Ian Joyce

The allure of looking to the past can be irresistible, but there’s danger in nurturing the belief that we can return to simpler times when we should be flexible and willing to embrace the “new normal.” Nonetheless, I struggle with changing social mores and practices, and nowhere is this more real than during my weekly trip to the grocery store.

As I travel the one-way aisles, cloaked in anonymity behind my mask, I survey the people I encounter and wish for a simpler time. A time when I only wanted to punch Nazis.

We literally fought a war to defeat Naziism, and those who flaunt the symbols and language of Nazi-era Germany are asking to be punched. If you asked me a few months ago who I would be willing to punch, “a Nazi” was my clear, unambiguous answer.

But now. Now. There’s the guy in the pasta aisle whose freedom is a product of the greatest generation’s sacrifices. He interprets that freedom as the ability to ignore social distancing conventions and assert his aggressive unwillingness to wear a mask.

I want to punch him. Hard.

Just like I want to punch the hipster who lowers his mask to cough as he passes me in dairy.

And the family of four who dominate the chips aisle and touch everything on the shelves before deciding to buy none of it. Yes, I’ll punch a kid, too.

The loud woman who invades my personal space and barks at the cashier, “Did you find my phone?” Bam. Right in the mouth. But only after warning the cashier that she might want to look away.

MAGA hat/no-mask guy who has hovered over the butcher counter for 30 minutes? Not shopping but just making some kind of statement? Pow. Probably twice.

My grocery store has become a target rich environment and the thought of punching so many people in such a short period of time makes me wonder if I’d have the stamina to punch a Nazi, if one appeared in front of me.

I don’t fear the future, but I admit I long for the past. A simpler time when the only people I wanted to punch were Nazis. Is that wrong of me?

Friends tell me there’s enough bad news in the world but I think they’re focused only on quantity and are missing the bigger picture. Yes, there is bad news everywhere we turn: COVID-19, unemployment, corruption, murder hornets, etcetera. But what’s missing is a handcrafted, curated approach to bad news.

As a lifelong connoisseur of bad news, I’m uniquely positioned to provide subscribers with targeted, relevant and impactful bad news. In my life I’ve received bad news and given it. I’ve been a bystander to the delivery of bad news. I’ve intercepted, deleted, ignored and wasted bad news. And now I’m ready to sell it.

I hear you: Why would you pay to receive bad news when you get your fill from the Internet? Simple: I provide personalized bad news that you can adapt to your lifestyle, just by changing subscription levels.

For a mere $5 per month, I’ll share bad news that will mildly irritate you but not change your life in any way whatsoever. For example, I might share that your neighbor’s dog was the one that shit in your yard six months ago. Double your subscription to $10 per month and you’ll get the news by voicemail.

For $25 a month, I’ll interview your friends and family members and share weekly nuggets of bad news. Your kid got straight D’s in school last semester. The document you’ve been looking for got thrown out with the garbage. That sort of thing.

If you’re ready for a swift kick in the nuts, subscribe at the $200 level and get express bad news. Your wife is leaving you for her dentist and taking the kids? I’ll share that bad news with you in excruciating detail and won’t let you off the phone.

I hesitate to mention it, but $500 per month will unleash a tsunami of bad news. I can’t even hint at what it is, but the idea of picking up the phone, checking email or reading text messages will give you tremors. It’s the value pack of life-altering bad news.

No one else can make bad news an art. You owe it to yourself to embrace a better – and worse – way of getting bad news. Visit my Patreon page and subscribe. I promise you’ll regret it.

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Okay, no joking about this: My friend Don Durham is committed to overcoming food insecurity by growing food to give away. You can support his work by visiting https://www.patreon.com/HealingSpringsAcres and subscribing,

You can call me a Grandma killer. I’m not sacrificing my home, food on the table, all of our docs and dentists, every form of pleasure (museums, zoos, restaurants), all my kids’ teachers in order to make other people comfortable. If you want to stay locked down, do. I’m not.

— Bethany S. Mandel (@bethanyshondark) May 6, 2020

“You can call me Grandma killer” might seem a provocation in light of the almost universal love we feel for our grandmas or Nanas or G-mas or whatever we choose to call them, but fairness demands we hear from both the woman who proudly declares her willingness to snuff grandma, and the weak individuals who haven’t bothered to stake out a position on the continued viability of their maternal ancestors.

You might question Grandma Killer’s moral standing vis-a-vis “the grand mom matter” because of her history of questionable, attention-seeking opinions like “We Need to Start Befriending Neo Nazis,” but I suggest this demonstrates a lack of imagination about the more delightful aspects of neo-Nazis and other modern day fascists. They provide a colorful and historically important counterbalance to the unwashed masses who cry about justice and peace at rallies and protests.

And you may wonder if reopening zoos and museums is sufficient reason to cap a few grandmas. The weight of Grandma Killer’s commitment to these cultural icons is a clarion call to club grandma in the head like we would a baby seal and get this economy rocking again.

Catered parties, salon appointments and meeting girlfriends at Cheesecake Factory are self-evident arguments for euthanizing not just grandma, but all grandparents. We can all agree on this, right?

The opposition may value grandma for her sentimental presence but they have no credible reason to support keeping her alive. She probably doesn’t hold down a job, can’t procreate, and only provides utility in the form of babysitting and baking. Any objective observer of grandma would vote to kill her off in a hot second.

Sure, both sides make arguments about the pros and cons of grandma, but once you weigh the evidence the choice is clear: Grandma’s gotta go.

I have always considered myself a citizen of the world and tonight I stand before everyone left on the planet – and by everyone left I’m mainly referring to your broadcast media proxy with their white-hot klieg lights and probing follow-up questions, beaming my face to the unknown number of you still alive in secure, Murder Hornet-proof bunkers – to offer an apology.

I am sorry. I could not have known that after weeks of nothing but news about COVID-19 – weeks trapped in a house with nothing but my contempt for humanity to keep me company – that it would be a mistake to raise my voice to the heavens and ask, “Why keep us waiting? Wipe us out already!”

I am sorry I failed to realize that this might be seen by sundry deities as a challenge, and that those gods might be thin-skinned enough to chuckle and answer by unleashing Murder Hornets on North America. But then, how could I have known?

Right. Like I should have expected a passing comment spoken only to myself to unleash a Murder Hornet rampage in South Dakota that will go down in history. That is, if recorded history is a thing when this is all said and done. Okay, though. My bad.

Look, folks. I’m sorry your flyswatters, rolled up newspapers and half-empty cans of RAID were no match for the most murder-y insects to ever exist. It’s not like I can be held responsible, even though I tweeted that I was a big fan of their work after that video of Javanka flailing away at and disappearing into a swarm of Murder Hornets at Mar-a-Lago went viral on TikTok.

Who could have known that their savage bloodlust would only grow and that my throwaway mention, “Up next, Liechtenstein!” would prove to be prescient, almost as if I had directed their movement? No one, of course. Just like no one, least of all me, could have anticipated their uncanny ability to track down and consume human prey who had secreted themselves underground behind six inches of hardened steel. No matter where in the world they were.

Listen, I’ve learned my lesson. Taunting the gods isn’t prudent and I won’t do it again. Promise. That said, I may have played some small role in unleashing this plague, but don’t all of you frightened survivors feel a little bit responsible for not stopping the Murder Hornets’ inexorable advance across the globe? Think about it and let me know. I’ll be in my bunker.

A survey of Pandemic Journal readers discovered that when the print edition of Economist is unavailable, Pandemic Journal is overwhelmingly the preferred substitute. This is both confusing and a cause for happiness, and because emotions are running high among our writing staff we’re choosing to see our sample size of one as statistically significant.

When I founded Pandemic Journal over a decade ago in April I did not set out to challenge Economist. But now that readers are fleeing Economist for Pandemic Journals’ cut rate approach to satirical commentary about current events, I think it’s high time to show others who are questioning the value of their Economist subscriptions an objective comparison between these two esteemed publications.

Let’s begin with the most obvious point of comparison: Cost. Economist suckers in high finance wannabes with a $12 for 12 weeks offer, then hits their credit card with a $549 charge for three years (153 weeks!). Pandemic Journal, on the other hand, is like the kindly drug dealer who not only gives away free samples to get customers hooked but is just happy to provide a service so he doesn’t ever mention money even though he constantly doles out an ever-increasing number of drugs to an ever-more-dissatisfied customer base. Advantage, Pandemic Journal. While the Economist has a more sustainable business model, we do this for the lulz.

Next, editorial staff. Economist pays pointy-headed writers buckets of pounds to be both occasionally wrong and extremely unfunny. Pandemic Journal is occasionally funny and extremely wrong. Let’s call this a draw.

Then, there’s content. Economist claims to “filter out the noise of the daily news cycle and analyse the trends that matter”. Pandemic Journal is all noise, all the way to 11, all the time. Further, we believe that “trends” is a fancy word that falsely suggests knowing that which has yet to happen. We’re not living in Back to the Future, and we’re definitely not down with spelling “analyze” with an “s.” Pandemic Journal FTW.

Advertising: Economist is rolling in sweet, sweet advertising cash. We want us some of that. Advantage (grudgingly), Economist.

Finally, legacy value. Pandemic Journal fully acknowledges the value of a long publishing history and understands that respect is earned over time. Economist professes to engage in “a severe contest between intelligence, which presses forward, and an unworthy, timid ignorance obstructing our progress.” Pandemic Journal is unburdened by intelligence and launches headlong into each day with hard-earned and unrelenting ignorance. We cannot judge, dear reader, which approach offers greater value. That is for you to decide.

Before reading, please see: Twitter to Coronavirus Conspiracy Theorists: Stop Telling People to Burn Down 5G Towers

It began innocently enough. I was shopping online for a new cell phone and as I started to click on a Samsung Galaxy S20 Ultra an email alert popped up on my computer. 

“Don’t,” was all it said. 

Then, “Take your hand off the mouse.”

Finally, “Call [REDACTED]. This is a secure number.”

And that’s how I found myself deep in conversation with Alex Jones, the genius behind Infowars and purveyor of Super Concentrated Beet Essence Extract. 

“Is it safe?” he asked.

“Is what safe?” I replied. 

His silence spoke volumes. I heard him without having to listen to anything at all. 

He broke the silence: “I’m not wearing pants.” 

I had questions. About the Kennedy assassination. The illuminati. Whether the Doubletree chocolate chip recipe circulating on the Internet is legit. I held my fire. 

“Did you hear me”” he repeated. “No pants.”

Sage words from the InfoWarrior, a media giant. 

“No. Pants.”

Wisdom has its own pace, so I waited. 

It may have been an hour or it may have been days, but he broke the silence. “Q has a mission for you: 5G spectrum, COVID-19 – there’s a connection. You know what to do.”

“Uh…?”

“Look to the mainstream media.”

I dove head first into fake news. It was everywhere: 5G towers were burning across Europe. 

My mission was crystal clear. Those towers needed to burn. And gas was only $1.06 a gallon. Q had ordained it, and Alex was the messenger. Synchronicity, baby. 

So that night I found myself atop a newly constructed 5G tower. Soon it would burn. I would celebrate. The world would awaken to truth. 

I poured cheap, cheap gasoline from a five-gallon can and watched it trickle down the structure beneath me. It soaked the earth below. I breathed in the fumes. I gloried in the knowledge that I would soon be celebrated by those oppressed warriors who take to their keyboards to open the sheeples’ eyes. They would sing my praises–me, the 5G avenger, the savior of all humanity. With a flash of flame COVID-19 would be gone. I was gonna be bigger than that American patriot who shot up the pedo-pizza joint in DC. I inhaled deeply.

I was a feeling a little woozy, to tell the truth. 

My phone rang.

You know those signs on gas pumps that tell you to not talk on your cell phone while pumping gas? I didn’t take those seriously but maybe I should have. 

The explosion that followed a split second later was less of the massive boom you’d expect after watching Die Hard 42 times, and more of a deep “woof” that sucked the air out of my lungs and pitched me to the ground, 150 feet below. 

When I awakened in a hospital three days later, Alex’s face was six inches from mine, like he was inspecting some new type of insect. 

“You look like you’ve been in a dunk tank of Nair,” he observed. 

I had to give him that. My hair and eyebrows were gone.

“Sign this.” He shoved a piece of paper and a pen into my hands. “No time to read it.”

I had a bit of trouble signing, since my wrists were cuffed to the hospital bed, but I managed. 

And that’s how I became a triple threat to the establishment: Convicted felon, multilevel sales associate, and SpokesPatriot for Super Concentrated Beet Essence Extract. 

Isn’t America the greatest nation in the universe?

There’s something I need to tell you, but let me give you some context – a bit of an explanation – so you at least understand that none of what’s going to happen was my original intention. I simply wanted to use some of my extra free time to develop my professional skills – skills that might be applied to a new career. But I’ll cut to the chase and if I don’t get there before things get a bit, well, crazy, I’ll just say “My bad.”

I read this thing in Bloomberg that said coders are in demand and I thought, that could be me. In demand. Sitting on stock options and a sweet pile of cash. So I signed up for an intro to BASIC online class, aced that, and saw that I had a knack for programming. I knocked out a C+ class, then Python, and started mixing in some network security classes for a change of pace. I was loving it, and the work kept my mind off all the bad stuff happening outside. 

Of course, I wanted to test some practical applications of what I learned. I still laugh about my first piece of “software,” if you can even call it that. It was a simple script that auto-posted to Twitter daily conspiracy theories randomly generated from the text of Cat in the Hat and the 2012 Forbes 500 list. 

Success, in the form of repeated Twitter bans, stoked my ambition and I began to experiment with different ideas. I was particularly interested in the internet of things and the notion that eventually all devices might be connected to one another. I was so excited about the possibilities that I began spending 15-20 hours a day immersed in my IoT projects. Soon, my toaster varied the degree of crispness based on the rolling daily total of Google searches for “unprecedented,” thanks to a Raspberry Pi and a couple hundred lines of code. It took a mere 20 minutes to rig my bedroom lamp to change its intensity based on daily diagnosed cases of COVID-19. Soon I had lots of these IoT devices around my house, all responding to data on the Internet. It was cool. 

It never occurred to me to consider the ethical implications of my work. In hindsight, perhaps I should have realized that my passion for IoT might have blinded me to the possibility that things could take a turn for the worse. Or, as my friend Phil said when the first sign of trouble arose, “Shit’s got real.”

Indeed, shit got real. Real fast. 

I was so used to the devices running autonomously that I didn’t bother to supervise them. So of course I missed noticing that my Internet-connected toaster and coffee maker had joined forces and converted my fridge into an IoT 3D printer. And I was so busy down in the basement, inventing new connected devices, that I failed to notice that the commotion in the kitchen was the product of an army of sentient, time-traveling bots that the fridge was spitting out at the rate of one per minute. 

My phone rang. “Dude.” It was Phil. “Are these your robots that showed up at my door and if they are, did they really travel here from the future to save humanity from itself?”

It’s important to mention that the media’s references to “Skynet”, “killer robots,” and “genocide” are overblown. First, the autonomous force I’d unwittingly unleashed only gave Phil a couple of bruises, though I’ll admit they are getting more powerful and brutal, and seem to have fewer qualms about attacking strangers. So while I sort this out you might want to remain inside. And if inside includes a panic room with reinforced titanium walls and a year supply of food, all the better.

Good luck, and hey, sorry.