No cure for humor
I'm dying. I'm literally dying from laughter. LOL.
Up the hill from where I live, there is a fine building, a home for the elderly owned by the Catholic diocese. My mother died in that noble old brick building, on the Alzheimer's floor, where they put you while your family hopes you die.
Ma didn't know me for the last 18 months, but she'd still laugh sometimes, usually while talking to someone who wasn't alive anymore. She may not have known me anymore, but she laughed like hell with her mother, who died in 1963.
If only Ma had lived long enough to die of coronavirus, which has the distinction of being the deadliest hoax in recent memory. How we would have laughed!
As it was, she got only a little, squeaking death, a matter of curling up into a small ball, and dying like a starved puppy. Nothing was funny.
Only a year after she died, our old fat president told us this coronavirus was a "hoax," and, while he's running from that statement like an intern running from Bill Clinton, I'm sticking with that wonderfully stupid description.
Up until that moment, Pres. Donald J. Trump was on a truth roll. The coal jobs were back, Mexico paid for the wall. Hillary Clinton was in jail for life, and everybody had a new, tremendous, wonderful health insurance plan.
Sadly for our punchline president, the virus as hoax statement turned out to be an overstep of his usually successful "reality is what I say it is" defense.
The bodies kept piling up in the refrigerated trucks.
"Hey, Ma," I could have told my mother as she died. "This ain't REAL! You're being hoaxed to death. Breathe your last! You'll probably be back in a couple of days, 'cuz you won't really be dead."
She might not have known me, but she'd have gotten the joke. Who dies of a hoax? That's the funny part.
Hoax ventilators and hoax masks are both in short supply. There is no hoax vaccine, and not enough hoax beds and the hoax corpses are piling up in the hoax truck, and our old fat president will try to live it down on national television today at 4 p.m. while his wolf-eyed wife wonders if maybe she should have stayed home and taken that sausage factory job.
If you don't get the joke about Melania Trump working in a sausage factory, you probably don't get the coronavirus joke, either. Poor you. You have just failed the test of true Americanism, which means you're likely to die weeping rather than giggling at the supreme, wonderful absurdity of an old man in a too-long red tie, shoving the scientists out of the way to call one more thing a "hoax."
Scientists? Doctors? They're jokes, except for the tired ones working doubles trying to keep the hoax victims alive. They're heroes, principally because they can't escape from the hospital long enough to tell you the joke isn't funny, and the hoax was never a hoax, and Mrs. Sanchez choked her way out of life six minutes ago, and the nurses were too tired to cry, and she won't get a funeral Mass, which she would have gotten back home in Guatemala.
Mrs. Sanchez may have come here illegally, or she may have come here legally. It doesn't matter anymore. The hoax has shut her mouth.
To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, a collection of his columns that can, fortunately, be delivered to you home via mail or electronically, is called "Devil's Elbow: Dancing in the Ashes of America." It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Kindle, GooglePlay, Nook and iBooks.