Pandemic Journal, Entry 6: Grass Isn’t Always Greener

Before COVID-19 hit, I had a nice little business going. There were a few plants of Super Skunk growing in the back bedroom, and I could turn those into a steady stream of non-taxable income. My clientele were mostly suburban moms; none of that Scarface scene for me.

COVID-19 wasn’t the problem. Nah, it was what my buddy calls “the last mile problem,” which is just a fancy way of saying you have to get the product into your customers’ hands. These Karens that had been happy to just have me drop by their houses suddenly started asking about “touch-less delivery” and “expedited shipping.” I looked into all the options, because my customers see me as totally essential. But in the end I decided a little hiatus was in order. The money would be there when I decided to reopen.

Fate has a funny way of changing plans, and in this case the punchline was one of those afternoon press conferences where everyone is talking about nothing. But there was something about the words “disinfectant” and “UV light” that caught the nation’s attention like a laser pointer in front of a kitten.
So that’s how I found myself sitting by the curb slinging my goods.

“Hey girl, I got what you need,” I sang, “This is the good stuff.” I motioned toward a bottle of Simple Green.

Five seconds later her stroller was rolling away down the street, forgotten. I tied her off and prepped her fix.

“Cash first,” I said. “Or I can file insurance.”

She handed over her insurance card and $20 co-pay and I shot that stuff straight into her veins.
She was dead in 15 seconds.

But here’s the really weird thing: At first, all those deaths made people question the logic of shooting household chemicals into the bloodstream. But then Dr. Birx was asked to look into the – I don’t know – possibility of reanimating the dead with spray glitter and she just grimaced and offered a weak nod and the press conferences continued and no one cared.

You’d think the FDA and cops and who knows who else would have something to say but no, they all just sat back and watched the bodies pile up and chuckled when Hannity had a weeklong series on the need for a jobs program for all those corpses that were going to spring back to life.

I had to rent three refrigerator trucks to keep up with demand.

It was monotonous work: Sell, fix, add another body to the pile. But I was selling hope, and as I was to come to find out, that’s way more profitable than selling weed.

“Can I interest you in some IV Mr. Clean?”