Covid Contagion Virus Pandemic Defense-Force Update:

The mall near where I live, and which has a bowling alley emporium has declared that at least until further notice customers may actually eat food in the “food court.” Which is where you get-and-eat food to eat in the food court, but which has been forbidden-behavior for nearly a year and a half in the interests of safety so that 3,000-year-old-granny and 3,000-pound Normal American Diabetic Big Fat Pig-Lady won’t die of the flu.

The emphasis and claim and theory and idea and notion and hunch and guess and maybe and could be and “let’s do this!” of closing the food court to food and also to the eating of food within the food court is that if you do things that have absolutely no bearing on whether or not you get the flu….you will be “safe” from the flu. A flu which is not inherently dangerous to 99% of the human population, assuming there still is a human rather than a subhuman population on this planet.

So in other words….if you do things that have no bearing on whether you will or will not get a virus that you will easily survive even if you do get it, and which if you do get it, it will likely come from a source that you have not been ordered to avoid or from a behavior pattern you have not been ordered to discontinue….if you do all these meaningless things (and in fact counter-productive, things, since becoming-unemployed, becoming isolated, becoming-paranoid, becoming-anxious, and becoming-angry are some of the safety protocols your Government Health Removers have put into place to put you into place, and in fact to lower your resistance to viruses)….you will be safe!

You want to be safe, don’t you? What could be worse than not being safe? I’m thinking, nothing! Remember: “In safe there is freedom.”

So……as I meandered around the food court watching all the people now being allowed to use the food court to eat food in, I made my way over to the nearby nightclub-like bowling emporium which had been shut down for almost a year and a half, so that people would be safe from bowling. And as I entered and tried to reacquaint myself with pre Insane-Health-Advisor life I meandered slowly around the bowling palace with my still-mandatory mask on, watching the still-mandatory masked bowlers with their still-mandatory masks on, and I noticed 1: they didn’t have gloves on and I noticed 2: they all had rented shoes.

I remember I looked at all this and contemplated quietly what I was seeing. My mind began an electrical and chemical journey of thought that took me down a pathway filled with fascinating logical anomalies.

I thought about all the middle and ring fingers and all the thumbs that were penetrating deep into the boreholes that bowling balls have, and wriggling around in there and then doing this over and over again, as the ball left their fingers and then rolled back to their hands, which had the fingers on them, and which balls were then fondled and caressed and hurled again via the hands of the teens and young adult males and females, these bowling hands frequently going, not only into the bowling balls but also going into the crotches of themselves or into and down the crotches of others in delight and exultation at a “strike” or a “spare” with all manner of homosexual and heterosexual clasps and grips and enclosings of fingers onto breasts and butts and cocks and balls, and every one of them, once in a while, on and off, one at a time, or maybe in pairs, leaving the lanes and ambling over to the shit-and-fecal depositories called “restrooms” and doing all manner of dactyl tasks involving zippers and underclothing and toilet-porcelain and – maybe actually there, maybe not – toilet paper, and bowling fingers approaching and/or entering rectal canal passageways for internal sewage transport via wiping or moving-around or smearing anal smudge from one location, over and into an intermediary transport route via bowling fingers, for release into a municipal plumbing apparatus called a toilet that is “cleaned” MAYBE once a day, the bowler’s fingers now having visited their own syphilitic anuses and groins and crotches and urinators and fecaloria and using them for the opening and closing of the sewage-room doors and grappling with the fecal-smearing waxlike toilet “paper” and the bowling fingers doing some housekeeping regarding the de-smegging of the foreskin-rollover accumulations, and the guys, as they will, clawing at their testicles just for fun and a quick cheap thrill, and of course the gals dealing with their issues of blood and erupting herpes colonies and penicillin-resistant gonorrhea and chlamydia outbreaks and patches of Martian Vulvic Toxic Shock Coagularia-mold and of course the “homeless” of both sexes who now have mandatory accessibility to everything up to and including the stabbing of children to death and who use “restrooms” to sleep in and sometimes to die in….and meanwhile the bowlers in their masks are stepping on and stepping over these people, most of whom have more diseases wafting off their body-heat than the bowlers would have in a gallon of spit that they poured into a sewer and then scooped out and drank….

….and THEN…..they’re doing all this bacterial, viral, and godonlyknowswhatelse-al activity….. in someone ELSE’S wtf SHOES!

Or I should say Countless Others’ wtf shoes. Which shoes are all filled with fungus and athletes’ skin-eradicator disease, trenchfoot, fungoidal toe blight, Blister Ooze Anomaly disease, pustule foot-leak, Toenail Sewage Syndrome, gelatinous heel drainage, callus/corn crapflow crust rot and which shoes rats likely use to sleep in at night when everything is dark and all the stinky bowling shoes are back in their open-air slots for the rats and mice to piss and vomit in before the next day’s masked and staying-safe customers come in to not get the flu.

I thought about bringing all of my meandering thoughts and imaginings and suppositions and points-to-ponder to the human dirigible grease-metabolizer “working” behind the step-up-and-get-drunk counter and snack-dispensary, but then I realized, no: that would be like talking to a dead-and-fallen pine tree in the middle of an abandoned and prehistoric forest on the dark side of a lost and isolated moon circling the sun in an orbit that was far beyond the elliptical pathway of Pluto.

He was overflowing and radiating every qualification necessary to be a city mayor or a State governor or maybe even a health advisor because he was certainly physically repulsive enough and he had the life force of a farm animal. He waved me goodbye, and I waved back and said “Stay safe!”