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Cole Beasley, Moron, Ponders The Futility Of It All

Cole Beasley looks super intense and tough.
Christian Petersen/Getty

Dr. Anthony Fauci, director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases and former Trump administration punching bag, told a television audience Thursday morning that vaccinated Americans should “put aside” their masks when outdoors. “We’ve got to make that transition,” urges Fauci, who says unless people are “falling all over themselves,” it is safe for the vaccinated to go maskless in outdoor settings. This is a reason to look forward to everyone being vaccinated, to indeed being vaccinated yourself: In addition to the layer of protection it provides against a dangerous, virulent illness, it also means you can soon safely resume a normal, pre-pandemic existence.

Ah, but that is where you have played yourself, for have you ever considered that you may step right out of the vaccination site and into the path of a distracted driver? What even is the point of being vaccinated in a world where mankind has not conquered death? These are the big questions being asked by big-brained rapper and diminutive Buffalo Bills wideout Cole Beasley, and evidently NO ONE ELSE.

You see, for Cole Beasley, there is simply no point in giving a shit about oneself or one’s community in a world full of phone havers, social media users, and information that is learned not today, but tomorrow:

While Mr. Beasley pines for a beforetime when people were kinder and more mindful of each other, at present there is simply no point in empathy and mutual care because this damn Social Media Jeff is too negative an influence on society. Why, even getting a literal vaccine in order to avoid transmitting a deadly disease to vulnerable people around you is in fact fakery, a mere performance of mindfulness. Not at all like the good old days, when people expressed mindfulness by having “real” conversations on Twitter.

But one thing cannot be ignored, and once it enters your brain it will only expand until it comes to dominate your every waking thought: What if you spent your last minutes on earth being jabbed in the arm by a stranger instead of hugging your loved ones, only to get ground beneath the bumper and wheels of a teenager’s rusty Dodge Neon in the vaccination site’s parking lot? How perfectly stupid, how doomed, how utterly, endlessly cursed would you feel if you waste even a second of your one finite life getting a vaccine and are subsequently devoured by a great white shark? There is a special bottommost circle of hell reserved for people who take the chance every day of unknowingly walking under a hippopotamus that has fallen from a passing airplane airlifting it from the zoo of its birth to its natural home in the wilds of Africa and being squashed into a disgusting man-hippo street-jelly, and bother to receive a vaccine for a preventable disease that has killed more than 600,000 people in little more than a year.

That could certainly never be Cole Beasley. Not until mankind has eradicated once and for all the threat of one single piranha accidentally swimming up your butt while you’re tubing and in a blind suffocating panic devouring you from the inside out would he ever bother with anything as arbitrary, as imperfect, as loaded with political subtext as getting treatment in order to avoid getting sick. That’s for sheep.