Return of The Beer Quest: Quarantine Edition (Patreon)

Great. Terrific. Peachy. I spend all month filming wacky Corona Virus quarantine videos, and all it took was one day for everyone to forget about the stupid fake virus in favor of the shiny new fake race war. 

And don't get your panties in a twist over me calling those things "fake". Obviously when i say fake i mean pre-determined, like wrestling, which if you haven't noticed is where the news gets most of its ideas, apparently right down to the unceremonious dropping of storylines as soon as the boss loses interest. It's enough to make you wonder who's really in charge...

I've seen episodes of Raw with more narrative coherence than the daily info-blast of slanted perspectives and convoluted meta-conspiracies the rogue A.I. that's sabotaging this iteration of the matrix explosively sharts all over every social media feed 24/7.

At least on Raw when i have to watch things descend into chaos thanks to an evil billionaire's wacky cloaked rituals with the Luciferian death-cult he secretly funds and masterminds to seed panic and discontent throughout the private sandbox of hapless subjects that exist only to be tortured by his perverse machinations for no greater purpose than his own amusement and to satisfy his sociopathic lust for cruelty, i don't have to struggle to hear it over the crowd thunderously chanting stupid shit like "rioting is bad", and "the place to create change is the voting booth", which doesn't even have a good rhythm to it. 

The very most i'll have to put up with is a redundant "this is wrestling" chant, which ironically would be a hilariously satirical thing for a rioter to say upon scaling the CNN logo or goofing off in the background of a news report. Nobody steal that idea, it's mine and i will literally do it myself as soon as i'm done writing these cursed Patreon posts. Black lives matter, but so does getting paid, baby!

Relax, no one ever rioted for me any of the 17 times i got a knee on my neck by chew-spittin piggies growing up in White-trashville, so all my brother-brothers are just gonna have to make do without me until i get my silly videos out. It's like the circus vigilantes who raised me always said, you can't wear your hockey mask till you put on your clown paint. Honk honk.

Joker didn't invent proletarian revolt with a painted smile, Violent J did, and beneath the honkity honk honkey-tonk stonk of my white-faced white face there burns a red-hot lust for justice that has me Screaming For Vengeance like the Priest of the sewer i mutated in. I'm a Millennial-aged Mutant Cowboy Anarchist with revolution in my radioactive blood and green Gak in my gonads. Even now i can hear the riots calling my name like Kermit hears The Rainbow Connection.

Every time this kind of thing happens and i have to watch it from afar, i feel like Bilbo after telling the dwarves to fuck off and then realizing he wants to go on the adventure after all. I pray to all the Valar of Middle-Earth that the rioting lasts long enough for me to finish my work, after which point i will run out of the shire as fast as my hobbit feet can carry me to join the Twisted Metal tournament that is 2020 America and do what i was born to do, slap-shot a hockey puck through a police car windshield, and then virtue signal about it on facebook so all my old friends who turned Neo-Marxist and decided i was problematic will finally think i'm cool again. 

That's a joke, obviously. My feet are pristine and not at all hobbit-like. They have to be for when my career inevitably hits "only-fans" depths of bottoming out. 

"But Jess, you'd be free to do as you please right now if you spaced these posts out over the month instead of desperately machine-gunning them all out at the last minute". 

Silence! Don't you see the danger of a rapidly approaching deadline is the source of my power? I need the madness of the ticking clock to sharpen my wit and awaken my literary Godhood! It gets the blood pumping! Hemingway didn't write Islands In The Stream from the comfort of a bean bag chair, he punched every key of the typewriter with his turgid cock while precariously balancing his big toe on the trigger of a shotgun. Now THAT'S a deadline! He was painting the walls with his beautiful mind before the book went to print. 

Well anyway, here's a video of me getting drunk in the woods. It's full of lockdown jokes so just pretend that's still a thing people care about. It's also an hour long and extremely silly, with way too much effort put into the editing because i have a disease called integrity which makes me incapable of half-assing anything, even when it's something totally stupid and pointless. Especially when it's stupid and pointless. 

Now if you'll excuse me, i have a few more of these to write before i can go avenge another fallen black hero by wearing the Joe Louis Fist like a Hulk Hand and smashing the corporate monument to shitty pizza that replaced his arena.

I have to include pictures for you culture-less non-michiganders.