We the protesting artistic proletariat have achieve what we wuz after… or have we? The authorities kindly placed us behind bars so we cannot hurt ourselves by meeting with other protesting artistic sorts in virus-infected backrooms and bourgeois restaurants. 

The revolution has ended with worldwide sickness. We are left with asking questions to ourself, unless we go on iChat, Skype or Zoom to speak with other non-infected locked-up people. This is the new virtual reality. And the conversation tends to edge on where to find some toilet paper rolls rather than the next people's revolution.

The authorities have won the game. We’re stuffed and somehow happy to be stuffed as we get our job-money for doing nothing. We’re not allowed to do anything much, except eat, drink and go to the bathroom in whatever order, to make a routine change. 

We, artists and cartoonists of the present, past and future are cooped up like a bunch of wing-clipped old egg-less chooks. I feel sorry for the young people who have to endure this really annoying caper. They are like little flowers that are only allowed to bloom in prison — not even in a greenhouse. Their future is bleak as behind Covid-19, there are other nasty bugs — now more resistant to antibiotics — on the drawing boards of warfare biolabs, not even considering global warming which will hit them like a boiling hot towel at the end of a losing boxing match.

Cuddling animals might become precarious, as the dear little things — our kiddies, that we have protected from germs by sanitising their sandboxes, by triple-dosing on the bleach in our home swimming pool and wiped their toys with hospital grade disinfectants — have no resistance to anything with a germ in it.

That’s what we fought two world wars for and invented hammer and sickle communism to be cooped up at home by ourself doing nothing… When we get out of this, the trail of people on their way to the mental asylum is going to be long. 

We’re going to have to revive the dead psychiatrists — though the line of people going to the churches might be as long, expecting another miracle. Trump will be defeated by a failing Biden who will straight-away after inauguration pass the baton to the vice-president, Hillary Victorius… This time Scomo won’t have to fiddle the books with sport-rorts. He will be a shoe-in, like a new Jesus, Jesus of Kanbra. No need to nail him to a cross: it’s the second coming. The apotheosis beyond the crisis. Scomo from marketing would have taken us like Moses took his troops of Palestine-seekers to the promised land…

We'll kiss each other with surgical masks still on, looking like awkward ducks, mind you. La commedia dell’arte will be our new script and we won’t know what the future is...


GL.
Actor on the stage of life.

Picture at top by Gus Leonisky. Note the cleverly chosen angle as to hide the letter "C".