it was prophesied, I paid my bills, bought two pairs of pants for my work wardrobe and bought a keg of Milwaukee’s Best — only the Best for my fellow proles, eh?

I found out later that I was supposed to fill out some paperwork and pay Uncle Sam his cut, since my winnings were over $500. Note:  If you’re reading this and work for the IRS, I already spent all my winnings. Although I’m still wearing the same pants as part of my teaching wardrobe. So if you want your slice, Big Brother, come and take my pants, you Totalitarian Motherfucker!

Needless to say the right side of my brain eventually surrendered to the left, and I decided to purchase the winning ticket of Wednesday night’s drawing. That and I had a vivid vision while paying homage to the coffee gods at Java House. God, dipped in black leather from head to toe, paid me a visit and said that He would give me the winning numbers if I promised to finance a campaign that removed “In God We Trust” from all paper money and replaced it with “You Ungrateful Bastards Owe Me, Big Time!”

Me: I don’t know, that seems like a heavy burden.

God: (looking in to the distance) If you only knew…if you only knew the first thing about heavy burdens…

Me: Okay…okay, what are the winning numbers?

He looked around to make sure that none of the nearby heathens were listening in, bent down and whispered the winning numbers into my ear as I wrote them down on a napkin.

Me: 34!? Are you sure about that, God?

God: Goddamn right I’m sure. Look at Me, I’m God for Christ’s sake.

In spite of the black leather attire, the left side of my brain conceded that God did indeed have a point, while the right side was overcome with giddiness after hearing God use His own name in vain. Priceless, it thought…priceless. After writing the numbers down, I looked up and God had disappeared. I noticed that the rest of my Java Cooler had also disappeared, a small penance for being a billionaire, I conceded.

Ultrasound of Winston’s fetus engulfed by the shadow of Big Brother’s Invisible Hand

Looking at the numbers on the napkin, I decided to christen my new baby, Winston, an homage to the beloved prole Winston Smith (circa 1984). Like most hipster Millennial offspring, it’s only fitting that Winston was immaculately conceived in a coffee shop.

Winston’s first Selfie: “Terrible Twos”

Given the life expectancy of a Powerball ticket is only 3 to 4 days, I thought it best to document Winston’s “Terrible Twos” stage, or midlife crisis in this case. I also thought it would be a good idea to share this publicly, so when I DO win, people will know why I, along with Winston, may have disappeared. Moreover, the latter served as a reminder that the drawing was two days away, and that I needed to cast my superstitious phrase into the world, just to remind God about our agreement:

“If I just had $1.5 billion dollars, I could pay all my bills, buy some new pants for work, and have money left over to buy the western half of Iowa for all my friends.”

The movie’s cast, however, did not take the snub so lightly and wanted to send the Academy Awards committee a message

Supporters of “The Lego Movie” were outraged and plan on holding candlelight vigils across the Lego Land tonight, reminding everyone to remain calm and that Everything is Awesome!