CoronaRage 1-0-Fucking-1

If you thought you’ve heard angry rants in the past here on BonerFruit, well prepare yourself for something fucking extraordinary, as I’m about to set the fucking record for the fucking number of F-bombs ever recorded in a fucking 1000-word fucking essay.

Fucking why?

Because cocksucking society has lost its collective fucking mind. And even though there’s absolutely no worthwhile reason to write this post today (since realizing humanity has the aggregate IQ of a chromosome-deficient chimp huffing gas fumes while being steadily pumped with carbon monoxide via a short hose jammed straight into its hairy ass), I need to document a few things which are solely for my benefit — a dear-fucking-diary piece that I don’t give a flying fuck if anyone reads or resonates with. I don’t even fucking know what the fuck aggregate means, and guess what? I don’t give a flying fuck.

Though I’ve been working on a new book during this bullshit fucking lockdown, as well as two new blog posts that were ready to publish today (which would have come across as humorous, positive, and maybe even fucking inspiring), all that shit is dead in the water.

Fucking why?

Because the scrote-sucking marina in this ass-licking shithole town has refused me access to my boat. Was I missing a few commas between adjectives in that sentence? Fucking probably. Do I give a flying fuck anymore? Yeah, you prolly know the fucking answer.

When it came to being laid off work, I let it go — a small vacation might be just what the doctor ordered.

When it came to my gym closing down, I let it go — I can find new ways to work out without relying on benches, machines, or monthly dues.

When it came to realizing this bullshit panic could go on for months, I let it go — cuz now I had an unexpected opportunity to advance my agenda preparing my sailboat for ocean travel.

Although people are allowed to freely walk the streets with their faggoty dogs and scooter-riding bastard children, allowed to group en-masse as mask-wearing cumstains at the local fucking food mart, apparently spending time isolated in the cabin of your sailboat violates the WHO protocols for preventing disease.

Sure, you can still use communal fucking shopping carts in buildings that no longer stock toilet paper or allow the purchase of bulk foods, baked goods or anything requiring fucking tongs, but if you bring a reusable bag to carry groceries home, or have the audacity to hand them physical dollar bills while they hide behind a cloud of aerosolized alcohol and recently installed plastic shields suggestive of you being the type of degenerate to fire a bullet toward the pope-mobile, you’re just a fucking disease-riddled, dickwad monster, unworthy of socializing with “responsible” citizens with enough common sense to stay 6 fucking feet away at all times from plague-carrying family and friends.

Even though my key-card worked at the marina gate today, and I was miraculously allowed to drive into the grounds, I quickly noted the access road to the trailer homes was cordoned off like a Son-of-Sam, blood-bath crime-scene of epic proportions had ensued the day before without the town’s knowledge.

When I drove by an unexpected stunned cunt and her mucous-producing, shoulda-been aborted, 5-year-old shit-dribbler, the mommy scattered quickly in an instinctive act to guard her fuck-face, diaper-filling, retard offspring from being hit by a car. I attributed that to parental reflex, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Putting my car in park, she informed me, from 10-feet away (apparently the new safe distance to curtail the spread of viral disease), that the marina was shut down. Exiting my vehicle, I took a couple steps forward to converse with her, when she grabbed her child (as if my intentions were to ass-fuck it for several hours as a prelude to braising its virgin flesh while downing a bottle of whisky), and then mirrored my forward advancement with exactly matched steps backward, acting as if I was covered in blood from head to toe while brandishing a rusty sickle.

Though I knew my words were in vain, I still decried nonsense. Why? Fucking Why? I’m outside? I’ll be working in my boat! Not on it, with a group of 49 or less people, not licking door handles or jizzing on dollar bills before sharing them with the public, not sneezing on debit-machines, nor wiping my shit-laden fingers on avocadoes or oranges at the supermarket — WORKING INSIDE THE CABIN OF MY FUCKING BOAT! YA KNOW, LIKE A SELF-IMPOSED QUARANTINED ASSHOLE, THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF WHAT YOU’RE CURRENTLY DOING, NOT TO MENTION YOUR PIECE OF SHIT CHILD WHO PROBABLY CARRIES MORE DISEASE THAN A SYPHILIS INSPIRED RAT PARTY.

Fucking whore.

No, that’s not fair at all. She was just doing her job. Let me restate that:


Yep, I’ve had some beers. And I regret nothing I’ve written. If everyone is too stupid to look beyond the lies, propaganda, and fear campaigns that our media and government unleashes minute to minute to test our complicity to roll over and die with nary an independent thought, then who am I to rebel against making use of an “essential service,” aka the liquor store.

Yup, I’m an idiot, moron, fucking hypocrite douche as well, just like the rest of you, but at least I have the balls to admit it before going to my fucking grave.

The Flood is due again, and I’ve already picked my spot on the bow of the Titanic, declaring myself to be king of the world, secretly grateful knowing a horrible death looms in the waters ahead — an overdue and necessary purging of this brain-dead culture who hasn’t the faintest clue in how to enjoy the miraculous gift called “life” on planet Earth.

You wanna do yourself a favour before the end? Turn off your fucking TV. In fact, smash the motherfucker to pieces. Tell Netflix to go fuck itself, and avoid every human who parrots verbatim the lastest propaganda of the day. Maybe you’ll find a few fucking moments of peace before the black plague destroys what’s left of your fucking mind.

BonerFruit fucking out.