Category Archives: Frustration & Complaint

The Abstruse Weed

Covid Weed Covid Weed Covid Weed Covid Weed Covid Weed Covid Weed Covid WeedWhat Is the Abstruse Weed

As we muddle our way through ever more protests and convoys of paranoid motorized morons, I decided to reflect on things that are shall we say, abstruse, which is a fancy way of saying difficult to understand. Why did I choose the word abstruse when I could have said it more simply?

To be brutally honest, I was thinking of eating some apple strudel, and somehow my brain came up up with ‘abstruse strudel’ because it sounded good in my head. And I had slept poorly. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what abstruse meant, so I looked it up and realized it has nothing to do with strudel. In fact strudel is not difficult to comprehend, apple or otherwise. Well, maybe cherry-peach strudel is a little difficult to comprehend. Terrible combo. Or dare I say, that would be an abstruse strudel riddle.

Have I Lost You Yet?

Clearly, the previous two paragraphs are the rantings of a lunatic. I should know. I wrote them.  Furthermore, what does this have to do with anything related to the title of this post, The Abstruse Weed? Oddly, it comes from a news article about experiments done to see how cannabis could affect or potentially inhibit Covid from replicating. Apparently it may work.

My mind raced at the thought of weed potentially being beneficial to the fight against a virus that has laid bare economies, societies and supply chains. Who would have ever come up with the idea of using weed to combat a virus?

Dopehead stoner students, that’s who.

Which is indirectly how I came up with the series of drawings for this episode of the comic, once referred to by Jacques Cousteau as ‘merde de poisson’. He was a harsh critic.

It dawned on me, as I was on a Mount Everest sugar high from eating too many industrial cookies that were on sale, that it is just this type of abstruse thinking that is at the heart of human creativity. I am also relatively sure weed may play a role in creative thinking, but in my humble and under-informed opinion it pales when compared to chocolate danish-fueled synapse-triggering creativity.

Totally Out There

So I decided to use the cross-pollination method of creative thinking to come up with some questions that humanity could ponder while waiting for the next government edict on the Covid situation or while waiting in traffic behind some trucker or Confederate flag-waiving bigot who has decided his rights to spreading bellicose stupidity outweighs your rights to fetch a bagel in peace and quiet.

Potential Ponderable #1

Why do we use the word ‘lady’ when referring to  a cleaning lady? Do you know any cleaning gentlemen? Is is it because a proper cleaning lady keeps her legs crossed while scrubbing your filthy floors and food encrusted counters, and  always with a smile and good humour? Would you call Lady Diana a cleaning lady? How about Lady Gaga? Or the Lady of the Lake? I didn’t think so. Conversely, I know of no cleaning men. Unless you count my brother-in-law who keeps a damn tidy house. But he’s not compensated adequately for his services. Bless his hairy soul.

Potential Ponderable #2

Recyclable ammunition. Why hasn’t anyone invented recyclable bullets? Such a waste. Talk about our disposable culture. One-time use of bullets and missiles is so passé! Reuse and recycle, I say. (We are not good as reducing our use of ammunition however. Witness the state of the world over the last 26 minutes and you’ll know what I mean.) At least make bullets and bombs biodegradable or recyclable. I bet you if there was a deposit on ammunition, let’s say  1$ on every bullet casing and $20 on every shell or bomb casing you bring back to the supermarket, you’d have a line-up out the door.

Potential Ponderable #3

If prostitution is the oldest profession as the saying goes, who does the accreditation exams? is there a Prostitute Academy in the Netherlands I am unaware of? Who judges if you’re qualified and have passed the exams? More importantly HOW do they determine if you’re a professional? Do you need a website? Are there amateur and professional prostitutes? Is there a minor league? Or relegation to a lower tier? If you’re not designated a professional, then isn’t it more like a pastime or a side hustle?

Now it’s time for a shower.

Sincerely,
King Panda Druker

He’s Dead, Jim

Spider DiesSpider DiesSpider DiesSpider DiesSpider DiesSpider DiesA Dead Spider?

This is not a Start Trek-related rant. Although the person who inspired me for this instalment of the blog no one reads, or at least admits to reading, unless they are in a confessional or on death’s door, genuinely is a Trekkie. Let’s just call him Jim.

It is winter and the holiday season is here in full swing with conflicting messages from all manner of outlets – continued materialistic consumption ad nauseum vs Papal demands for humility and spending caps on gifts. And of course Omicron (who many people thought was a character on the Transformers TV series from when I was a kid). It’s a confusing time.

How this all relates to a dead spider is a bit of a long-winded tale that I should shorten for those with short attention spans, namely all literate earthlings with an internet connection and a pulse.

New Age Spider Tolerance

Where I live, it has been a dry winter, with little snow. Warmer than usual and ever the sounds of birds that usually migrate, hanging around asking for directions south and to the nearest bird feeder.

Stories of climate change, climate crises, climate-controlled chip factories and sexy climatologists have dominated much of the news this year (if you discount the January 6th attack on American democracy by small-brained lunatics).  Frequently, the message has been we need to do something about this before Mother Nature actually locks us out of the house.

In my bumbling, uninformed opinion, Mother Nature isn’t trying to tell us something. She’s already told us a thousand times to clean up our rooms and we ignored her. So now, like any parent who’s given up hope, she’s focusing on her life and taking time to go the spa and letting the house fall apart while she’s out drinking tequila slammers and having casual sex.

But I digress. (It’s my best skill.)

Countless studies and reports have shown us how we have irreparably disturbed animal habitats, while human-induced climate change  has forced animals of all species to move to where they can survive. Lobsters are migrating north. Sharks too. Beavers are now in the arctic. (Funny, no animals are moving south to Florida or Texas. They must fear for their lives given there’s no gun control.)  Even hairy, loathsome, fear-inducing spiders too are adversely affected by climate change.

Wishing or Squishing Your Enemies Dead

Yet most people I know want spiders dead. Not maimed, not incapacitated, not neutered, not even resettled — but dead. Even the kindest, sweetest people want them dead.

Famed humanitarian Albert Schweitzer was quoted as saying, “The purpose of human life is to serve, and to show compassion and the will to help others. Spiders, however, should be crushed mercilessly with an iron boot!” Likewise Mother Theresa was quoted as saying “I can do things you cannot, you can do things I cannot; together we can do great things. Like killing every last spider in this village with an iron boot!”

Even noted psychopathic expansionist and part-time flower shop owner Attila the Hun was quoted as saying “If I find one more damn spider in my yurt, so help me god, I will rampage across Asia and Europe and lay waste to the Romans too! Man, I wish had an iron boot.”

What happened to new age spider tolerance? What has the arachnid ever done to you to warrant death? They just want to eat bugs and freak you out when you run into their widely strewn webs. Is that so wrong?

Holiday Mirth and Death

If, during this time of holidays and short sunlit days in the northern hemisphere, you have a chance to ruminate, meditate, cogitate or pontificate on Nature and all forms of life, take pleasure in all those around you, human and animal. But if you need to crush a spider that lands on your table while you eat, don’t tell anyone I said it was ok.

Mirthfully manic,
Mundzuk Of the Huns Druker

Bad Choices Are Easy To Make

Bad Choices StewBad Choices StewBad Choices StewBad Choices StewBad Choices StewBad Choice StewBad Choice StewBad Choice StewBad Choice StewBad Choice StewBad Choices – I Have Made Many

Not long ago I read a report trying to explain the environmental impact based on the foods we buy. Yet another attempt to make me feel bad for the numerous poor choices I have made in my life time. The gist of the article made me think about how many trees I have indirectly deforested, rivers polluted, and CO2 emitted by choosing specific foods and not thinking about the consequences.

Given the number of burgers, sausages, industrial cookies and of course chocolate and cinnamon danish* I have consumed in my 5+ decades on this planet, one could roughly calculate that I personally have led to 3% of global forests being destroyed. Which is approximately the weight of 100,000 male African savanna elephants. Trust me.

Furthermore, by my rough, sleep-deprived calculations, I have emitted more tons of CO2 — and especially methane — than most central American countries have in the same period of time. Which I consider quite the accomplishment, however it doesn’t sound good on a job application nor does it make for a great conversation starter on blind dates. Trust me.

(*Note to reader: danish usually doesn’t have a plural form, it’s like water or beer or air – it’s an uncountable ethereal and tasty substance that defies logic, and supports rampant diabetes.)

Wired for Bad Choices

So many many of my bad choices to eat meats and danish, as opposed to locally grown leafy greens, are notionally based on the principle that we have free will. I chose to ingest delectable baked sugary delights that led either directly or indirectly to an oil well being drilled (what? you think petro-sugar comes from real sugar? who’s being naive now?) and I felt no guilt. Coincidentally, I also immediately felt a numbness in my left arm and a difficulty breathing for a bit, but I can’t imagine the two are related.

Was it a question of poor education or a lack of facts that led me to choose the clearly evil foodstuff? Is there a little devil over my shoulder cackling with evil laughter knowing that mother earth has descended that much closer to the abyss? Of course not. We are wired for bad choices.

Our human DNA and electrolyte-fuelled mushy gray matter lead us to seek out what we want, not always what we need. Look at poor Socrates – he wilfully drank a chalice of poison as opposed to being forced to eat a kale salad with dried cranberries and low-cal dressing, knowing the former would be far more pleasurable than the inevitable bloating and gas he would get from the meal of greens.  Granted, drinking poison impacted his dating life and earning potential, but frankly, if you had to eat a kale salad or choose death, the great hereafter isn’t a bad option.

Bad Choices Built Civilization

I am not getting into a discussion of free will versus determinism, mostly because I am not smart enough to discern the difference and it is a mood killer on first dates. Trust me.

Rather I make the argument that if we didn’t make bad choices, civilization wouldn’t have evolved as far as it has. If humans didn’t make bad choices, we wouldn’t need police, the fire department, emergency medicine doctors and nurses,  lawyers, self-help gurus, or dietitians.

Bad decisions are the cornerstone of learning and growth. How many times have you said “Oh another drink couldn’t hurt. Make it a double!” only to find yourself lying in bed the next day reaching for a painkiller that was invented because someone saw a need to reduce the searing pain of a hangover. Your bad decision led to the modern pharma industry’s feeding you meds.

Think of all the lawyers that we need because people decided to submerge toasters in water or all the prosthetics that were invented because some humans decided to stick their hands into a spinning blade? Where would personal injury lawyers be without poor decision-making? They’d be flipping burgers instead of driving Porsche SUVs.

Inescapable

Since we are bound to make bad choices, either due to faulty genetics, poor lighting, poor education, poor parental modeling, a lack of sleep, or a significant other telling us we always do the laundry wrong, I say screw it. I am going to have another danish.

Pontifically challenged and perpetually perturbed,
Augustus Johann Sebastian Druker, 16th waterboy of the Earl of Sheepshire

To Vax or Not – The Idiot’s Question

The Idiot's QuestionThe Idiots Question The Idiots QuestionsThe Idiot’s Question

Modern day reality TV shows know no depth to which they will not sink in order to attract viewers. They’re aimed at idiots. It’s why people still love Big Brother that’s now translated into 3000 languages and is broadcast in every country and planet in the Milky Way. Turns out there’s unintelligent life in other parts of the galaxy. Idiots outnumber us, dear readers. Big time.

Same goes for competitive cooking shows. They exploit people who truly love to cook only to be yelled at and belittled for an international audience. Maybe even an intergalactic audience. And worse, they’re hosted by arrogant idiots who give their willing cooks ingredients like old socks, fermented goat anuses and mineral oil and expect them to come up with a delicious meal in a TV-timed 22 minutes.

Given that the-idiots-to-not-idiots ratio is about 6 billion to 1, I decided that I too could come up with an idea for a reality show that would be a smash hit. Switch the governments of the Taliban and Haiti to run each other’s country for 6 months and see which one explodes first.  But it would have to be hosted by an arrogant, self-important and stupid host from CNN. There are many to choose from.

So what does the world of idiot TV shows have to do with sub-mental people who question whether to vax or not to vax?

Idiots & Questions

It’s a tenuous argument at best, given that I haven’t had a chocolate danish in over 3 weeks. However, I think that the global pervasiveness of stupidity has infected humanity, which has led to anti-vaxxers. What else could explain why a sane person would refuse a vaccination against a virus that has killed more than 4 million people?

You’d rather take horse de-worming medicine and potentially lose your sight than take a vaccine? You’d rather listen to anti-vaxxers who have died because of COVID than take your medicine? You’d rather tell people you’re firmly anti-science and think drinking bleach will solve the problem? This can only mean one thing – idiocy must be a side effect of being an anti-vaxxer. Or is it the other way around?

I’d bet you that if you gave people free pornography and beer you’d convince more people to get the vaccine than lotteries, guilt-trips, cash incentives and celebrity endorsements combined.

Greater Threat

Now I am concerned. Maybe a genetic trait of anti-vaxxers is an expressive idiot gene They become not just half-wits, but full-on morons! They’ll procreate even more and spread not just their flawed mental traits, but they’ll spread rumours like dogs having two noses (One dog does, actually.  I couldn’t resist that wildly gratuitous non-sequitur. I stumbled on it while surfing on Flipboard).

Obviously more education isn’t the answer. We’ve tried that. Neither is coercion, nor threats, endorsements, financial incentives or even people actually dying from the virus.

My suggestion is this: Have the secret shadow world government run by Marion Dawson and Disney Corp. activate the microchip given to us in the COVID vaccine and instruct us to gather all the anti-vaxxers, put them on ships and send them to live with the Taliban for one year on an isolated island with no food or clothing.

Now there’s a great idea for a reality TV show.

Disturbingly disturbed and full of grilled pork,
Dalai Lama Trinley Gyatso

Am I Off Trend Again?

Stanko and Tibor TrendsStanko and Tibor TrendsStanko and Tibor TrendsStanko and Tibor TrendsStanko and Tibor TrendsStanko and Tibor TrendsOff Trend Again

Having just devoured a scrumptious dinner with my daughter, which involved lively conversation about her schooling and her school mates (all remote and visible via a computer screen only), I was reminded for the 6,793rd time this month that I am not only old, but wildly out of touch with the latest trends.

In addition to teaching me the term “insta-baddie” and a few other choice terms teens use to explain what passes for human communication these days, my mind wandered to the subject of this instalment of the comic blog that Arch Duke Ferdinand once said he’d rather be assassinated than to have to read again: The Brazilian Butt Lift (or BBL for those in the know). It’s not just a trend, it’s a way of spending stupid money.

I readily accept that the last time I was on trend, or even within a city block of a trend, I was probably 17 when I wore red leather bowling shoes. They were cool. Yes, I was frequently ostracized from main stream society. And my family. And branded a heretic. The subsequent re-programming using shock therapy didn’t fix me, but it sure made my dad laugh. But I digress.

The short version of the BBL: They suck fat out of one part of your body and stick it in and around your buttock area so men, women, your dog and hermaphrodites can have a body shape like Kim Kardashian. Honestly, I thought this was a joke when I heard about it, but this trend is real.

People will spend (oh I can’t resist writing  this) big-ass money to have themselves intentionally mauled by a Porsche-driving cosmetic surgeon to look like someone who has all the societal value of the residue at the bottom of a locker room soap dish.

And you wonder why Trump got elected…

The thing with trends is that they take so much effort to follow and stay on top of. Or close enough to hold hands with. Which is why youth are so good at following trends slavishly. It takes time and energy, two things I am officially out, along with money, danish, self-respect and hair on the top of my head. When you’re young you can use your boundless energy to hunt for and chase down the latest thing. Google or Twitter will help you find what’s trending. Instant gratification.

What else do the youth of today have to do but be on social media and see what’s hot, what’s not and make sure they latch on desperately, because social media makes them feel like crap for not being famous every minute of every day and are thus worthless members of society.

Same goes for more than a few adults I know. But many of them are hitting a point in their lives where not even a BBL would help them look cool. Only a sports car of German origin might work. Or a profligate SUV, but those are more for people who are “adult trendy.” It’s different from those youth trends. You have way more debt and body fat to use for an eventual BBL.

Infuriatingly insolent – and proud of it,
Ishmael of the Caves Druker

Gord The Bard – Not

Gord (a.k.a Dad) The Bard

Gord The Bard - NotGord The Bard - NotGord The Bard - NotGord The Bard - NotGord The Bard - NotGord The Bard - Not


So as some or most of you readers may know my dad passed away a little while ago, and as you guessed it, this post of the comic is dedicated to him, and his many, many pearls of near savant-like wisdom. (My mom once referred to him as an idiot savant, but that may have been after he bought her a golf shirt for her birthday, despite having asked for something entirely different.)

One of the many things that went through my head when dad’s life energies were ebbing was “I’m losing maybe my biggest fan.” He was one of the few people who always praised, always read (yet not always grasping the comic part of the blog) and always responded to the comic. I’d get a short email that would usually say “Fantastic! Quit your job and do this for a living!”

Dad wasn’t too aware of the financial realities of embarking on an anti-lucrative career as a writer/comic doodler. He never let reality stand in the way of a questionable employment choice. But he certainly did support me and champion my writing skills and creativity. That’s what great fathers do. They’re champions for their kids. He was a repeat champion.

As for the richly profanity-laced pearls of wisdom he would utter in front of impressionable children, religious people, the elderly, the infirm, more sensitive souls, the vast majority of his family, and of course his long-suffering life partner a.k.a. Binnie, or My wife, they were a part of his near-genius. I can’t say absolute genius because he bought a lot of crappy American cars when he really shouldn’t have.

Also, dad was a man of science, if you discount climate change. What do you want? He came from a different generation, and when he hit 70 or so, he faithfully adopted the mantra and position of many old men his age, which can be succinctly boiled down to “Ah, it’s all bullshit.” Yet he was a genuine scientific skeptic. He believed in scientific proof where any claim, medical, chemical, commercial or otherwise was made. (Except for the human-induced climate change thing. Go figure.)

As an active dad, he took us skiing, golfing, cycling and made sure we had fun doing it (excluding golf — I still bear the psychological scars). He made sure we had a balance of activity, to counter the laying around watching TV or listening to music we did.

I could go on at length about his habit of eating bagels in the nude at 1:00 in the morning but I’ll let you get back to your Covid-enforced TV streaming and overeating.

Stay strong, stay sane-ish, and give someone you love a hug. Preferable with a mask.

Achingly hairy and twice as isolated,
Koko Druker

It’s Democracy, Buttface!

Democracy is a scamDemocracy is a scamDemocracy is a scamDemocracy is a scamIt’s Democracy, Buttface!

So, despite the COVID pandemic, fear, isolation, intimidation, excessive body hair and an ever expanding belly filled with sugary baked goods made with these two frequently washed hands, I have decided to weigh in on the subject of democracy, and the impending election.

It should be noted for posterity’s sake that nary a one of my fervent readers, followers and/or groupies has asked me to comment on power-sharing agreement via the ballot box. However, it was high time I made a statement of some kind on what democracy is, was and always will be. A scam.

Wait, don’t leave yet. I’m not advocating for another form of government. I like democracy. Let me explain.

Essentially, the word scam derives from the past tense of the verb ‘to scum’, which in ancient Babylonian poker games referred to the greasy sweat wiped from the brow of the guy who went all in holding a measly pair of 3s but who was already in debt two sheep to Udug and his shady, semi-employed brother-in-law Mummu. Funny, neither Udug nor Mummu ever had a clear source of steady income, but they always showed up at the weekly ritual animal sacrifice with attractive sheep and goats. Something was fishy even back then. But I digress.

Democracy, The Crap-shoot

So why is democracy a scam? Because it’s like poker, it’s a crap-shoot. People bluff all the time in poker, they’re trying to convince you they’re holding the winning hand and you either fold or they clean up and take your money.

Democracy and poker have a lot of similarities. Both are rigged (at least that’s what Trump says. He’s not a compulsive liar, I swear.). Both involve people who really don’t want to hold down a day job. Both have hors d’oeuvres served at meetings and gatherings. Both require an implicit belief that although you’re getting screwed right now, next time will be better.

Democracy, also like poker, requires you to gather information to make an informed decision even if that information is sketchy or difficult to find. It’s about gathering bits of data and coalescing them into some kind of educated guess, assumption or dare I say, a fact! Taking those guesses, assumptions and facts, you place a wager. Sometimes you actually win, like in Chile where they recently voted overwhelmingly to rewrite the constitution. That one worked.

We’ve Moved to ButtFaceBook

However, in our neck of the woods, we have turned to the digital sewer of the Internet, a.k.a. Facebook, to inform ourselves.

It should be argued that Facebook is populated buy a vast number of what Arthur Schopenhauer referred to in his famous work I Hate Life and Tying My Shoelaces Every Morning as “buttfaces”. A buttface for the non-scholarly out there is a stupid and/or stubborn person, usually one who drinks cheap beer and feels it necessary to share his or her stupid opinion when no one ever asked.

By my sleep-deprived reasoning, Facebook should be renamed to ButtFaceBook, or BFB for the brevity-obsessed. Because only a buttface would believe QAnon conspiracies and other outrageous crap peddled on that pitiful platform. Only a buttface would say “The Russians could never sucker me in with some lame-brained story. Now where are my guns at again? Right, I keep them in the bathroom and the kids’ rooms.”

ButtFaceBook. I like it.

Maybe we should decide our elections on that platform instead of using democracy, that time-worn scam machine.

I need some chocolate.

Lovingly isolated and losing his mind,
Marduk (look it up) Druker

How To Mask Your True Emotions

Mask True Emotions
Mask True Emotions
Mask True Emotions
Mask True EmotionsMask Your True Emotions. Please.

I just read a scientific article (without moving my lips too much) on what may have been the worst year ever — 536 CE. Or AD if you prefer that abbreviation. According to these scientists — Trump devotees by default excluded because facts are involved — 536 was the worst year ever! Volcanic eruptions, freezing winters, no sun, failed crops, and perhaps worse, no TV or Netflix to get through it. Neither chocolate nor cinnamon danish had been invented yet. Times were literally and figuratively dark. A mask of misery had covered the globe.

I can only presume with little or no scientific evidence, and even less research because it’s too damn hot today, that people back then must have been freaking out. (Kind of like now, except we have Netflix and danish of various sorts.) The superstitious and  uneducated masses, lacking any real guidance, must have run wild in the unpaved streets, begging for help, searching for any answers, and fearful of their neighbours (also, kind of like now).  The many simple and few enlightened folk must have hid in their homes and hoped for the best and some kind of miracle to free them. (Also, kind of like now. Is it just me or does anyone see a trend?)

2020 vs 536

Many have said that 2020 is the worst year ever! Virus, death, racism, riots, an American election with two old white guys, China spying and running rampant over democracy, millions unemployed. The usual. But people have become very angry and vocal of late. [Note to reader: I am not suggesting people don’t protest. Quite the opposite, they should stand up to the entrenched powers that be. Or kneel. Or whatever gets some good media attention. It gives me great material to work with for the blog.] But at times it might be a little too emotional. Too in your face. Too much fomite-soaked anger blowing in the wind.

We could all really use some emotional masks.

Emotional Masks

I am not talking metaphorically here. Some smart person (Trump devotees by default excluded) is going to come up with some kind of mask that inhibits or in some way tempers our emotions.

My design, which was rejected by the patent office for using too many swear words and containing a selfie of me wearing nothing but a moose hat and slippers, is simple. It will look like your regular everyday mask you can buy at any of the major mask outlets (such as Musk’s Masks, Masks-R-Us, Masks, Flasks and Basques).

The difference is it will come with a 12oz (355 ml) container of liquid emotional modifier (read: booze) of your choice. To start, four kinds would be available: Scotch Whisky for the upscale set, Beer for the blue collar audience, cherry-flavoured schnapps for the rustic crowd, and Vodka for those who wish to keep their consumption discreet, but still not give a crap. At the start of your day, soak your mask before you go out. Or talk to anyone in your household. Repeat at lunch, coffee breaks, dinner and bedtimes. I’m not saying you have to drink the booze, just inhale the vapours until you’re giddy and a little sleepy maybe.

While there are other ways to tame our emotions, such as therapy, weed, pills, yoga, archery, wood-working, setting small fires, or playing strip poker, I say give your mask a shot. Of schnapps preferably.

Manifestly mediocre,
Friar Druker of Snickerdoodle

How to Drink COVID Away

Drunk CovidDrinking COVID Away

My daughter just read me a recent Twitter quote regarding the recent manned flight to space: “Congrats to the astronauts who just left earth. Good choice.

At least they have escaped the misery of COVID,  the anti-Semitic conspiracy theorists, the riots resulting from the murder of yet another unarmed black person, and the rantings of Führer Trump for a while. What’s more, they did it without resorting what millions of Americans have done to cope with this misery — drinking vats of alcohol. To no one’s surprise, however, United Kingdom sales spiked to even higher liver-damaging levels. Just another excuse to get hammered.

Space Station Therapy

Let’s go back to those astronauts for a minute. Think about how desperate you have to be to risk life and limb, climbing aboard what is essentially a computer-guided roman candle to go live in a gravity-deprived, sterile, smelly space station where fresh baked chocolate danishes and artery-clogging burgers are difficult to come by unless you have good connections.

They could have easily drank themselves into a stupor to cope with this COVID conundrum. It’s way cheaper and less stressful than all of that astronaut training. Furthermore, drinking yourself stupid means you wouldn’t have to deal with that Elon Musk fellow crowing about his silly rocket that he claims is “so totally awesome.” I could build one of those rocket thingies with some duct tape, a ball of twine, a fork, peanut butter, pop-sickle sticks and paint thinner.

But no, they chose flight over fight. Actually, over drinking. Idiots.

Alternative Therapies

So if I am left with a choice between going into space, where the WiFi signal is crap and the Netflix subscription hasn’t been renewed, and staying here and drinking myself into oblivion like most of the world seems to be doing, I may be at a loss.

Don’t give me that “read a book” line either. Trump doesn’t read them. No, wait. He can’t read. And he’s a PUTZ. No, I meant POTUS.

But still, given my tremendous lack of knowledge about everything from aeronautics to zoology, I’d have to read like a zillion books, and that would mean spending all day and night at the library where the WiFi signal is crap.

Also, if one of you says “try meditation” again, I’ll tell you what I told that mouthy jerk of a police officer — drinking booze is a way easier method to relax and clear one’s mind. Or at least subdue it.

No Choice

Clearly I am lacking the mental faculties needed to make a decision on how best to handle this situation. So I will do what I always do when confronted with questions of great importance and moral significance. I’ll watch Bugs Bunny and the Simpsons.

Famously famished,
Arch Duke Druker of Suburbia

COVID Cohabitation Connundrum

COVID CohabitationThe COVID Cohabitation Conundrum

So after having been on creative hiatus for some time, I realized it was time to return and fill the world with what my dear mother calls ” your visual and textual detritus” – however she may have been referring to my father’s stack of dirty magazines that he so cherishes. He said something about it being educational materials.

Of all the times to return to the festering pit that is the Internet, I had to choose the COVID pandemic. Or the Corona pandemic. Or whatever you want to call it.  This allegedly bat-borne Asian virus has led to many hardships, the most devastating of which revolve around death, too much time watching Netflix / Prime / Hulu and the inability for me to go to my favorite burger joint and consume vast quantities of an artery-clogging element known as ‘cheeseburgers’. The last one being particularly grievous for society as a whole.

What’s worse than all that aforementioned misery is this utterly extemporaneous (which is Latin for highly spontaneous bullshittery after too much coffee and not enough sleep) blog that is trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to reflect on the conundrum of cohabitating with the COVID virus.

Note to reader: If you don't know the meaning of the word conundrum, neither do I, but I thought it sounded like a nice alliteration for a semi-illiterate like myself. Actually, I think it means a measure of volume of frozen shrimp. Sort of like, "I have 2 barrels of whisky, 3 conundrums of frozen shrimp, a vat of cocktail sauce, which will all be mixed in the high-powered thrunginator."

 COVID  The Frat Boy

For all intents and purposes, there is much we do know about this virus, and much we don’t. The easiest way to explain it to someone like Trump, or any of the small-brained fascists who supports him, is to liken it to living with a smelly frat-boy roommate from an over-privileged family that you signed a 3-year apartment lease with.

That kind of roommate is hell on earth. They break your stuff, they leave the bathroom a hairy, filthy mess, the stove has old, burned tomato sauce on it that needs disinfectant to remove it, you can’t hold a conversation with anyone face to face when they’re around because they’ll spoil it by farting. You can’t bare having them around because they’re insensitive, indiscriminate, they brag how they’re the greatest at everything. What’s worse? Every time you clean up after them, they come back and stink up the joint. Like clockwork.

Come to think of it, the parallels between Trump and COVID are startlingly similar. Maybe he is a fully evolved COVID strain? Would explain a lot.

Global Cohabitation

The biggest problem with the COVID cohabitation conundrum is that it’s absolutely global. So, let’s say you manage to get away from it, where are you going to go? Definitely not China. Well, you could go to where it supposedly originated, but you’d have to live in a police state that revels in the grand tradition of authoritarianism and that has mastered professional  denying and lying even better than the Russians. Successfully I might add.

There’s also talk of contact tracing apps that will allow health officials (or Google/Facebook/Apple) to gather info on whether you came in contact with someone with COVID. Why? So you can freak out and panic that you have the virus too. Honestly, this is like having the frat boy jerk show up uninvited at a party, telling you he spilled melted cheese on your bed while watching porno on your computer. Inescapable. Almost.

What To Do

You have a couple of options. Stay at home indefinitely and use your retirement savings towards the purchase of a lifetime membership at Uber Eats.  Or if you really want to get away, there is one place you could go to. The South Pole. No COVID there – or so the local tourist office there claims. They have a notorious reputation for over-hyping the fun activities in Antarctica. The Emperor penguins and walruses do not like to pose for selfies as they have claimed.

Conversely, you could to Svalbard and wrestle with polar bears if you like a bit sport. They’re opening back to tourists soon. And once you’re there, I bet you can get a caribou cheeseburger more easily than here.

So now that you’ve made it this far into the blog, you probably hate yourself even more for having read this garbage. While you were reading I rifled through your drawers.

Have a happy quarantine and stay safe.

Effervescently yours,
Senator Bongo Druker