Today we had our Prison Daddy Investigates team out in the field looking into a disturbing new issue caused by COVID-Bud Light. This story is brought to you by the makers of Corona: Not the virus, we had nothing to do with it, it was all Bud Light.

To begin our investigation, we decided to take the most sensible approach. We had our iDrone follow a Whole Foods grocery delivery vehicle, formerly known as a Toyota Prius, to its destination. Before the delivery driver could finish putting on his biochemical suit to enter the trendy but historical luxury apartment building, designed in what used to be an eco-killing factory warehouse, we dropped a picture of a Chad—6’4″, wearing grey sweatpants—into the biodegradable shopping bag. We knew it was only a matter of time before we would get a follow on the ‘gram and make contact with one of the lost.

Sure enough, less than ten minutes later, we had a follow request from Leo-Capricorn. Female, 22 years old, loves hiking and her dog named “Acceptance.” We asked her if she would be down to do an in-person interview on Zoom. Obviously, we would wear masks. She—we did confirm she was okay with this gender identification—agreed as long as the masks were designated N-95.

We told her we would like to do the interview in a bar setting. When our Zoom meeting began, she was sitting at her kitchen island with an empty bottle of a vintage California cabernet alongside an oversized wine glass bearing her monogrammed initials. The wine in the glass was nearly pink, a box of Franzia hiding behind the handle of Tito’s gluten-free vodka and neatly stacked cans of flavored La Croix. A “Live, Laugh, Love” wall decoration finished out the backdrop.

We got right down to business. Time for the tough questions no one else has the balls to ask. (We would like to apologize to anyone who’d like balls, but doesn’t have any, or those who have them and wish they didn’t.)

“Hey.” From our years of experience on dating apps, we knew this was the toughest message for a girl to answer.

“What’s your sign?” Damn, Leo-Capricorn was quick. Luckily, we’d been expecting this.

“Gemini with a Capri Sun moon falling.” She immediately frowned, or at least her mask seemed to droop a little. Fuck, this was wrong. “But my friend here is a Sagittarius with a Hot Pocket sun rising.” This was clearly the response she wanted. I had to let my partner take control so we wouldn’t get blocked.

“You’re cute,” she giggled. I turned to my friend—he wore a full-face gas mask with a bong attached. He was mid rip during her acknowledgment.

“What’s up?” he asked, blowing out the smoke and nearly coughing out a lung. Leo-Capricorn started twirling her hair as she sipped her wine.

“You got anything to help us party?” she asked. My God, it was worse than we thought! I handed him the corner of a sandwich bag wrapped in a bar napkin. 33% cocaine, 67% baby laxative—the perfect mixture. He put his hand up to the camera, making sure to hide the package from my view. Girls like this need to be discreet. She nodded her head toward the bathroom and gave my partner a wink.

She had clearly spent a lot of time preparing for the bar setting of our interview. The bathroom had wet toilet paper strewn everywhere, the toilet itself clogged and overflowing. Three used condoms were spread out in the background.

She took her hand and wiped off the back of the toilet, rubbing the residue on the back of her see-through black dress. This left a yellowish-brown streak on the side of her ass. My partner brought the bag-napkin combo up to the camera and she reached for it, her hand re-entering the frame with a similar bag-napkin combo. My friend mirrored her movements on our toilet—our bathroom is always ready for this scene. After they had done their lines and immediately shit in the overflowing toilets, we headed back to continue the interview.

Leo-Capricorn, or LC as her friends called her, took her mask off and washed her hands with warm purified water, scrubbing with Lysol for one minute before air-drying her hands—paper towels are bad for the environment, as we all know. The mask that was covered in wine—she’d been drinking through it the entire time—and cocaine residue on the nasal portion was disposed of properly. She put on her designer mask and relaxed.

“Oh. My. God. This virus has me, like, so stressed out. It’s destroyed my life. My anxiety is through the roof and my therapist says I’m struggling to cope with all of this. It’s called disaster-itis, and it’s way deadlier than even herpes. I can’t believe I have such a serious condition; I’m too young to die! I can’t even watch the news, I’m afraid I’ll catch—”

“BUD LIGHT!” I had to scream over her to keep our wonderful partners at Corona—Not the virus, we had nothing to do with it, it was all Bud Light—happy.

My partner was swiping through Tinder and Bumble while sending messages on Hinge all at the same time. He has three phones to keep up with it all.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she continued. “I gotta get some dick before I die. I stick to Hinge; I’m really looking for a partner.”

“Who’s the lucky guy?” I finally got a word in. Bar whores never shut up when they do cocaine.

“His name is Skylar and he has a man bun. He’s, like, so hot.” She was looking at her phone dreamily. I thought we had been using her phone for the interview. Fuck! My boy, Skylar, has a man bun. I looked over at him.

Skylar was looking for pants for the first time in a week. He smell-checked all the pairs on the maybe-clean chair and chose the fourth set of gray sweatpants he found. I’m pretty sure those are mine. He showed me the conversation.

“I’m partying all by myself and need dick.”

“K.”

“Wear a mask.”

“K.”

“Don’t worry about a condom, I have an IUD.”

“K.”

There it is, folks. Bitches eating organic, farm-fed tofu for dinner while snorting 33% pure cocaine off bar bathroom toilets by 10 p.m. now demand masks while they fuck Skylar, with a man bun, from Hinge, without a condom. This report brought to you by Corona: Not the virus, we had nothing to do with it, it was all Bud Light.