by Johnny Bananas

It’s another mostly peaceful Vermont morning where birds chirping softly outside my chilled windows anticipating the sunrise.  A soft breeze meanders through the mostly leafless and twiggy arms of my deciduous neighbors, many of whom suddenly lost a loved one during the recent ice, wind and snow storms. Reclining on my recliner, as one can be expected to do, I sip my morning coffee hoping to stay abreast of what might kill me this week.  This is an important skill I’ve developed in response to a world that has suddenly become incredibly lethal.  

As the steaming hot bath of creamy Columbian go-go juice washes over my palette I nearly collapse into cardiac arrest as I am made aware by the good people at Atlanta Magazine that I am ingesting pure poison.  Immediately I spit the toxic swill out of my mouth and all over my luxurious Siberian Tiger skin pajama bottoms delivered to me earlier that week from my friend Jeff Bezos.  That guy is like Santa Claus.  How has he not died suddenly from delivering billions of packages daily from within the jungle known as the Amazon is anybody’s guess.  I die-gress. 

Scanning my inbox I see my friends at ABC News have taken the time to warn me not to be fooled by the calm and bucolic mood just beyond my windows.  It turns out Mother Nature and her mood swings might kill me the moment I step outside. I’m beginning to think the state of Vermont should issue complimentary AED’s to every citizen.  

It may seem like I’m making a big deal out of nothing but tell that to the tiny particles in the air that are actively trying to steal my life.  It’s not even 6am and I’ve already been forced to dodge the Grim Reaper like a doctor avoiding telling me why I should even bother to go on living.  

Even the hour I gained last month is one hour closer to imminent death thanks to the inherent risks associated with daylight savings time.  Who else was fooled into thinking we were falling back into dream land for one more exquisite hour of sweet sleep when we were actually falling into the arms of Morpheus, forever. 

Stirring around my kitchen in a low grade panic I try to calm myself with a healthy breakfast only to find out grapefruit lightly dusted with artificial sweetener is the equivalent of ingesting acid straight from a car battery.  A friend of mine told me about these new blood clots found by embalmers who believe they are caused by the COVID-19 vaccines, which, given the fact that over twelve billion doses worldwide is a scary thought in itself.  Thankfully, we now know these clots are most likely caused by eating that sinister citrus bomb falsely called grapefruit.  We should have known better.  They don’t even look or taste like grapes – nice try grapefruit!

My narrow escape from the bowl of fruity death is only compounded as I reach for my daily dose of herbal supplements I believed were adding years to my life.  Turns out they were hunting me down like Dick Cheney hunting down a proxy war.  

The taste of metallic cotton fills my dry mouth as the sweat starts to stream down my forehead.  I make my way to my car forgetting I’d just read that car exhaust and heavy braking might just be the death of me.  Thank Odin the global elite have a plan to get rid of these death machines by 2035, if I actually make it that long.  Still, I’m stuck in this gas trap and can feel my radial pulse nearly popping my smart watch off my wrist as I look at the price of petrol.  Damn you Donald Trump! 

I show up on time to work forgetting how racist that is of me.  Thankfully I work in Vermont where I have to order up a black person from my buddy Jeff in the Amazon if I actually want to see one. I’m even more thankful I’m not black because if I was I’d definitely have had a heart attack by now.  I kid.  I find sarcasm helps to ease the tension, until I read this article from The Sun that says otherwise.  Hah! Like I’m going to believe there’s a news agency on the sun.   

Sitting down to my desk it’s time to start looking like I’m working when I’m actually playing video games.  I can usually do this for a solid hour and a half until my boss shows up late to remind us either how important she is or how important it is to look like you’re not racist.  I can’t remember which, but when she walks in I can feel my chest get tighter and tighter as she nears my desk.  I had nearly ended the latest campaign for Call of Duty: Stand With Ukraine when the news banner atop my screen reads “Video Games Could Trigger Heart Attacks In Children”.  One can only hope.  I have five kids and I can barely afford to feed them let alone pay for a post-third trimester abortion.  You feel me?  Besides, what better way to die than when you’re young and doing something you love? 

After work I typically meet up for some pickleball with friends.  Although today my teammate Terry, who usually wears a mask, was also wearing a helmet AND a neck brace.  It turns out turning your head too quickly whilst playing causes sudden stroke.  I chose this sport because it had the least amount of injuries, and I like pickles.  This is getting ridiculous. 

Not to be outdone our playing partners insisted we use the indoor courts ever since Rajeek read about this entirely new highly reactive chemical scientists discovered in the atmosphere they believe contributes to heart attacks…and climate change.  Of course it does. 

Now I’m not trying to pollute the waters of public discourse by making pseudo-scientific claims like many of my friends who insist all of these new discoveries only emerged as a cover for vaccine deaths.  You can keep your misinformation off my disinformation thank you very much.  Speaking of pollution, be sure to let your teenagers know they’re probably going to have a heart attack if they go outside in the polluted air.  So stay inside, but don’t play video games.  Or eat grapefruit.  Thank you science. 

Headed home with rising stress levels I’m looking forward to that one drink that takes the edge off at night.  I recall my doctor recommended a glass or two of wine regularly decreases that chance of heart disease thanks to resveratol.  Turns out he’s a flipping liar as John Tesh told me on the ride home.  Just one drink a day can cause a stroke in twenty and thirty year olds.  Thank you doctor Tesh. 

With all of the fun being sucked out of life at least we still have the holidays to look forward to.  This world that is growing cold can at least look to Valentine’s Day and Easter as beacons of hope.  Just remember to stock up on your meds or holiday season will become heart attack season, says our illustrious friends at Harvard.  Shout out to Big Pharma – holla! 

I’m starting to think this world is conspiring against me, a chronically stressed, demonized, overworked, under loved, cis-white male.  Thankfully I don’t have to wait for death to sneak up around the next corner to find me, if I go to Canada I can have them do it and it will be covered under my insurance! Canada is even offering a buy one get one free coupon for procedures, so if I time it right I can become a the transwoman I’ve always wanted, since I have no one to love and no one to love me, and have it all done by Easter. 

Wait, what’s this…? 

(We’d like to thank the guys over at Fleccas Talks the podcast for inspiring this timely piece of necessary hyper-paranoia. Fleccas Talks has been Ranked the Best New Podcast Of All-Time!)

Johnny Bananas is the nom de plume of a fake news reporter living in Vermont. Nothing he reports ever actually happened. This is satire, folks.