The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I love this pandemic vaccine roulette, a small window into how the world works when it’s confronted with a crisis that for us old codgers is life and death. A week ago I gave up trying to navigate the distribution rumors of a clinic up the road offering inoculations or the senior center crowd sourcing its limited supply and just decided to get my name on a list of potential survivors and see if new doses would arrive at some uncertain future date. Sure, I was bothered that my neighbors and friends found where to get theirs already while I was completely shut out … and okay, I was even pissed they didn’t bother calling to offer me their inside info, maybe figure if I delayed and died they’d have a less crowded neighborhood. Or maybe, more likely, they got theirs, screw the rest. It’s a dog eat dog world out there in Virustown.

But lately I’m reading about hospitals in the area, once they got their hands on the vaccines, called up their VIP donors, in some cases those who gave more than 10 grand to the hospital foundations, and offered them first dibs on the life-saving shots. Welcome to America, I guess, in case we underlings needed a clearer view from the back of the bus folks would be happy to throw us under if it meant they got into the lifeboats of the Titanic. Pardon my mixed metaphors, but hellfire, it just appears a bit callous for our health care providers to skip the folks who are fighting in the front lines of this pandemic to reward their rich benefactors.

Okay, I know this is how it works. The rich get richer and the rest of us get crappy health care. Move along everybody, nothing to see here. You had your chance to get rich and what did you do with it? Accept your poverty and shut up, peon! The wealthy are always first in line, you know that, and if you didn’t, you been living on the South End a little too long. If nothing else, this vaccine rollout should give you a chance to see how democracy works. If you thought it worked for you, I got some nettle land to sell you. If you aren’t on a ventilator by then….

More than a few times, writing satirical pieces for this blogsite or the Crab Cracker, I’ve had to apologize for my so-called humor, dark as it is. Once I advocated for alpaca hunting and the owners of a fairly large herd of the cute little beasts threatened monetary reprisal for every one of their long-necked Bambis that were shot and killed by the over-eager hunters of the South End who might find their expensive pets easy prey. After over a decade I’m relieved to report that my attorney, Bubba Frisk the 3rd, hasn’t had to defend my meager estate from lawsuits over alpaca burgers at ungodly prices per pound.

Recently, however, I was forced once again to plead guilty to the charge of reckless endangerment with an unregistered pen to the folks who found my sadly wanting wit a bit much to endure any further. The owner of a South End mercantile (name withheld at the advice of counsel) called to tell me that his sense of humor had reached its entrepreneurial limit. “I’m trying to run a business here,” he told me, “and you’re giving us a black eye.” I wanted to respond with something sympathetic but self-defensive, like “gee, and I thought you were trying to run it into the ground.” Fortunately I held my sharp tongued humor in check.

In the end I said I understood. I said I apologize. I said it wouldn’t happen again … to them. He even suggested another mercantile, a competitor of theirs, that might be far more deserving of my barbs, I guess trying to be helpful. Believe me when I say suggestions for my humor are as welcome as demands for an apology. If folks take umbrage themselves for being the target of my mischief, why on god’s green earth would they think the competitors would be any more appreciative?

I want to offer ALL you readers my deepest and most sincere apology. I certainly didn’t intend lasting harm. Course the mizzus takes it personal … and when I even make sport of myself, I’m starting to get a little annoyed too. I blame it on Covid. I blame it on the partisan politics of our time. Okay, all right, I blame it on myself. Happy now?

Folks are just too easily convinced that when I make fun of someone, it might be them. Course you and I know, it probably isn’t. But that’s the trouble with shotgun humor, it’s imprecise. I was, rest assured, aiming at the neighbor.

Lately we’ve been playing a shell game called Vaccination, a sleight-of-hand magician’s trick of trying to figure out who, where, when our vaccine might be available. A few days ago after a tip from a friend it seemed as if we might get a shot over at our sister island, Whidbey, at some drug store in downtown Oak Harbor. We made a reservation, then got an email alert that residents here on the South End could go to a closer pharmacy in a county not ours because evidently our vaccines were going to help their county out. A few days later we got another email alert that our first reservation had moved back two weeks, the closer one seemed to drop us, but no matter, the first one moved the reservation we had just had put back two weeks moved forward a week. Okay….

Meanwhile friends were informing us that they had received their vaccinations at a local private health clinic only a few miles north from us, but when we tried to see if we might get an appointment, their website informed us their supply of vaccine had already been exhausted. Please stand by. Yesterday we got a notice from the first place we’d contacted, something to the effect that supplies were limited and running out but rest assured, we would keep our place in line.

If you aren’t confused yet, you will be soon. Unless you were one of those who somehow managed to navigate the labyrinth and find the moldy cheese at the middle of a berserk maze…. Now, I’m not one of those yahoos who blame the government for everything from my broken shoelace to my bad haircut, but I hafta say, this rollout for a vaccine that we have known was coming for months and, dare I mention, seems INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT to our national health, our economy and our futures, is a total mess. Apparently in this sovereign state of mine the critical information is relayed primarily by rumor and Facebook, which, to me, are essentially the same thing.

It’s a sign of the times, I guess, that information now is funneled through the lens of YouTube, Facebook, Twitter and now the right wing megaphones, monetized and uncorroborated, faith based social media. Sure, why not? We don’t trust government any longer. We don’t trust the news media. We wouldn’t believe in God herself is She came down with golden tablets to give us the facts.

But if the government wanted to use a social media platform to disseminate critical information, why not use the Skeeter Daddle Diaries blogsite? Good as any, better than some. If you don’t happen to be one of the readers of my fast breaking news blog, then I guess you won’t get your vaccination. Doesn’t seem fair, you say. Maybe if you’re lucky, one of the readers will email or call you to let you in on the latest developments where to get your Covid shot. Welcome to America, dude. And good luck. You’ll need it.

The soon-to-be-dedicated Trump Library is nearing completion in a decommissioned underground parking complex in downtown Scottsboro, Arizona, once a subterranean multi-level car station for upscale shopping before burst pipes in the upper areas turned the lower levels into virtual cesspools. Drained and rehabbed in gold tile over concrete, the Trump Library boasts more than adequate parking spaces for the throngs expected to attend the grand opening this summer.

Despite the fact that the notoriously unread and possibly illiterate President left few if any written documents, the Library will have a plethora of computer stations with a compendium of presidential tweets in easy access. Of even greater interest to future historians and the general public, video downloads will replay most of the rally speeches Mr. Trump made between his many golf outings on jumbotron screens at the end of each parking level so that visitors can enjoy even in their vehicles without necessitating entry to the computer stations on Level 7.

While other presidents’ libraries house letters, memos, emails and various other written documents, the Trump Library will have few if any of those since the President, on advice from counsel, rarely allowed possible evidentiary content to be kept despite legal requirements to do so. According to Jonathon Trubsky, head librarian, this lack of documentation provides researchers with a much simplified and preferred avenue into the thinking and rationale of the Trump Administration. “Mr. Trump was a man of impulse and instinct,” Trubsky wrote in an introductory press release for the grand opening. “He had a photographic memory, apparently, and eschewed written materials. As he told the public many times, he had a very big brain. Ironically, that very big brain meant that his library would be a very little library, something the staff appreciates greatly.”

The Grand Opening is scheduled for June 15, 2021.

Okay, let’s see a show of hands. Who thinks, like Donald J. Trump does, that he’s the greatest president in our nation’s history? C’mon, now, don’t be shy, we can’t see your faces, much less your hands. Who thinks Mt. Rushmore should have another face carved into the mountain even if we have to erase one of the other, lesser, presidents to get Donald’s face up there? Really? Nobody?

All right, put your hands up if you think the Trumpster was the worst president in American history. I got mine up, just so you know I’m not hiding my biases. And I’m smiling this morning after watching him board the helicopter and then Air Force One before jetting off to nurse his wounds and cheat at golf in Mar-a-Lago. It feels like a weight lifted off finally after four long years and maybe we can breathe easy again. Okay, okay, you can put your hands down now, both of them. Later we’ll tabulate the votes and get back to you with the results. Course, as you know, half the country will assume this poll was rigged. Probably by the Lizard People.

It’s been awhile since my high school history classes. It’s even been awhile since I taught history in 8th grade. Most of the presidents get pretty short shrift in those textbooks. I mean, how much do you know about Millard Fillmore? Not much, I’m betting, maybe not a bad prez, mostly just forgettable. Herbert Hoover left us with the Great Depression, but I’m not sure we can blame the guy for that. Not totally, anyway. Gerald Ford I do remember. Although, really, I can’t remember much, not that that makes him a bad president, just the poor guy who filled in when Nixon resigned instead of being impeached. William Henry Harrison was president about one month before dying of typhoid or pneumonia or god only knows what. Can’t really say he was the worst, just the shortest, which, considering who just left office, I’d say might have been a small blessing.

You go down a list of Presidents, you probably couldn’t rate them high or low or in the middle. Lincoln we like, Jefferson too, Andy Jackson some like but he wasn’t one of my favorites, sort of a proto-Trump, a raging racist, a bully, a man who didn’t care much for the rule of law if the rules got in his way. Which they did.

But Donald J. Trump. History will not be kind. Impeached twice, the king of emoluments, nepotist-in-chief, dog whistler, bully with or without the pulpit, liar extraordinaire, anti-media, a demagogue of a sort I don’t think we’ve seen prior and hopefully won’t see again. In the final days of his four year reign he pardoned cronies and crooks, refused to concede a democratic election and finally called for his faithful to storm the Capitol where a pitched battle ensued that resulted in people killed but not, as per the plans of some who breached the building, to take Senators and Representatives hostage, possibly even assassinate them. Oh, and did I mention the 400,000 dead from the virus he did virtually nothing to stop from wreaking havoc on his minions?

Does all this make him the worst president in our two and a half century history? I think we all know the answer. And no, it’s not the Lizard King.

You’re probably, like myself, no economist. You’re happy if you’ve got money enough to pay for a roof over your head, food for the family, the monthly car payments and at least the minimum on your credit card debt. After that, well, let’s leave it to the folks who understand the intricacies of running an economy as large and complicated as the United States. After all, they did a good job … other than a few recessions and the Great Depression. Sure, a few folks fell between the cracks, but hey, we have more billionaires than ever. In fact, the President is a billionaire or so he claims. If anyone would understand how to run a complicated economy, it’s got to be a billionaire president.

We were all told as far back as grade school we have equal opportunity in the Land of the Free. If you’re white. And male. And it helps if you went to a prestigious school, say Yale or Harvard or Wharton. We all had that same chance, right? Equal opportunity, right? So if a lot more of us these days are falling behind on the mortgage, if we’re sleeping in our cars or in a tent under the freeway overpass, we had the same opportunities as the rich folks, we just didn’t play our cards right. We were dumb. We were losers. Nobody to blame but ourselves. Unless you think the game is rigged. Unless you think America is a sucker’s bet. And I know you don’t want to believe that…. You want to believe you have the same chance of becoming a billionaire, just like the former president, just like Bill Gates or Jeff Bezos or Elon Musk, the folks who doubled or tripled or quadrupled their worth in the last year. And if you have to do it by playing the Lottery, well, okay, buy the ticket, take the ride. There’s always a chance. You do not win, the gaming commission will tell you, if you do not play.

2020 and the pandemic kind of lessened the odds for most people, maybe not the rich. Jobs gone, rent due, credit card maxed. The economy stalled, except maybe the stock market, times look tough. The lesson most economists not in this Administration took from the Great Depression is government needs to spend like drunken sailors to keep the pump primed. Money in the hands of the bottom percentiles is money that gets spent. Shops get customers, cars get sold, rent gets paid, the economy keeps sputtering along. The first stimulus checks that went out did just that. Course, they put the lion’s share in the hands of the wealthiest among us. Seems fair. If you’re already rich.

The latest stimulus bill stalled over how much to give the little folks. Even Trump, blowing the negotiations to bits at the 11th hour, thought the poor ought to get more money. But the Senate howled, the Senate balked, the Senate cried socialism for the rich. Why give a family making 150,000 a year more money, they cried. Course, they could cap the income levels. They could hold back the largesse for the richest corporations. They could have done that back in the first go round. But they didn’t, they don’t and they won’t. Socialism for the rich, they say, and too big a deficit, they say, even though they gave tax breaks to the corporations once they had a billionaire president and control of the Senate.

I should have gone to Harvard Bizness School, is all I can figure, because none of this makes much sense to me. Why, I guess, I’m not a billionaire.

I had a cousin whose husband taught in an upscale private school outside of Chicago. Some of the parents hired him part time to do maintenance and lawn work on the weekends, no doubt tossing him crumbs to supplement the low salary he was paid to teach their debutantes. One of his benefactors, upon answering the front door when Fred first came to the job for hedge trimming, refused to talk to him, informing him brusquely that the ‘help’ were required to use the back door, then unceremoniously slammed the door in his face. Welcome to the caste system, American style!

Fred must have needed the money is all I could figure because he went to the back door, knocked once more, received m’lord’s instructions and went to work manicuring his hedges. I know what I would have done, but then, easy for me to say back then since I didn’t have a wife and a kid, a mortgage, car payments, credit card debt and the rest. But the story stuck with me. And not just because my cousin actually had been a New York debutante and was the daughter of a vice president of a national tobacco company. Maybe she understood the perks and privileges of the rich and famous, let her husband lick boots, that’s how it works.

I read today that Ivanka and Jared refused to let the Secret Service agents assigned for their protection use any of their six bathrooms in their upscale digs. For a time they had a porta-potty sitting out by the street for the ‘help’ to use during those long waits. Course, the neighbors took umbrage, probably what his and her majesty wanted after complaints that the Secret Service cars were taking up precious parking spaces in their tony neighborhood, so eventually the agents had to locate other bathroom spots, everything from knocking on neighbors’ doors to using nearby businesses to relieve themselves, then finally renting a latrine in a basement for 3000 bucks a months.

I know what I would have done, fertilized the Kushner’s flower beds, but then, I’m not a patriotic civil servant with a career at stake, am I? But … I am a little weary of this kind of snobby royalty totally lacking in any sense of noblesse oblige. Just like their papa, the guy who took a tour with the Secret Service in their SUV after testing positive for Covid. I think it’s time to show these folks the back door and ask them to use it on the way out. And don’t come back.

A few days after the storming of the Bastille, King Donald has barricaded himself in the bunker of the White House, no doubt rabidly occupied with binge-watching his favorite news channels hoping to gauge the pulse of a nation that watched with incredulity the spectacle of a President encouraging his minions to march to the Capitol and stop the certification of Biden. Some dare call it treason, some merely sedition, and most call it criminal. Even his pandering former Attorney General, picked to be his personal lawyer in the Justice Department, called it outrageous and said it was time to Go.

Social media has banned his tweets and rantings. Members of his own party are considering invoking the 25th amendment, the one that removes an incapacitated president from office, Congress is eyeing impeachment once more, Cabinet loyalists are resigning while major corporations are withdrawing funding and support for the legislators who backed the move to block counting the electoral college votes. The worm has turned. With less than two weeks remaining in his term the Donald is a cornered animal, dangerous to everyone and to himself. What he might do, nobody knows including the Donald. Nasty business, politics.

Let’s be honest here and quit sugarcoating this. Trump is batshit crazy. His narcissistic balloon that’s the size of the Hindenburg dirigible is about to go up in flames. The man is a menace. The folks who toadied up to him are abandoning ship now. Apparently, even for the most loyal, a line has been crossed. Up ahead, even they can see the signpost that reads Welcome to the Twilight Zone. For the rest of us, well, we can sit smugly watching the unraveling of this Administration, say I told ya so, but we all know those yahoos that rallied behind the Trumpster and scaled the Capitol battlements are a sizeable percentage of our neighbors and friends.

They want to smash government. They don’t care how. If they can’t do it at the ballot box, by god, they’ll do it with clubs. Trump may be hauled away in a strait jacket, jabbering like an amphetamine monkey, but these folks will still be here to warn each other of the Lizard People and the phony Covid. They could care less about facts or logic, those are worthless to them. The fall of Trump will just be another warning sign. The Apocalypse is nigh, the End is near. Insanity is contagious.

Tough week for the forces of Good! The Great One, the anointed Leader who would bring the world back into the Light by leading his minions into the cavern of the Lizard People, the Capitol Building, instead drove home to watch the show on the television in his bunker. His troops scaled the battlements, broke down doors and penetrated the Halls of Darkness … only to find nobody had a plan. Not the capitol police and certainly not them. So much winning!

And worse! The twitter feed of their Anointed One was cut off at the neck. The President was banned from sending messages to his minions. What does this mean, the confused followers wondered. Some said the riots were the work of fake flag brearing Antifa soldiers, pretending to be the followers of the GodKing, but actually the footsoldiers of the Satanist pedophiles who feigned fear in the chambers of the evil, their goal to ultimately humiliate the President and delay the Storm, that day of reckoning when the deep state traitors are finally brought to their deserved desserts.

Trump had promised to reveal the Truth of the election frauds, not that his people needed proof. What they needed was the Plan. They needed him to mount his steed and ascend the steps in front of their angry legions. They needed a hero. They needed encouraging tweets. Once inside the bastions of iniquity, nobody knew what to do. Oh, sure, they stole a lectern and sat in Nancy I-eat-children- Pelosi’s desk. They scribbled some encouraging graffiti on the walls and busted up some furniture, strewed some file cabinet evidence of crimes against nature committed by the enemy pretending to cower in congressional chambers. But … what to do next? Did they miss the secret message? Did Donald give them a clue that they just didn’t decipher?

Or … whoa! Was this actually part of the Plan? Was this a ruse to make the evildoers rise up and try once more to impeach their Savior? Ho ho, wouldn’t that create a backlash out in the backwash?! The Lizard People might just have overplayed their hand! The Storm was coming after all! Inauguration Day might just be the promised reckoning. The imposter Biden would be revealed for the cannibal fraud he is, the socialist menace, the sick pederast who, once the Truth was known, would be the one who would be stepping down. Trump would ascend the podium, Trump would be President another term, possibly more. That must be the Plan! The Storm was coming and the Storm was coming soon! Bet your sweet tweet on that!

I only had one serious New Year’s Resolution this year. No, not to improve myself by reading more. Not to exercise more. Not to be kinder to my fellow man. Not to quit swearing, not to watch less TV, not to quit drinking, not to work harder, none of that stuff. No, my one and only resolution was to put politics in the rearview, stop being a news junkie, let the country take a nap with Sleepy Joe at the wheel now that Donald J. Trump was tossed on the ash heap of history, a pathetic little loser who would spend the remainder of his pathetic little life in courtrooms and hopefully in a jail cell where he could write his three volume memoirs with all the time in the world.

Four years of this spoiled brat of a man was plenty. Every day seven days a week four weeks a month twelve months a year for four long years the billionaire king intruded on my serenity like a roof leak dripping on my favorite things until they turned soggy and mildewed, drip drip drip until I thought I would lose my mind. The man lived to be in the spotlight. It was all he wanted. Me me me, wah wah wah, as incessant as a rash of poison ivy, scratch me scratch me scratch me til it bleeds and spreads and spreads some more. No end to it, just one outrage after another, mindless infuriating idiocy, the bleating of a baby who wants food all day and all night. It was as if insanity was forever knocking on the door of my head wanting in, wanting to use the bathroom, wanting to borrow the phone, wanting to eat my dinner, wanting to watch TV, let me in, let me in, let me in!

But he lost the election and for awhile that knocking on my door grew more distant. He seemed to have retreated to his rat cage in the back of the White House to nurse his grudge, refused to talk to reporters, maybe left the spotlight for awhile. My resolution seemed safe. No more Trump. No more stupid politics. The adults were back in charge. Sure, not nearly as exciting but hey, exactly what I needed for awhile. He could start his own TV talk show, okay by me, I wouldn’t be tuning in. Tweet your heart out, loser, I don’t have an account. Move down to Mar-a-Lago, it’s as far from the South End as anyplace in America, far far away, not even close to my radar.

No telling what the next few weeks bring. A call for the military to overturn the election? Make Jared ambassador to Mars? Call a few more governors or Secretary of States where he lost to Biden? Pack the Supreme Court with his Medal of Freedom recipients, folks like Rush Limbaugh and Jim Jordan? Buy Greenland? Attack Iran and nuke North Korea? Mandate no mask wearing? Arrest Sleepy Joe? Who knows? What I do know is my New Year’s Resolution is in shreds. It looks like a long year again. Maybe next New Year I’ll keep my vow….