The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Qanon Alert

This past week FEMA sent out an emergency alert test to every cellphone, TV and radio in the United States. If you think this was simply a test, you haven’t been tuning in to the higher frequencies, but thankfully, there are folks out there in social media land who do. They know what’s really going on and it isn’t some benevolent government agency just broadcasting a test emergency signal. Anything but!

For those unfortunates who had vaccines injected into themselves, here’s the bad news: that FEMA signal was actually an activator of the nano-particles the government slipped into the syringe. Once activated, pal, you will be under the control of big brother. You will be monitored and manipulated like the marionette you will become. Sorry, a great many of you will become actual zombies, maybe not the cannibal version but the living dead nevertheless.

But don’t think for a nano-second that’s all. These FEMA signals will shut down 5G communications, allowing Sleepy Joe and his evil minions to instigate a nationwide Lockdown. Those of you who were vaccinated will find that the signal also triggers a Kill-Switch in your central nervous system, yet another mechanism for control of the population. The days of freedom in the Yew-Ess-Aye are over, my friend. You will do as you’re told. Or else!

It’s been a few days since the test and I’ve been watching to see if my neighbors are showing signs yet of nano-particle activation, sudden flare-ups of deadly diseases, increased mortality rates, zombie-like walks along the highway, possibly even incarceration by government operatives. So far, not much. Maybe the activation is on a delay switch. Maybe they got the word and turned off their cellphones. Maybe none of them had the vaccinations. Or … maybe the test, the so-called emergency frequency test, was really a test to misdirect our attention away from something even more nefarious!! Stay tuned, the worst may yet be on its way.

Back in the good old days I used to enjoy the Stanwoodopolis Gazette’s letters to the editor when a couple of curmudgeonly right wingers would sound off almost every week with their loony rantings. Nowadays, of course, half the country is sounding off with internet trolling, whacky conspiracy theories, unhinged grievances and the megaphone of the insane. Occasionally, though, I find one that trumps the usual litany of the angry birds and this morning I read one that argued we do not need to reduce our carbon emissions.

The writer laid out his case by citing Cicero: “True Law is right reason in agreement with nature; it is of universal application, unchanging and everlasting.” Now you might be wondering how this applies to climate change, global warming and the existential threat they carry, but bear with me and our writer. Let’s bypass all the controversy over whether these are the result of human activity. Total waste of time. Because, you’ll see, True Law is photosynthesis. Plants need carbon dioxide to survive. If you reduce your carbon footprint, you hurt the plants. You hurt the plants and you screw up the balance between plants and animals. Simple as that. Is that crystal clear?

The Creator provided us with photosynthesis. If you try to reduce carbon emissions, you’re a fool, and as our boy Doug also says, “Every person should oppose this insane attempt to reduce carbon dioxide.” He says sagely that “there is no rational reason to violate the unalienable right of plants to have carbon dioxide.” There you go. Plants have rights! Inalienable rights. And if you take that away from them, you hurt the animals too. Plus us!

You really can’t argue with the logic Doug is presenting. True Law. Photosynthesis. Even got old Cicero on his team. Leave well enough alone, the world will be just fine. All I know is I hope Doug keeps sending those letters into the newspaper. The rest of my paper has gotten repetitive and boring. Meanwhile as Doug and the Brits say, Keep Calm and Carry On. Maybe breathe on your houseplants more often too.

One of the hazards of scribbling nonsense in these 21st Century blog sites along with about one billion other yahoos is that there are folks out there who really – and I don’t mean maybe – REALLY don’t like what they read in Skeeter’s pantheon of purpled prose.  Maybe some search engine sends em by mistake, hooks on a key word, next thing you know, instead of a self-help forum, they got some chucklenut waxing profane about a subject they couldn’t care less about.  And now, instead of Helpful Tips from Tom on how to turn their unhappy life into something swallowable, they got precious time wasted scrolling down South End Babble and boy howdy, somebody needs to reimburse them!

So they write to me in the anonymity of the internet.  Which is the digital highway equivalent of road rage on the interstate.  Flip me off, swerve into my lane,  jam the brakes.  They’ll show me who’s who and what’s what.  And the best part: they’re untrackable, anonymous as drive-by shooters.  Splatter my windshield with shotgun pellets and don’t look back, just speed away to the next unlucky target.

These are some very Very ANGRY! people out there with us.  More than you think.  Way more.  I suppose we’re lucky they shoot from the lip, not the hip, but if you ever made the mistake of commenting on a forum or some issue that meant enough to you that you weighed in, then you probably learned firsthand what I’m talking about.  Civility is most definitely not a valued trait in Cyberville.

I’d like to see the volume and vitriol dialed back a bit.  I know, probably won’t happen, probably get ratcheted UP even more if anything,  But personally, I’m weary of the ranting, the hysteria, the apoplexy.  And hey, you, the guy who sells antiques and read the blog by mistake on cleaning out my storage shacks, maybe hoping for bargains:  I’m sorry you thought this offered no insights for living your life.  And I’m doubly sorry if you thought I was so self- centered I used the blog to make myself look attractive.  I guess we won’t be dating.

I don’t have anything to sell, pal.  Not the junk I cleaned out, not the ideas in my head.  And .. .sadly…. it sounds like we’re all a little late to offer you tips on living.  Let’s both just figure it out on our own.

Here’s a newsflash:  most of us are addicts now.  To our TV’s, to our cellphones, to our computer, to social networks, to everything Digital.  If the medium is the message, here’s the message — we got a syringe in our heads with a permanent IV drip.

My mom used to catch us kids laying around, doing pretty much nothing, complaining how we were bored.  Nothing to do, we’d whine.  She wasn’t buying it, no way, no sir.  She’d shoo our sorry butts off the couch and out the door, where, presumably, the world was waiting for us to get busy, make something of a new day, summon up the neighborhood cronies, go bike riding or play whiffleball.

Watch a friend who’s visiting and notice how frequently they check their phone for a text message.  These are people OUR age.  The kids never stop checking.  It’s like having video games and Netflix and the high school prom and phone gossip and Google all wrapped up in a candy wrapper.  The heroin isn’t listed as an ingredient but believe me, it’s there.  We’ve hooked the kids, we’ve hooked ourselves.  Our attention spans are shorter than a commercial now.  And everything in America is a commercial.  Don’t ask me what the answer is.  There’s no methadone for this, no 12 step program, no Going Back.  Every 30 seconds we need a Google fix, a text message, a Facebook update, a digital affirmation that we’re still on-line, still worthy, still connected.

Walden Pond now isn’t some remote back-to-the-land escape from the oppression of the Industrial Age, it’s a wilderness where cellphone towers are spotty and cable doesn’t reach and high-speed internet isn’t available.  It’s a place where Hi-Fi exists, but Wi-Fi doesn’t.  It’s a primitive world where the pace of life is measured, not in Twitters, but in the entire day, in the seasons, in lives moving slowly with time to pause and contemplate.  It’s a world that, sadly, no longer exists.  Not even down here on the halcyon South End.  You don’t believe me, Google it…..

I’m like a lot of South Enders, I have to drive into Stanwoodopolis to do my weekly grocery shopping.  I used to get the essentials down at Tyee Grocery before it closed, but when I needed milk that wouldn’t spoil in two days or vegetables that weren’t hairy, I moseyed down to the big stores, you know, the chains, QFC, Haggens, Thrifty.  I used to like Thrifty myself.  Aisles looked like bowling alleys there were so few shoppers there by the end of its slow death spiral into grocery oblivion.  No amenities, no cute historical photos, no signs pointing to the restrooms where a bouquet of flowers might beckon a sensitive male shopper like myself.

No, it was spartan.  Sparse.  Practically primitive.  I didn’t waste time talking to other shoppers like I do in the other stores.  There weren’t any other shoppers.  Just me.  It was almost like they’d set out this smorgasbord of lefse and lutefisk and canned entrails just for my perusal.  I appreciated it.  Even if I didn’t buy it.

Sometimes there WERE other people in the store.  It was like a 24 hour store, really, and we were in there on break from our graveyard shift,  zombies on parade.   We’d drift by the macaroni and meet again by the fruit stand.  The fluorescent glare gave a wonderful green patina to everyone.  Ghoulish.  Night of the Living Zucchini.  My fellow shoppers at Thrifty were like myself: shopping challenged.  Xenophobes in search of an empty aisle.  It was a little like a suspense movie.  You know, you know as sure as Alfred Hitchcock is going to shock you,  that we were all going to meet at the checkout stand.  The ONE checkout stand.  No express.  No 10 items or less.  No Other Way Out.

Our carts bumped ominously.  The tabloids were chock-a-block with the latest on movie stars and their sorry sex lives.  Little books told me my astrological future.  My astrological future was this:  I will die in a checkout line waiting for the nice but senile lady in front of me to find all her coupons.  She won’t remember to get them out first.  No, she’ll remember them when the final amount has been tabulated.  She’ll want a lottery ticket.  A pack of cigarettes from the lockup six aisles away.  She wants a price check on the cereal she thought was 52 cents, but was really $5.20.  She’ll mention the spoiled milk she wants a refund on.  And finally she’ll change her mind from plastic to paper.

I don’t want to sound misogynistic, but it was always a lady.  Guys don’t care.  They would do anything to get out of here, not delay their departure.  This is hell to us.  Eternity.  No escape.  We would sell our worthless souls if we could just slip by this sweet senile lady in the fuzzy slippers and move on out to the sunlit parking lot with our pathetic bag of groceries. Pop that first beer right there in front of all the moms with their wide-eyed kids in tow and toss the empty through the rolled down window when we’re done.

It’s going to take awhile…..  I know that.  I’m prepared usually.  Mentally, physically, psychically.  I never learned, you see. Why is it people can’t have their checks ready?  Half filled out?  Why can’t they have their purses open?  Why do they have to search for the 3 pennies in the bottom somewhere so they won’t have to break a buck?  Why don’t they know about the debit/credit thing?  Why isn’t paper and plastic automatic, not a life or death quiz question? Why isn’t God doing something about this????

I remember reading in the 70’s about the Russians lining up to buy bread, lining up to buy meat, lining up to buy this, lining up to buy that, always another line at another store.  I remember thinking, those goofy communists, they must be the most stupid peasants on earth.  Can’t figure out the simplest things….

Some day soon the line would move again there in the DMZ of Thrifty.   And I would wonder who really won the Cold War….

[podcast]https://www.skeeterdaddle.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/audio-vaigra-falls.mp3[/podcast]audio — vaigra falls