I’ve been starting to lose track of time lately. I know I’m not the only one, and I know it’s become a running joke all over the despondent, pandemic-addled internet. Still, it’s weird as hell, and coaxed an actual, audible “man, what the hell?” out of me the last time it happened earlier this week when I sincerely couldn’t tell if it was Saturday, Sunday, or Monday.
The days are all sliding together now thanks to a combination of working from home without the semi-reliable rhythms of school (I’ve got kids), the seasonal churn of new episodes of TV (Mandalorian S2 when?), and the fact that more and more it seems like a perfectly good idea to start drinking at 4 p.m. on a Tuesday (or is it Thursday?).
A friend of mine the other day mentioned that he couldn’t wait to start going back to movie theaters “when this is all over,” which struck me as doubly ridiculous. Not only is no one going to movie theaters for a loooong time now (if ever again) but the idea that there will ever be a “when this is all over” at all is laughable. This is, for better or worse, how things are and—to some degree or another—how they’ll continue to be from here on out. Days will smear into weeks will distend into months will lead to…I don’t know. But “over”? Nah, this is just beginning.
The best thing we can do is to simply accept the fact that our entire chronological understanding is being warped into something new and weird and unavoidable. Maybe in a few months it won’t matter if I can’t immediately tell if it’s a Wednesday or a Sunday. Maybe we’ll figure out that it never really mattered to begin with.
It’s Friday, though. I know that much, because there’s man, what the hell?-ing to be done. So let’s do it, shall we? There isn’t much time to waste.
Dubya got to be kidding me
Former president and friend-of-Ellen George W. Bush has decided now is the perfect time to once again subject the world to his mediocre art by announcing the release of “Out Of Many, One: Portraits of America’s Immigrants,” a series of 43 paintings that “bring[s] to the forefront the stories of forty-three individuals who exemplify our proud history as a nation of immigrants.”
As a friendly reminder, George W. Bush is also the man who—in addition to bombing hundreds of thousands of Iraqi citizens to death—literally created the Immigration and Customs Enforcement Agency, who are at this very moment terrorizing the exact same communities Dubya has commemorated with his jejune art for the low, low price of 38 bucks (or $250 if you wanna spring for the autographed copy, in which case you’re probably on the wrong website, pal).
Falwell that ends well
If I were arguably the most famous influential Christian conservative figure in the country right now, and if I had posted—and then quickly deleted—a picture of myself with squeezing next to some random woman while my pants were unzipped…well, I can confidently say that I would not respond to the entirely predictable “Man, what the hell?” backlash by saying, “I’m gonna try to be a good boy from here on out.”
Then again, I am not former Liberty University president and odious MAGA bootlicker Jerry Falwell Jr., who did exactly that this week after he was photographed with who he claimed was his “wife’s assistant” during a fancy costume party on a yacht.
“She’s pregnant so she couldn’t get her—she couldn’t get her pants up,” Falwell tried to explain. “And I was like, trying to like—my—I had on pair of jeans that I hadn’t worn in a long time so I couldn’t get mine zipped either. And so—and so—I just put my belly—I just put my belly out like hers.”
On Friday, Liberty University’s board politely notified Falwell that he would be taking an “indefinite leave of absence from his roles as President and Chancellor” of an institution which, as it so happens, first began allowing female students to wear skirts up to two whole inches above their knees a mere five years ago.
And speaking of showing some skin…
Show hog, sweetie
Before you ask, the following was reportedly shared with permission from the owner of the Deutsche dong in question, who spent part of his nudist vacation at Germany’s Lake Teufelssee chasing the feral hog that nabbed his precious laptop bag.
According to Adele Landauer, a fellow sunbather who snapped the pictures of the wild boar chase (and was subsequently given the OK to post them on Facebook), our hero eventually “made some noise, then the sow dropped the bag.”
I guess the moral here is: Ass, and ye shall receive.
Stick to sports
Tell me, dear reader, what you see here:
Is this, as Oakland Athletics’ bench coach Ryan Christenson claimed, an “adapted […] elbow bump, which we do after wins, to create some distance with the players”? Or is it, y’know, a very clear and obvious and unambiguous Nazi salute?
Frankly, I don’t see why he doesn’t just say, “I’m a big dumb idiot and did a big dumb thing that I thought it was funny in the moment, because, again, I’m a large stupid moron, and I’m sorry” to just save us all a bunch of trouble?
That’s a rap
I’m sincerely not sure what’s worse: that someone took the time and effort to create an utterly deranged, absolutely unwatchable animated “rap battle” between Donald Trump and, uh, the ghost of Ronald Reagan ~ or ~ that it’s more than seven and a half minutes long?
Either way, this abomination not only exists, but comes in part thanks to The Lincoln Project (of course) who seem to excel solely at creating anti-Trump attack ads that make people forget that they’re coming from the same GOP consultants and operators who helped pave the way for Trump in the first place.
Here! Watch it! I dare you.
A few days ago I complained that although there had been plenty of good music released recently, we still hadn’t found the Song of the Summer. Well, joke’s on me. Just three days after I asked for your submissions, Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion have descended from on high to give us “WAP,” the absolute unquestionable summer jam we’ve been waiting for. Mack Trucks, mac and cheese, it’s got it all.
I encourage you to play this extra loud around your children, parents, and innocent pets:
Did anything make you say “Man, what the hell?” this week? Perhaps out loud to a roommate, loved one, or disinterested household pet/plant? Misery loves company, so share your personal what the hells in the comments below!
(pic via purple films/warner brothers – oh-wee-oh-wee-oh)