So far, the biggest sacrifice from the self-quarantine has been toilet paper – I don’t have any. I called the police about the apparent universal shortage, but they insisted it wasn’t what a 911-type call should be. I begged to differ. I begged strenuously. Where can I get some?, I insistently asked. The sergeant hung up on me. He called it frivolous. How would he know it’s frivolous? I’ll bet you those cops have plenty of that soft Charmin up the kazoo.
So then I called this so-called money manager I got, who’s supposed to take care of all of my money. I told him a year ago that I don’t want any big risk stuff. Just make me around 20 percent a year – I don’t want to be too greedy. So the hotshot invests my hard earned dough in a new money called Bitcoin, and in a car pick-up service called Lyft. Bitcoin is now worth 50 percent of what I got it for, and Lyft should rightly be called Descend, ‘cause it’s on it’s way to insolvency – coincidentally, same as me! My big time money manager told me I shouldn’t sell anything at this time, that things would soon be better. I told him I didn’t have any toilet paper, and that I couldn’t wait for things to get better. He hung up on me, but not before he told me not to be crybaby. Yeah, sure. I’ll bet he’s got loads of Cottonelle stored under his sink, the SOB.
So then I went over to the table tennis club in Pleasantville. But when I got there, the place was closed. How could that be? The place is never closed. But it was. I knocked a few times, but there was nothin’ going on inside. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse! Jeez! I was gonna take a roll of toilet paper outta the mens’ room – just to borrow, mind ya – but the joint was boarded up.
Hey, what kinda world we livin’ in? No money, no ping pong, no toilet paper. What the hell is happening?