Writing Switch: Sign this laffidavit | AspenTimes.com

Writing Switch: Sign this laffidavit

Benjamin Welch and Sean Beckwith
Writing Switch

With the city of Aspen soon requiring visitors to sign a hilarious affidavit promising they just got tested for CORONAVIRUS, which will undoubtedly be flouted at a rate much higher than the county’s incidence, we wondered what could possibly be sillier. Nothing immediately came to mind, so we decided to take some initiative for once and just invent them ourselves. This week, we present testimony to the kangaroo court of public opinion to witness some more documents that are unenforceable — and that’s probably for the best.

Joining the group chat

SB: A good group chat just kind of sticks like a good nickname. No one knows how it really started but all of the sudden you can’t remember a time when it wasn’t the norm. With the group chat, like a nickname, you have to be selective when and how often you use it.

Utilize it too often and you’re going to wear it out; utilize it too little and it feels forced.

There are people who push the chat along, are there for purely antagonistic pleasure, enjoy the occasional porn GIF or just have a fantasy football question. Regardless of your ideal role in the group chat, you need to be a team player and fill a void or improve upon a strength.

So the affidavit goes: I (enter name here) do hereby acknowledge that I will contribute no more than 20 texts per non-game day and no less than five per week (which includes likes, dislikes and other text reactions).

I will not use this group text as an extension of Facebook to share daily gripes or videos usually reserved for your dad’s friend who clearly has been working from home for far too long.

If someone insults me or calls me out by name, I am obligated to reply.

I will not share or participate in any LeBron versus Jordan debates, which includes texts, text reactions and, most importantly, memes. (We already got a guy for that and, trust me, we’ve heard every possible case for both sides.)

Examining and fixing my pipes and plumbing

BW: I certify that I am a licensed plumber, if indeed a license is required because it seems like it’s not, and that I have displayed adequate competency to the proper authorities and regulators in the craft of plumbing.

I certify that I have never posted an ad on Craigslist, and that I was not retained through shady online methods such as Craigslist or Backpage or wherever we’re supposed to go now to find, um, plumbers.

I certify that I have been given the the proper training at an accredited institute of plumbing, and that I received high water marks in tasks demonstrating my absorption of the knowledge provided to me. I swear I didn’t learn all this stuff from my neighbor or grandfather, or from my experiences duct taping pipes back together after they exploded in my own home.

I have never and will never mention caulk.

I certify that when sewer water starts Old Faithfuling out of tub and toilet, I will do something other than stomping around in the puddles, swearing and splashing shit water over everything that managed to escape the initial blast, before turning off the building’s water supply for a week and just hoping that was the end of it.

I promise to rely on my own instincts acquired through my experiences in the plumbing industry over whatever inefficiency the senile property manager suggests.

I will not comment on people’s appearances and tell them that they should get a haircut or else their drains will keep clogging and this somehow is the crux behind the aforementioned Old Faithfuling, and not the discounted portable laundry machine that is obviously and audibly running every time a plumbing issue arises.

When people report plumbing malfunctions to me, I will not accuse them of lying or making up symptoms. I understand that people do not want me around any more than I have to be, and that if I’m told the radiator has stopped working in the dead of winter, it’s worth the inconvenience of investigating.

I certify that I will not Mickey Mouse anything or otherwise leave problems in a state of half-repair, and that my professional creed for problems is “Like pebbles in a shoe, the only correct answer is zero.”

How to experience the euphoria of hanging out with Sean

SB: Far be it for me to go “Mean Girls” on anyone trying to infiltrate my social circle, but I feel like I have to vet each interaction like my high school status depends on it. I don’t care what outfits we’re supposed to wear on Tuesdays, just as long as it’s the one that’s not adorned by someone who decided Friends-giving was safe because “Everyone has been safe.”

Save me your “Negative test results” or other promises of self-isolation. Your social media presence doesn’t reflect your claims of “not doing anything.” Let’s see, you had a party on the gondola, either it’s #TBT or everyone’s mask is in their back pocket during this recent group photo, and you spent Thanksgiving with your father who is still expecting “the prophets” to give Donald Trump the election.

So, if you’d like to hang out, just know that no, I don’t want no scrub; a scrub is a guy who can’t get no love from me. Sorry, that’s a different affidavit.

Let me see if I can find it … “Friend on a powder day.” Nope … “I consent to mind the …” blah, blah, blah … “My puppy is potty trained.” Uh-uh … Ah, here it is: “You won’t get ‘Rona from my joint.”

I (enter name here) consent that I have not smoked a blunt with any interns from the St. Regis. Nor have I visited Scarlett’s or any garden-level bar.

My activities have been limited to: Working from home, Facetiming family, video games, online poker and watching Netflix.

I don’t need you to release any of your sexual partner history unless it’s happened in the past 14 days. If you have had a partner in the past 14 days who’s not living with you or that you haven’t been dating since before the pandemic, congratulations. However, we’re not hanging out. Text me when life isn’t one big, unenjoyable game of 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon.

Find a 90 day fiance for Amish Tom

BW: Hello ladies! What’s going on tooooooo-nite!? Me and my boys are just out here partying like it’s the end of “Ocean’s Eleven!” Do you think names can be ugly? Like, would you date a guy named Herman? Are you a conservative or a liberal? I can read palms. Do you need a job? Anyway, let me buy you a drink before I try to kiss you in three minutes. And then if you could just fill out this form in the next couple days that would be great. Hey, where’d Ben go?


  • I am at least 18 years of age, or of appropriate age of consent in respective jurisdictions wherein a lower age is applied. Hey, morality and legality aren’t always the same thing.
  • I am a sex worker or sex worker adjacent. Again, see above morality clause.
  • I speak some but not perfect English; I am willing to be taught more words, most of which will be either slang or crude fill-in-the-blank-“ist” humor. (Just apply morality clause to everything henceforth)
  • I am attractive enough by modern standards that men simping over me is justified.
  • I will forfeit the sex work or sex work adjuncts once I move in with Amish Tom except maybe a secret Only Fans and Friday night shifts at the, um, cafe.
  • I will encourage — or at least abide with — absurd rituals and surgical procedures, including but not limited to: ayahuasca trips, magical necklaces, black mold allergens, follicle transplants (specifically from buttcheek to head), various shamans, ankle lengthening, HGH, Viagra, binge drinking, infidelity, conspiracy theories, and voluntary appendectomy.
  • I do not have poop anxiety and will tolerate an open-door policy.
  • I adhere to basic and minimal standards of personal upkeep and hygiene (not related to open-door policy).
  • I imbibe with alcohol and recreational drugs in at least an amount that prohibits me from judging others.
  • I am mentally unstable enough to provide the years of exhausting, unrelenting drama that we both crave.