Okay, so that’s over. Let’s see if we can do a little better this year. We know for sure nobody will invade the Capitol in 2022 because they have better fences now and the government stopped hiring cops from the temp agency. Also because they locked Leif Erikson and a few of his Viking boatmen in the calaboose for a long winter’s nap. International Harvester, Dave’s Dumpster Repair and Bud’s Bowlerama lost so many employees and customers they had to go on hiatus and the Chicken Shack Restaurant closed permanently, forcing the grumpy citizens of Bumpkinland to don shirts and shoes and visit respectable restaurants like Arby’s.
They nonecks haven’t quit though, as a simple drive through the backcountry of Marion County, Florida will attest. The Trump flags are still waving from some of the finer condemned properties, together with inscriptions of the Big Question, “Miss me yet?” Yeah, Donald, like the clap, Cabbage Patch Dolls and phone booth stuffing. These knuckleheads are strangely remindful of those lunatic sects of a decade ago who sold all their earthlies and gathered on a mountaintop waiting for the UFOs to scoop them up and whisk them to Salvation. They might just as well fly a flag which honestly reports “Dimwits Live Here.”
All in all, as annums go, 2021 left something to be desired. You’d think all the past year’s foolishness would have taught us a lesson but Rube America is not a fast learner. The wacko militias are still marching around their backyards in Montana, Idaho and maybe even Florida. The other day, Governor Ron “the Con” DeSantis was seen leaving those info sheets with the tear-off telephone numbers on grange hall walls and laundromat bulletin boards all over the state. He’s looking for a few good men and women to march on Miami, Key West, Gainesville and the like to wipe out the forces of Sanity, but we’re ready. The Resistance Air Force will drop copious amounts of Red Man Chewing Tobacco and ladies’ capri pants in a straight line leading to a tall cliff which falls to the roiling sea. Hopefully, this will take care of the problem once and for all. If not, we’ve got a battalion of very scary clowns. Blow your train horn, Clarabell.
The Covid Blues
“Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the universe.”---Albert Einstein
Fed by right-wing media puppeteers who sit in their basements at night and dream up new and interesting ways people might buy the farm, a hefty percentage of Americans are terrified of getting the Covid vaccines, or, to put it as the scare jockeys do, “the jab.” “Sean Hannity says it’ll turn me into a werewolf or a porky-pine.” “I heard a little old lady in Sheboygan took it and converted to Nuwaubianism.” “If a man were to get that shot, straightaways his gall bladder would swell up and dance the Watusi.” Okay, so maybe they’re right about that last one.
Basically, you have two choices; (a) get your anti-Covid shots and probably live happily ever after, or (b) don’t, and risk a decent chance of winding up on a slab at Mercy General, babbling to yourself about missing opening day at the tractor-pull finals. Hmmn, let’s see, that’s a tough choice. I’d like to believe the scientists but I remember the evil Dr. Sivana was always calling Captain Marvel a big red cheese. Maybe the Lord will send me a sign.
Oh, and for God’s sake, don’t make me wear one of those masks. It’s hard to breathe and even harder to coordinate with my purse and riding boots. And I heard the little virus boogers are so tiny they can sneak right through those holes in your mask, anyway. Marjorie Taylor Greene says it’s all a plot by the fashion industry to drum up business. I have to admit, though, I do look darling in robin’s egg blue.
The cynical among us say, well, the more vax scoffers, the less Trump voters in the long run, but in the meantime they’re cancelling football games and causing your airplanes to make unscheduled stops at Saugerties or Erie, Pa. It’s a nuisance. There’s probably only one solution. “Okay, everybody over here to the vaccine table who wants to participate in the Megamillions lotto runoff. As soon as you get your vaccine, jump up and head for that giant pile of lottery tickets next to the Jackpot Table. One of you folks is going to win $36 million and even some of the losers will get an all-expenses paid trip to Pomona. Ready! Set! GO!!!”
Some things are worth the risk of turning into a porky-pine.
Texas: Home of the Country’s Largest “Oops!”
As everybody knows, the Lone Star State aspires to be Number One in everything. They lead the contiguous United States in physical size, livestock production, cotton revenue, oil & natural gas, saloons per capita, number of rodeos and weasel governors in wheelchairs. Also, Texas women have the biggest hair. And recently, Texas became the very first state to sanction bounty hunting on abortion providers, though her ugly stepsisters Oklahoma and Mississippi are queuing up in the vestibule. The Lone Star State is SO superior to all the others it even has its own electrical grid system, unencumbered by the need to cooperate with pesky neighbor states. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” smirks the governor, tipping his Stetson. Surprise! Earlier this year, he started calling.
In February, Texas suffered a major power crisis after a trio of inconsiderate winter storms came barrelassing through, dropping temperatures through the floor for extended periods. The power equipment in Texas is not winterized so wind turbines soon froze up, as did natural gas generating facilities. Smartypants Governor Greg Abbott acknowledged that every source of power, not just renewable ones, had failed. When power was cut, it disabled compressors that push gas through pipelines, knocking out further gas plants due to lack of supply. By February 21, the death toll caused by the disaster had reached 70, with deaths linked to carbon monoxide poisoning, house fires and hypothermia. By July, the total loss of life was reported as 210.
Governor Weasel was running amok, terrified his sky was falling. He ordered all Texas natural gas producers not to export gas out of state and to sell it within Texas. He fumed for the resignation of the Electric Reliability Council of Texas leaders. He bounced up and down and spit in his hat, all to little avail. Meanwhile, clever Mayor Tim Boyd of Colorado City, Texas criticized his citizens for not preparing for the winter blast, stating “The strong will survive and the weak will perish.” He quickly resigned and fled when hundreds of pitchfork-wielding townies massed in his front yard singing mean songs.
Don’t worry about Texas Senator Ted Cruz, though. He skipped the snow party and darted off to the sunny climes of Cancun to sample the brunch at the Hyatt Zilara. Even his best friends got mad and Ted had to fly back to face the icy music. Cruz, one of the leading advocates of Texas power grid deregulation, did not say anything about the strong surviving and the weak freezing to death, fortunately for him. He just blamed his young daughters for begging him to go on vacation. All of which goes to prove another Texas First. They also have the Biggest Assholes.
Other ‘21 Bummers
1. Afghanistan Falls To The Taliban. Which is immediately attacked by Isis, an equally fun-loving group of misogynists which believes a woman’s place is in the hut, preferably scrubbing the linoleum. We’d like to see Wonder Woman and her horde of amazons swoop in, pour boiling oil on the lot of them and take away their camel-driving licenses. Motto of the new Amazonian Republic: “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”
2. North Korea Makes Better Rockets. This is what happens when you petulantly refuse to appoint Michael Jordan ambassador to The Great Wasteland, as suggested last year by this column. We’re not worried, though, because we’ve seen those new North Korean rockets. When they hit their targets, the nose cone pops open and a red flag snaps out with the word BANG! written in scary yellow letters. Admittedly, this is a tad more worrisome than last year’s model which read “Pop!” but still not enough for a Stage 4 Alert. If not Michael, maybe Shaq. He’s gaining a lot of weight lately and clearly needs something to do.
3. The James Gang Returns To San Francisco
Remember the wild and wooly West, where outlaw gangs galloped into town, robbed the bank, busted up the saloon and stole the jewelry from the ladies getting off the stagecoach? Well, it’s back and it’s called San Francisco. The City By The Bay’s new motto is “You’re Forgiven!” and it’s posted on large billboards leading into town---anything to make incoming criminals more comfortable.
Instead of Jesse and his compadres cleaning out the banks, today’s lawbreakers are sweeping through jewelry stores, electronics marts and clothing outlets, stuffing their bags with loot and tossing aside anyone who gets in their way. Vastly outnumbered security guards stand helplessly and watch, little old ladies cower in fear, Walgreen’s closes 17 stores in the city. Where are the cops? Well, some days it’s tough to pull yourself away from the donut counter.
In defense of the lax police, they have been virtually disarmed by perpetually ultraliberal city government officials who think it’s just ghastly to arrest anybody. San Francisco has not merely defunded its cops, the city has gelded them. The surfeit of Homeless By Choice muggers are knocking girls off bicycles, robbing tourists with boxcutters, raising hell in fast food joints, growing in numbers daily. Those little cable cars that climb halfway to the stars are full of criminals. You want to go to Disneyland? Miscreants want to go to Fisherman’s Wharf.
This is a tough pill to swallow for those of us of the Liberal persuasion. It is liberalism run amok, a place where small crimes have long been virtually ignored thus encouraging worse, a melting pot for thieves and bullies who tend to habitate in locales where the rules are ignored. If Dante was still around, he’d be painting pictures of the town in dark colors.
This is the kind of thing that happens when Paladin gets old and moves to a log cabin in the mountains. A city of ex-hippies and gays who once experienced a bit too much policing decides to shorten the long arm of the law until its fingers are sticking out of its elbows. It’s time the mayor raced up to the top of Coit Tower and turned on the Batsignal. Somebody call in Billy Jack or Sheriff Buford Pusser. Send a car for Dirty Harry, he’s just down the road in Carmel. The tourists are fleeing, the hotels are crying and the hills are alive with the sounds of mayhem. If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear a lug wrench in your hair.
Now that we’ve gotten those unpleasantries over with, Happy New Year one and all.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot? We don’t think so.
