The Donald J Trump inspired Bleach and Tonic guide to drinking disinfectant

Step 1: Don’t.

But don’t you want to? Secretly? If only a bit? Do you ever – upon unloading the dishwasher – look at the serrated edge of the bread knife and imagine plunging it into your disappointing gut?

Ever stand near a precipice and imagine the second after jumping? There’d be terror, sure. But elation at the temporary elevation. Joy too. It’d turn out we did have the courage, after all. What a last thought to land on.

We do. We think of all of these things and more as we are furloughed, obsessively. We imagine the wind in our hair at the cliff edge, the rise then fall of the leap. The falling of the scream. We imagine the worry our arms weren’t moving decisively enough as we plunged the knife, in the kitchen, to the sound of Radio 4. A final worry then fade.

And we’d fucking love to drink bleach.

What a way to go.

What a way to go. Cleansed and destroyed at the same time. All of us is bad but 3% of us is chemically bad. 3% of us is bacteria. Can you imagine that? All those organisms crawling and burrowing inside us. Not knowing if it were day nor night and not caring if we were distraught or bored. Just moving around inside us. Are we God to them? Do they pray for continued bubbling bile and gaseous warmth? Are we bacteria to God?

In cleansing, then, on the final act we would go out with purity. We’d destroy all the dirt and filth inside us and die, finally, clean and pure.
We’d pour it into our herbal tea and chug it without remorse or first or second thoughts.

blissed out

Thinking about it, who wouldn’t want to drink bleach? That’s not to say you should because you definitely should not.

If you had to drink a bleach which one would you pick?

If you followed Donald J Trump’s advice and did drink disinfectant which one would you pick? We wondered. Then we wondered what the hell the J stood for.

Ms Tonic, WhatsApping us at 7am with that essential question went for Linen Fresh. Immediately we thought of Domestos. John, apparently. Quite a good pub quiz question, there. John Trump. What does that imply to you?

La Mort En Rose.

We decided not on Linen Fresh (too light and airy for the descent into darkness). Not on Domestos even (we just can’t like it). But on Rose. We have reviewed Zoflora Rose before. It’s the sort of thing a fallen Victorian woman would use to clean herself with. It smells suffocating, cloying, suffused with sadness and outdated industrial chemistry. The scent hints of rotting cherry blossom. Perfect.

Cherry Blossom Falls.
If God exists he is dropping big hints. Our posher neighbour’s cherry blossom has fallen and is rotting on our street and on our windowsill. Ah Spring. A fitting end. No one should die in Autumn, when it’s all coming to an end. Spring is a time to make the leap. A clear skied day. A day when cherry blossom falls, a day like today. When things smell Rosy.

It’s too late for us, though. Autumn is too late, even. We are in the winters of our days. There will be no need for disinfectant, soon, nor of the industrial drinking we are doing.

Do not drink bleach. Just wait until there is no need. It’s coming quicker than you think.