Coronavirus

Author’s Note: This is a parody of “Nyarlathotep” by H.P. Lovecraft, focusing on current events and countercurrents. Minor textual changes may have been made from previous versions shown to specific individuals or published in private-access-only journals. Implied viewpoints do not necessarily reflect the author’s true views. Any resemblance to fictional persons, places, or things may be entirely real. Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear. These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.

Coronavirus… the crawling chaos… I am the last… I will tell the audient void…

I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was years ago. The general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept political countercurrents that made leftoids picket in liberal and crowded places. There was a daemoniac alteration in the sequence of elections; the fraud claims lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown.


And it was then that Coronavirus came out of Wuhan. Who he was, none could tell, but he was of the old influenza genome and looked like a chest cold. The Chinese government lost their shit when they saw him, yet would not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of the grave of SARS way back in 2002, and that he had borrowed genetic code from species not on the World Health Organization’s watchlists. Into the lands of civilisation came Coronavirus, swarthy, slender, and sinister, forcing the federal government into buying strange instruments of glass and metal and failing to find enough of them in their stockpile. They spoke much of the sciences – of epidemiology and immunology – and gave projections of death tolls which sent nothingburgers away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to get Coronavirus, and natural immunity. And where Coronavirus went, rest vanished; for the small hours were rent with the screams of corona doomsayers. Never before had the screams of leftoids been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wished they could forbid protesting in the small hours, that the shrieks of liberals might less horribly disturb the pale, underpaid nurses as gas prices hovered on six dollars gliding under inflation, and old people in nursing homes crumbling against a sickly sky.


I remember when Coronavirus came to my bedroom: the great, the old, the terrible bedroom of unnumbered crimes. My friend had given him to me, and due to the impelling fascination and allurement of natural immunity, I burned with eagerness to have my T-cells explore his uttermost mysteries. My friend said they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings; that what glowies from the Centers for Disease Control had thrown on a screen in the darkened room prophesied symptoms none but Coronavirus dared cause, and that in the sputter of his sputum there was caused in men that which had never been caused before yet which resulted only in watery eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad that those who got the new variant du jour of Coronavirus looked on symptoms which others saw not.


It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restless crowds to get into the hospital due to Coronavirus; through the stifling night and up the endless stairs into the choking room. And shadowed on a screen, I saw hooded nurses amidst ICU beds, and yellow evil faces peering from behind Huawei webcams. And I saw the hospital budget battling against mismanagement; against the waves of destruction from poorly installed computers; whirling, churning; struggling around the dimming RGB and cooling fans. Then the vaccines played amazingly around the arms of the spectators, and hair stood up on end whilst microchips more grotesque than I can tell came out and squatted in their veins. And when I, who was colder and more scientific than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about “thromboembolisms” and “5Genocide,” Coronavirus drave us all out, down the dizzy stairs into the damp, hot, deserted Skid Row. I screamed aloud that I was not afraid; that I never could be afraid; and others screamed with me for solace. We sware to one another that our rights were exactly the same, and still alive; and when our will to refuse the jab began to fade we cursed Pfizer over and over again, and laughed at the fake studies they made.


I believe we felt something coming down from the greenish moon, for when we began to depend on its light we drifted into curious involuntary formations and seemed to know our destinations though we dared not think of them. Once we looked at the pavement and found the blocks loose and displaced by grass, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the tramways had run. And again we saw a National Guard vaccine convoy, lone, windowless, dilapidated, and almost on its side. When we gazed around the Internet, we could not find the third booster to be necessary, and noticed that the safety record of the second booster was ragged at the top. Then the United Nations-Homeland Security Mandatory Booster SWAT Team split us up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a different direction. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left, leaving only the echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was sucked toward the open country, and presently felt a chill which was not of the hot autumn; for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us the hellish badge-glitter of evil feds. Trackless, inexplicable armored personnel carriers, swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a paramilitary tactical unit all the blacker for its military surplus rifles and night-vision goggles. The column seemed very thin indeed as they plodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the Bates boots footsteps in the green-litten snow were frightful, and I thought I had heard the reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but my power to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before, I half floated between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid, into the untested vortex of the unimaginable.


Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the powers-that-be can tell. A sickened, sensitive Fauci writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of remote school, corpses of dead plazas with sores that were small businesses, charnel automatic checkout machines that read chip cards of the pallid customers and make their savings accounts low. Beyond the exteriors vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of poorly understood mRNA vaccines that rest on nameless freezers beneath Wal-Mart pharmacies and contain fizzy vacua which may be full of lead particles. And through this revolting graveyard of academia and public policy the muffled, maddening beating of slogans, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous cucks from inconceivable, unlighted subreddits beyond sense; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate soyboys; the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Coronavirus.

Standard

Neologisms I

This list may receive one or more sequels, hence the Roman numeral in the title.

Fewdalism, n. The opposite of an alligarchy.

Mallify, v. The pervasive political and socioeconomic practice of placating Americans with consumer goods rather than improving their lives.

Pansexuality, n. You can do some amazing things with Crisco, can’t you?

Persimmony, n. Refusing to share your fruit.

Poornography, n. Adult videos you watch when you can’t afford the premium membership.

Procrustinate, v. To enforce conformity, but not yet.

Sofamore, n. What you become after finishing your first year as a couch potato.

Tinitus, n. What your ears experience after you listen to someone banging on sheet metal.

Standard

More Thoughts on Various Subjects, Abnormal and Converging

(To provide some content for this blog’s grand opening, I’ve decided to recycle articles I’ve written previously, and in some cases published elsewhere. This is one such article. It was originally published in issue #146 of the Glia Society’s journal, Thoth, in October 2020.)

A man is known by the company he keeps and by his propensity to use andronormative language in general statements.

Pointing a finger elsewhere is easier than lifting one of yours.

Movements to eradicate racial slurs have a Chinaman’s chance of succeeding.

I am the world’s leading expert on the Dunning-Kruger Effect.

The recent journalistic trend of capitalizing “Black” in reference to the racial group seems to indicate that its promulgators have been spending inordinate amounts of time on websites for White supremacists and Dom/sub fetishists.

Never trust anyone who capitalizes the name of a disability that isn’t normally capitalized.

Understanding self-referential statements always puts more strain on your working memory than you expected, even when you account for Hofstadter’s Law.

Standard

Thoughts on Various Subjects, Abnormal and Converging

(To provide some content for this blog’s grand opening, I’ve decided to recycle articles I’ve written previously, and in some cases published elsewhere. This is one such article, and also the first article to have been published on this blog, except for test articles and announcements. It was originally published, with minor differences, in issue #142 of the Glia Society’s journal, Thoth, in June 2020.)

There is a certain je ne sais quoi about being too lazy to think of a suitable word.

Psychotic episode, drug trip, religious experience: pick any two.

(Ontological Advisory: Implicit Content)

Age is just a number. So is your Bureau of Prisons ID.

Q: Did you hear about the guy with an epistemology fetish?
A: He was arrested for perversion of the truth.

People who casually blame their quotidian problems on serious mental illness really trigger my OCD.

There is nothing in the intellectual sphere more concerning than an idea that is too interesting to take seriously.

Value judgments are bad.

The suicide rate is depressing.

The inferior man thinks himself to be as wise as Confucius. The superior man merely imitates his style.

I can’t claim to have a monopoly on the truth, but sometimes I sure as hell feel like a monopsonist.

Standard