GYSO Drawing Part 29 - Thoronavirus

Published: 2020-03-29

Introduction

Thim:
In the year 20XXX version 2: Electric Boogalo, in timeline HGJ-1345, in a back-black-goat-of-the-woods Universe, the Thoronavirus ravages the world of underground bloggers. Nobody really notices, on account of them being underground. They’re not really sure if it’s a bad thing or if it’s something something sexual pleasure something something. You get the idea at this point, now that we’re sitting here naked on the bead spread already.

On this day our Heroes Thor and Tim, fucking fused into one to become an entity of singular form, Thim. There’s a medical joke about how the Thoronavirus somehow did this impossible thing, and it involves a man from Nantucket. Butt tit’s happening! There’s no stopping this crazy train, ya mad sads. I’m already questioning why a singular version of Thor and Tim would be superior to having the entirety of the Atlantic Ocean keeping them from doing this shit in their everyday lives.

Now, Thor and Tim, minds fused into Thim, have decided to write GYSO post 29. They chose this instead of doing something useful, like underwater basket weaving, or becoming medicinal test subjects with the only-observed-once-medical-incident and all. The ultimate test of collaboration is upon our insipid intrepid hero(es?).

(Which basically means that we’re editing over each other’s stuff approximately seven gazillion octoviginillion times over, times pi.)

Will they falter and fade and fodder and fade and folder and pave and solder and Hades and stutter and rave and blubber and Dave like so many other superhero plots (of land)? Will they make any obvious Dragon Ball Z references? Will Thor finally consummate his relationship with his bass?

Find out next now on GYSO Draw Z!

What went right?

Thim:
Whut went wright? Well, for one, we fucked fused. Fusing Fucking finally. Off the blog off the record off the chain can’t break these chains, it’s been well-established that the entities previous known as Tim and Thor could very scary well be the same person. Except this is an inside joke and was only supposed to be implied. So that’s totally ruined now. Good thing we’re fucked fused, making the whole point moo(t). Good job, jackass. Yeah, well fuck you for starting it, shit face. Go eat shit you satanical, paranormal, psychotic bag of mold.

With that aside, our communication skills improved a lot since the fucking fusing. We used to actually explain our thoughts and ideas using words before like fusing fucking barbarians, but(t) now things have changed. The “just think it!” approach works very well except for the clashing in anime preferences. Which isn’t strange when one of us thinks that hentai constitutes as anime. But now there’s no need to worry about explaining ourselves. Which was basically the only source of conversation we had, so now we don’t really talk about much of anything. Instead, the only conversations we have are in front of other people to try to get them to take sides on which of us they prefer more. Kind of like this blog post!

Considering the distance between us totaling the distance between us totaling the distance of a little puddle that keeps Europe and the Americas apart like divorced parents, the end result is quite formidable. Of course, the journey was weird. Atoms and cells literally flying from two different continents to meet halfway in whatever that big ocean is called between the two aforementioned continents. We made sure to say hi to the vomit from a few years ago, too. Don’t ask. It says hi back to your mom.

Come to think of it, though, I think I (we?) accidentally coughed on a school child or something in The Grand Event (coming to Netflix this summer!). Got a dirty look from that parent, let me tell you. It’s really weird to think of the contrast between how scared some people are of this virus, and how excessively nonchalant some people are. I was trying to diffuse the tension, but instead diffused my sinuses all over the school child.

Turns out that visits to the porcelain throne are easier than ever, now. This is something I didn’t expect, but combining the intestines and fine tastes of a European diet, mixed with hardcore herd immunity to spicy and fatty American foods, have turned bowel movements into one of the most pleasant experiences of my day! Stop thinking about it. It’s awkward for us too.

What went wrong?

Thim:
Before the Thoronavirus all was peaceful, all was well, all was swell, and we didn’t know hell.

Thor and Tim frolicked in the fields like spaghetti noodle-doodles-poodles pretending to draw. They sat and sang and exfoliated and laughed, and all was good. Goopy Droopy was there too. He could smell the future and just wanted to watch us in indescribable pain as we fused.

On the seventh day they contracted the Thoronavirus, the bane of bloggers. Their minds and souls immediately began to viciously combining together like tangled headphone wires, held together by snot and feces (gross).

The confusion of the mind, the contradictions and sadness, the centrifuge of memories colliding and bending along lines like non-euclidean postulates. (Hey, I didn’t need to do anything for this to be unbearable, thanks!)

I felt it. We felt it. It’s all the same in the end. The We, the I, Him, Me, it doesn’t matter anymore. There is only Thim. Thim the Result. Thim the Combination. Thim the One. Thim the Juan. There really wasn’t much change to begin with, since we’re already the same person anyways. Though it must be a previously undiscovered phenomenon when one set of genetics think coriander tastes like the shit, and the other set of genetics thinks coriander tastes like literal shit.

Thoughts swirl around two combined minds, tainting each other in ways no one should ever experience, and yet It’s a single entity that observes it. A single point of consciousness to experience the impossible combination of two others. This whole paragraph was actually intended as a pickup line. The single entity is the penis.

And so I write. GYSO commeths and I must write it. We must write it. They must write it. It’s all the same in the end, the writing and the writing and the writing, it doesn’t matter anymore. The words must flow like the tar onto my pancakes. Good thing tar prices have tanked after the Thoronavirus crushed the sock-market with it’s little fist.

Existential dread is really hard, okay? How about you try being two insane GYSO writers at the same time? Don’t get any funny ideas.

What happens next?

Thim:
The question (?) is Juan of(f) “do we actually want to unfuck de-fuse?”. Think about it: it would be hard work de-tangling like the headphone cables we used to be. One of us would probably end up leaving the exchange a limb short or something. Let’s not even mention the problems with untangling our combined brains, and the moral implications of doing so.

Practically speaking, not fixing what ain’t broke is a totally viable strategy to avoid putting effort into something that might not need it. It’s not like our families miss us anyways. I double dog dare you to share this blog with your mother. That’s what I thought.

You know, I wonder if the world even notices this esoteric and eccentric variant of some totally real virus which has infected the writers the least popular blog of 2019. Or maybe we will just keep writing out into the abstract. That sentence doesn’t make sense, but that’s probably the point. Hopefully though, things will return to normal (GYSO has a normal?), society will begin to come back into a functioning state (it was functioning before?), and GYSO will come back in it’s regular scheduled form (ha!).

Til’ then, go ahead and share this blog at your local white power rallies and HBTQ+ gatherings, I have a theory that GYSO can give us world peace if enough people get exposed to it enough to treat it as a common enemy.