Hey man, how are you! Yeah, let me get a number five, grande. That’ll be it. Hey you guys accept bitcoin? No? How about dogecoin? Ha ha ha ha, nah man, I’m just kidding. (Unless…?)

Oh, my name? Well, it’s Tom, but some people call me Tommy. Others call me Tom the Bomb. Actually, you know what? Put that on the cup. Tom the Bomb. Make sure everyone knows. Make sure they call it real loud. Make sure they give their best operatic tenor. Make sure they have someone outside to shout, “Hey everyone, Tom the Bomb is here to get his number five!”

Oh wow, it’s already ready? Damn you guys move fast. You’d probably move faster if you drank some of this Soylent. Each Soylent product contains a complete blend of everything the body needs to thrive. Every soylent product tastes like pancake butter cut with cum, it’s great. You’ll love it. It has all the essential vitamins and nutrients that a growing screenplay writer like myself could need.

Ok, I understand. No, I get it. You got a job. I’ll take my number five and take a seat. If you’re interested in anything Soylent related you’ll want to go to http://www.soylent.com. Just check it out man.

Ah, that’s the stuff. Caffeine. Caffine! Computer! Cafes! Surrounded by other people and like-minded individuals! Everyone has a phone or a laptop and certainly some caffeine! I can’t start my day without cuppa coffee! Hey there, excuse me, ma’am? Do you have a cuppa coffee?

…Oh, she’s not answering. Let’s try this guy. Hey sir! Do you have a cuppa coffee!

Well that’s a blunt yes. No, I’m not getting paid to talk to people, but I wish I did!

I gotta start on my script. Been putting it off for years. Got rid of the house, got rid of the job, became homeless, all in a day’s work for the next Ernest Cline! I feel like I’m appearing in this coffee shop like Sgt. Reese did in The Terminator, the hit 1980s B-movie that launched the career of Arnold Schwarzenegger, one of the biggest names in Hollywood. Sgt. Reese returns from the future to have sex with Sarah Connor. The Terminator was directed by James Cameron and was followed by the successful Terminator 2: Judgment Day, which released in the early 90s. Sgt. Reese looked disheveled. He looks like me. It is a movie. I am recalling a movie.

Look at me! All this thinking and no writing. Boy I need to get started writing. This caffeine is kind of fucking with me though. I have the urge to get mad. Real fuckin mad. So fuckin mad. I can’t put a single word to this laptop and I’m fucking mad as shit. This thing isn’t even on.

Wait, it’s not on? What the hell am I doing?

Oh that’s right! I’m writing! I’m also mad as fuck! I’m also not going to shut the fuck up! Hey, everyone, I’m writing a screenplay that I’ll eventually turn a profit on like millions do every year! Let me know if you guys want any help with what you’re writing!

They’re ignoring me. Better stand on this table. Hey! Let’s all read what I’ve written! Hey! Bitch!

I’m sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Please don’t insult me. Don’t make me any more angrier than I am. Please, don’t make me angry! You better shut the fuck up or I’ll poop in my hands and fling it at everyone!

Cool! Can’t wait to put this to paper! Love to be led out in handcuffs, but I left my coffee. Just in the back of the squad car.

Hey, officer – you ever read a screenplay before?

You know what’s going to be a hard thing to confront in the coming years? The existence of nu-metal.

Our children and their children will demand answers.

We will have none.

May god have mercy on our souls.

I need somebody, someone.

Can’t somebody help me?

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.

No.

Did you know it’s possible to be too big of a fan of Michael Bolton? Apparently it’s bad for your brain.

You should probably stop.

You know who you are.

I am filled with a profound sadness that I have only now begun to be able to put words to.

There are people that put their Hungryman in the oven.

Hungrymans are a special level of sad, that I have to imagine attempting to grant some sort of edibility to it, you try to do something that would probably take as long to bake as it would to just make whatever was in it from scratch and avoid 18 trillion pounds of sodium directly into your heart.

You’re probably stupid if you eat Hungryman. Probably really stupid.

Look I’m sorry, I apologize. That was terrible of me.

I have marked this post for deletion and I will excommunicate myself from my family.

Farewell.

Whoo, man. So glad we finally made it! Consumer Expo! 2021! Sure glad COVID is over and I can worry about my herpes more. And my job. Gotta make sure these people know about our great products.

Hello, sir? Yes, would you like to try a home security system? No? Why not? Are you scared? Are you a scared bitch? Are you a little scared little bitch? No? You sure? He’s already walking away.

Excuse me, sir! Yes I’d like to talk to you about LockBox Protection. What do you mean you don’t have a lockbox? Then what did I leave my apartment key in when I was with your mom last night? Huh? Idiot? You sure you don’t want to talk about it?

Fine, have a nice day! Be sure to take a koozie from our booth.

Oh hi, yes ma’am, we have a money back guarantee. You are guaranteed to lose your money as it belongs to us and maybe if you didn’t know so many assholes, you wouldn’t need our fuckin security system, would you? Try thinking? Brains? You can think with brains?

Not a single sale yet and it’s all my fault. I am destined to forever disappoint my manager, my family, and myself. I have only one course of action here.

Editor’s note: The writer died and refused to finish this essay.

Get your lockbox security from LockBox Protection, today!

Yes?

Dearly beloved, we are here to bid farewell to our good friend.

Brian’s tiny sweaty balls.

To those that knew him best, knew him as a tiny man with even tinier sweaty balls. Those that knew him least generally assumed so.

His balls were Brian’s best fiends, and yet his greatest enemy. Advice from his father could not quell their sweaty spirit. Nor could the extra strength powder the doctor gave him.

Needless to say, we have much to be thankful for as we have grown up in the same era as a tiny, but giant, pair of balls. They were on a constant quest of vengeance against the forces of good hygiene. Without fear or reluctance, they siphoned their most bravest emotions into their daily work, fueled not by passion but of pure rage.

And so Brian’s tiny sweaty balls set about conquering the world. They may have been forcibly removed by an accidental gunshot wound borne of a fight over whether non-plastic straws were either a great choice in life or a grave injustice, worthy of a duel one would make as a 19th century drunkard – which you promptly and immediately lose. That part isn’t important.

The important thing is we will never have to hear about Brian’s tiny sweaty balls. They have departed this mortal plane and now rest in tiny ball heaven. May their tiny balls find tiny pieces of sweaty peace.

Amen.

Sincerely,

Brian’s big ass taint

If I ever win at anything, you’ll know. You’ll understand and you’ll know. You’ll say – that guy won. He’s a winner. I am absolutely a winner beyond words. You will grasp the importance of me winning.

There will never be another champion of skee ball in Atlantic City like me. Tell your fuckin kids to stay in college – they’ll never reach the heights I’ve achieved in such a short amount of time.

I have no regrets, I say as I request to be buried under the boardwalk after dying of skee ball addiction.