Hell yeah, COVID didn’t stand a fucking chance. I took it over my knee, broke it’s fucking back, ended its career, fired it from work, banned it from the household, beat up its dad, took a shit on its lawn, stole its lunch money, tongued its butthole, slammed it with a Pog, used a cheat code, burned it at the stake, you name it I’ve done it to COVID and that shit is never coming back.
Oh what, you think your fucking vaccine did anything? You think some pussy ass shot from the doctor’s office with his fake ass degree did anything? You think a decade of school and decades more of training and work experience and writing academic papers and shit is anything compared to me kissing and spitting in my neighbor’s mouth while driving around on my ATV? You think you can compete with this god? You think a little pinprick on your belly button amounts to anything other than the shared, collective embarrassment of every little bitch that got a little bit of the cough-cough-weezy-weezy-bloo-bloo?
Not many can say they defeated COVID. Not many can successfully claim they went to the movie theater last year and licked every single chair, just to show the virus who the alpha male is. You wouldn’t be able to do it. You’re not pure enough.
Just the other day I was sitting at Applebee’s, trying to figure out why my cough has gotten so bad, when some guy came up with a mask. Little dumbass, I started to call him. Was he really wearing a mask around the man that beat the shit out of COVID? I fucking smiled right in his little Fauci Ouchi face and told him the truth. I told him this shit was over. It was defeated. He cried and put in his two-week notice and said he was leaving for Switzerland. All four people clapped, including the guy with oxygen who got carried out on a stretcher a few minutes later.
Going out on a walk is the best. Even better is going to the wrestling event down the block at the VFW. They hold tribute shows for me, the COVID Curer, the man with the plan that worked correctly. I confronted the worst of the worst of the sniffles and I came out on top. I shake hands with everyone at the wrestling show. We touch tongues together and make sure to spit in each others mouths while wiping our hands on our faces and the only issue I’ve ever had is not being able to taste the nugs at Chicken Express for the last twelve weeks.
“All victories require sacrifices.” – Bob, the COVID Crusader.
Put that quote on the president’s tombstone. It’s too good to ignore. I’ve done the world a favor here, you can do me a solid by promoting that and pointing people to my Patreon. And my Gofundme, for my nephew. Who got COVID. Which doesn’t make sense because I killed it? Maybe he’s a tremendous liberal ass bitch.
We should have never shut down. There was no reason to shutdown when I, the COVID Commander, was able to commandeer our public health crisis and put that shit on notice. You don’t fuck around with Bob’s health, especially when he was at the motocross tournament at the community center, coughing directly into the mouths of family and friends. I have to spread my gift to everyone.
Here we are, at summer. A year after everything went down and you know who was at the top? Me. You know who is looking down on all the beta ass health care-havers? Me. You know who knows better than anyone who might have the slightest idea of how perfect my saliva is? You know the answer, fucknut.
It’s time for us all to go back to work. It’s time for everyone to go back to the casinos, the Candleworks, the Jamba Juice, all the places that make us feel human and alive. I am alive and my soul is mine. I refuse to yield any ground to a fake ass disease created by people that want to sell me on some lies about having to listen to other people to protect people. I protect myself and my family better than anyone. It’s why I can’t wait for my dad to come out of his medically induced coma from COVID to come and spend the summer with us. It’s going to be great. I’m going to do it as soon as he’s ready.
Or as soon as I’m done figuring out where this gas leak is coming from. My wife says it’s in the basement but I haven’t been able to smell in weeks.
Or as soon as I can go down the stairs, because I get winded after twelve steps.
Read the quote above again, bitch, and hold it to your heart.
I’m Bob and I killed COVID. You can thank me later.
The Tangential Times 