Six cocktails deep at a Rose Garden ceremony isn’t where you want to be in the perilous times, but there I was and it is what it is. I had just ordered cocktail number seven, hoping to suppress my despair, when I turned and found myself masked face to mask-less face with Kimberly Guilfoyle. I tried to engage her in conversation about her journey from attorney to tabloid fodder-slash-lesson for Toastmasters everywhere, but she ripped my tall pure grain alcohol and lemon from my hands, downed it in one gulp, and forced her tongue down my throat while simultaneously demanding I view compromising photos of her cat sitter.
As I felt her serpent tongue penetrate my medical grade mask and plunge toward my tonsils, one thought was fixed firmly in my noggin: There’s no telling which Trump has been partying with that tongue, and in any event it’s likely awash in SARS-CoV-2.
I hit the eject lever on our unanticipated tete-a-tete and made straight for Pandemic Journal HQ, where I am currently quarantined with a shit-ton of Clorox and Beefeaters gin.
Never fear, I’ve reallocated budget for our staff’s 401k match to a helicopter that sits outside, ready to whisk me to a hospital at the sign of the first sniffle. I considered checking myself in as a precaution, but Chris Christie needed both beds in his room so none were available.
I’m an optimist by nature, but watching the dominoes fall, one by one, is cause for concern. I thought we could count on Kayleigh to never lie and that SUV joyride we all witnessed was a bit too Weekend-at-Bernies for my comfort, so I’m hunkered down, alternating between doomscrolling for news about another senator getting the vapors and writing detailed instructions for my Viking funeral.
I’ll need your thoughts and prayers, please.