“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.” Hunter S. Thompson
I like to know where my drugs are coming from, even if it’s just a paper bag, a receipt, and maybe a coupon. Lysol comes with all three, so I wasn’t feeling particularly “street.” Sure, I was about to abuse the stuff, but no more than those New Yorkers calling emergency hotlines about exposure to household disinfectants. That’s a nice way of saying they’d already taken something — although the Daily News says nobody died this week.
Reckitt Benckiser, makers of Lysol, were quick to discourage any internal use of their products, saying “Under no circumstances should our disinfectant products be administered into the human body (through injection, ingestion or any other route).
Back in the early part of the twentieth century, Lysol was a favourite among suicidals.
That “other route” could be snorting or possibly booty bumping. Lysol’s a tricky product for doing either. Still, Americans like to take their president at his word. I would, too, except I’m Canadian, and a quick Google search of Lysol revealed an interesting history. Back in the early part of the twentieth century, Lysol was a favourite among suicidals.
I wasn’t going the suicide route. I was trying to cleanse my body, like the president said, not mainline myself into an early grave.
So, no, I didn’t inject or booty bump Lysol, even if isopropyl alcohol does kill the virus in 30 seconds with “no manipulation or rubbing.” That’s what homeland security advisor, Bill Bryan, said, making Trump’s eyes glow like a drug lord hearing about a new secluded atoll in the Florida Keys.
He had that same look on his face when he suggested we all take hydroxychloroquine. “Why not?” he said. No word on whether he’s taken it himself. No doubt he’s waiting for the good stuff, even if he can’t pronounce the name. It’s Rem-des-i-vir, Mr. President — maybe “Rem” for short.
Gilread, makers of Remdesivir, say early trials are “encouraging,” which means the drug hasn’t been tested against placebo in a double-blind study. So saying “encouraging” is like saying Lysol taken internally shows promising results although probably deadly ones.
But let’s not get caught up in details. Everyone’s doing their darnedest to make sense of this pandemic. One day we’ll have a vaccine, possibly within the year. Not that it’ll matter to some, especially evangelists decrying the virus as a plot to bring down the president.
Maybe God ain’t crazy about viruses, but he sure knows how to separate good Christians from batty ones.
Rather than take precautionary measures, these thumpers are either blowing on microphones, telling their flock they just shooed the coronavirus away, or saying “God hates viruses, so don’t worry.” Aren’t plagues and pestilence a big part of the Bible? Maybe God ain’t crazy about viruses, but he sure knows how to separate good Christians from batty ones.
One pastor, Landon Spradlin, drove 900 miles from Virginia to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. He called this coronavirus thingy “hysteria,” and died two weeks a later from heart complications.
Then there’s Bishop Gerald Glenn of the New Deliverance Evangelistic Church in Virginia. “I firmly believe God is larger than this dreaded virus,” he said, while continuing to hold full church sermons. Poor Glenn and his wife both died in early April.
Religion can’t always be right, but trust a Christian evangelist to say something that’s too weird to ignore. “I prayed to God and he unclogged my toilet,” Sid Roth said on YouTube. Leslea Atkinson Moore wrote back and said: “He must have pulled your head out of it.”
That’s gotta hurt, especially when you’re giving ample proof of God’s existence. No wonder some of us are looking for answers in disinfectants.
“Half of us are gonna come out of this as amazing cooks,” one man wrote, “the other half with a drinking problem. There is no in between.”
Someone wrote on social media the other night: “How much time needs to pass for grave robbing to become archaeology?”
Well, the “in between” could be ingesting Lysol, or thinking about life in existential terms. We’ve got time, after all. Maybe we should find out why Charles Bukowski said, “We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus!”
Dying ain’t exactly what we want to think about right now. Then again, it introduces some interesting questions. Someone wrote on social media the other night: “How much time needs to pass for grave robbing to become archaeology?” He went on say, “If I pull a gold bracelet out of a pyramid, I’ve made an archeological find. If I pull one out of the graveyard, I’m a jerk. What’s the waiting period for looting the dead?”
One response: “As an archaeologist, this is an uncomfortable question…but about 50 years.”
Bukowski also said, “We’re terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.” We’re a nervous bunch these days and bad nerves make us desperate. I’m not saying drugs — or bleach — is the answer—in fact, I’m pretty sure they’re not.
I also like knowing — whatever I’m taking — won’t lead to booty bumping or snorting Comet.
But, as I mentioned in the beginning, I like to know where my drugs are coming from. I also like knowing—whatever I’m taking—won’t lead to booty bumping or snorting Comet. Donny’s the one who’s up for a bit of experimentation, not me. Of course, that could change if Remdesivir gets beyond the early trial stage.
Until then, I’m keeping my addictions on the weenie side.
Robert Cormack is a satirist, novelist and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores. Check out Skyhorse Press or Simon and Schuster for more details.