Y’all know I would never break social distancing unless it was absolutely essential, like attending a mostly peaceful pro-Hamas protest. So it goes without saying that I was left with no alternative when I hired a handyman to come to my house. That jar of mustard wasn’t going to open itself, and I had almost broken my wrist just trying to do it myself.
As a manx of the people and proud socialist, I waited by the door for my new working class friend to arrive, enjoying the smell of my own farts penetrating through the frayed, gossamer mesh of my well-worn N95.
Eventually, the handyman “BRUCE,” (according to his name tag) arrived in a quaint old VW van. How deliciously blue collar! Hilarious! I immediately noticed two things were missing from his uniform right away: pronouns and any sort of face covering.
DON’T CALL ME A MUSTARD, I’M KETCHUPABLE
“Stop right there, peasant!” I ‘jokingly’ bellowed from my stoop, hands on my hips, my Just Stop Oil safety vest flapping in the wind like the superhero cape it is. “Where is your properly fitted N95 and what are your preferred pronouns?!”
“Fack off, mate,” the prole laughed. I was aghast. Both my monocles fell off my face and shattered on the floor. As the (possibly English) barbarian pushed past me into my home, bowling me over in the process, I had terrifying visions of filthy sans-culottes storming the bastille. If there’s one thing as an American I can’t stand, it’s revolutionaries (unless the cause is just and I was bused in with lunch provided).
I followed behind him in a panicked fluster, spraying the air with 100% organic germ killing Lysol. He popped the lid off the jar without even breaking a sweat, then turned towards me and growled Piers Morganesque: “Mind if I use the shitter, love?”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” I squealed. But due to his pitiful UK public school education and woeful life of squalor he misunderstood my protestations that were totally about COVID safety and not at all about him being a limey dirty serf.
NOT MORE OF THIS COVID SHIT!!!!
He barrelled his way past me and made his way towards what he called ‘the loo’. “OH– OH, I SAY–!!” I cried out in my best approximation of Ricky Gervais in hope he would understand. But I was merely jostled aside by the hulking brute, my face-shield knocked violently slightly askew.
Half an hour and many Piers Morganesque grunts later the English oaf emerged from my bathroom, hitching up his pants. He gave me a crooked tooth grin, thanked me for my hospitality, got in his van and fled the scene of the crime. On the way out I noticed him coughing.
This shit just got real.
Now, I know some folx reading this might poo-poo the honorable and super serious practice of wastewater analysis, but I can assure you the science is settled on this one. Take it from someone who’s been up to their nip-scars in wastewater data for months: it’s no laughing fecal-matter. Anyone who tells you otherwise is full of shit.
COVID TURDWATER ANALYSIS
I immediately put myself into a tier 6 firebreak lockdown and got out my wastewater analysis kit. I lifted the toilet bowl and fished out the gigantic turd he’d given birth to. I performed all the necessary super sciencey tests but the results were inconclusive.
Further analysis was needed.
With trembling trepidation, I lowered my mask and took a bite out of the caterpillar cake shaped English log and lapped up some of the shitwater from the bowl. I instantly threw up everywhere and I’ve been sick on and off ever since. Yep, he definitely had COVID.
I’ve spent the last few days convalescing from COVID, i.e. writhing around in my sweaty bed sheets like a worm whilst feeling sorry for myself. I’ve been monitoring my own wastewater during this time, and every time I perform a taste test on one of my samples I get progressively sicker! Covid is baffling.
