You know that thing Chapman sends out every night? The thing that asks you if you literally have coronavirus? On Monday at 12:35am, I was filling it out and accidentally clicked “yes” instead of “no.” Immediately, like no joke immediately, this team of SWAT people (who I think were wearing Panther ears?) ran into my room and put a paper bag over my head. The next thing I knew, I was tied up on the lap of the Charles C. Chapman statue. A hologram of Jerry Price appeared before me. Larger than life. Huge. He looked at me sternly, fire in his eyes. In a voice much deeper than I had ever heard him use before, he asked “How much do your parents make in a year?” I explained I have no idea. He persisted, in a deeper voice, growling even, asking over and over again. I cried, eventually saying they’re socially liberal but economically conservative because of their tax bracket. “Good,” he nodded. “Very good… Now, did they participate in Chapman Day of Giving last year?”I said yes and immediately, a piercing pain entered into my left buttcheck. A needle. The vaccine. They had it… They’ve had it all this time? Whatever, got those antibodies now baby. Beta Hard Liquor Tuesdays here I come.
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