 We’re All Gonna Die!
In the Community
Geoffrey Wagner,Voice of Reason
Well, it seems that swine flu has finally invaded the area, with cases reported in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware—with more almost certainly on the way. But amid all the worry, it’s important for us to remember that there’s no reason to panic: authorities are taking all possible precautions—so far, symptoms of those sickened outside of Mexico have been much less troubling than… um… oh, you know what? Fuck this! We’re all gonna die!
Where the fuck is my paranoid Japanese facemask? Have you fucking seen it? I picked it up during the Avian Flu scare (or was it SARS? No, wait—it was Monkeypox; definitely Monkeypox), and I—oh, that’s right—the panic room! It left it in the panic room!
But what the fuck do I even need a facemask for—I’m not going outside again for months. Because you know what’s outside, right at this very moment? People. People who’ve been to Mexico, people who’ve talked to people who’ve been to Mexico, or—God help us—actual Mexicans. So fuck it: I’ve got more canned goods than Costco, and enough bottled water to keep me hydrated ‘til it’s just me, the Eloi, and the fucking Morlocks.
What? You think I’m overreacting? You fucking think I’m overreacting? Because I’m not. By quarantining myself for as long as I need to, I’m just being smart. Because here’s what’ll happen: I’ll emerge from my airtight saferoom sometime in 2014, still facemasked (note to self: pick up WWII-style gas mask? Hazmat suit? Look into both), to find that I am The Last Man on Earth. Just me, the buildings, and streets piled high with rotting, maggot-gnawed corpses. It might sound grim, but it’s gonna happen, folks. Swine flu will make The Stand look like Chicken Soup For the Grandmother’s Soul, and you can quote me on that.
And what’ll I do once I find myself in this pestilence-killed, postapocalyptic hell? I’ll crack open a warm beer, taken from a cobwebbed corner store, and laugh, is what. Because unlike you, I did the responsible thing: I kept myself away from the coughing, tamale-chewing masses and actually lived to tell the story.
So, unless you want to be one of those moldering skeletons slumped across a fire hydrant or sprawled in the gutter, roaches laying eggs in your chest cavity, I advise you to do the same: get up right now, go to your panic room (you do have one, right?), and don’t come out ‘til it’s safe.
And God knows when that will be. |
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Butkovitz Not Polling Well Among City 4th-Graders
May 5, 2009 –
City Controller Alan Butkovitz, already in a surprisingly tight race for reelection on May 19, yesterday received even more disheartening news: he was polling extremely poorly among city 4th-graders, largely due to his comical, buttocks-related surname. “Butkovitz was already hurt by [Primary challenger Brett] Mandel’s recent endorsements—but the silly-last-name issue hadn’t yet arisen,” said pollster G. Terry Madonna of Franklin & Marshall College. “But it seems that his luck on that front has run out, as well. Mandel now holds a six-to-one lead among Philadelphia’s booger-eating set.”
 Area ten-year-olds elucidated the numbers. “Alan Butkovitz? Hee hee! More like Alan Butt-go-kiss!” snorted Benji Simon of Society Hill, wiping snot across a Butkovitz campaign flyer. “Butt butt butt butt butt,” he added, performing an impromptu, rump-wiggling dance. West Philadelphia’s Rashawn Raymond held a similarly trenchant view. “Alan Butkovitz is probably a butt, and he’s all full of doody, and he’s a big butt, too,” he said with an odd seriousness. “When he talks it probably sounds like farts comin’ out of his mouth. And it smells like farts.”
Butkovitz, who has held the budget-scrutinizing position since 2005, was unworried by the children’s blistering views. “Listen, I’ve had to deal with the name my whole life, so any jokes or anything like that, that’s really not going to get to me,” he said from his office in City Hall, annoyance edging into his voice. “Besides, I think it’s relevant that these kids can’t even vote for another seven or eight years.” The young Raymond, however, held tight to his opinions. “I bet his breath, it probably smells like poopies,” he said, nodding slightly to himself. “His butt, he doesn’t even need it, his butt—‘cause he’s already a big ol’ fart-butt.” |
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