The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Odds are you were like me, just get past the elections, get to the Inauguration, let the fetid dismal fog clear and maybe, just maybe, we could get back to some semblance of sanity in this country. The emperor without clothes would slither back to his golf course and his reign of terror would end. Okay, it’s been less than two weeks and from my vantage point down here at the bottom of the food chain, not much has changed. Oh sure, we got a new leader and yeah, the Senate flipped, signs of optimism if you’re not a Qanon Kool-Aid addict who thinks the inauguration was photoshopped and Trump is still president and will be recrowned king very very soon. Course, some of those Qanon addicts are now in the Congress.

The enemy is within. And Trump has decamped to his Mar-a-Lago golf compound to receive kisses and condolences from his old pal Minority Leader McCarthy who hopes to mend fences and keep the masses restive without going full berserk. Obviously the little incident in the Capitol Building a few weeks back has receded to nothing more than an amusing anecdote for the Republicans, children acting out, no need to worry. That Hang Pence talk was just good sport. Nothing to do with the stolen election that D.J. Trump won by huge margins ….

Yesterday I was surprised to learn that the forest fires in California were actually started by Jews firing lasers from outer space. Although later I heard that no, they weren’t started by the Jews, they were actually started by Elon Musk. It’s hard to get accurate information, apparently, in this brave new world of technological marvels. Rep. Greene from upstate Georgia has suggested the best way to deal with Nancy Pelosi is to put a bullet in her head. If you thought Congress might sanction this dangerous assassination talk, you’ve been asleep the past decade or three. The days of dealing with Richard Nixons are long gone. Say hello to government by the Three Stooges. Poke em in the eye, smack em with a hammer, put a bullet in her head, it’s all good fun. The barbarians are at the gate, the lasers are aimed at Smokey the Bear, the truth is out there somewhere but I guarantee you most folks won’t find it.

I love a good holiday as much as the next yahoo … but c’mon, this Groundhog’s Day business, let’s be honest, the Chamber of Commerce out there in Pullmyleg, Pennsylvania has pulled a fast one on those of us who take meteorologic prediction seriously. Down here on the convergence zoned South End, No Way is a groundhog going to see his shadow on Feb. 2nd. Even if we had groundhogs! This thing just gives Science a bad name. And lately, the last thing it needs in these superstitious, fake news, impeachment trial, end-of-the-world times is a black eye over some mammalian hairball on the East Coast seeing its hairball shadow (or not) and then extrapolating that to El Nino or asteroid strikes on Wall Street or global warming.

Which is precisely why some of the more empirically minded boyz down at the Mabana Body Shop have been searching, in a deductive sort of methodology, an alternative Predictor of winter longevity. Hellfire, if this Covid lockdown makes every day the same as the last one and the one coming tomorrow, we figure there’s no point in fighting endless monotonous inevitability. We’ll just pull the covers up, collect unemployment and wait patiently for our vaccinations. This is how civilizations thrive: they figure out tides and seasons for planting schedules and harvest times and earlier happy hours.

The model the boyz constructed over the past decade or so is a local paradigm that utilizes a 5 gallon polyethylene bucket of fresh caught Dungeness crabs —- I KNOW you’re going to point out they’re illegal this time of season, but listen, we’re putting em back when the data is collected. Spirit of the Law, if not the Letter and that, in a clamshell is the very essence of the South End Way. —- So you got a pail of clacking claws and now you bring out a dog, any dog, any breed, random sampling, see? And you let the pooch check out the crustaceans. No shadows, no hibernating drowsy marmots. And if the crab gets a lock on Snoopy’s snout, voila, studies have shown that is a true omen of an early spring. The dog schnozz slips the noose, 6 more weeks of sleeping in. Or six more months of a spiking pandemic. Probably both.

Simple. Like Einstein says, the more elegant the theory, the higher the probability it’s correct. And the boyz down at the body shop will tell you, the accuracy here is in the 90 percentile range, statistically astounding. We’re not claiming, like those unabashed self -promoters in Pennsylvania, that this will predict spring or the end of Covid for the entire country, but for all us Left Coasters, rest assured, Feb 2nd now has science as its bedrock foundation. We’ll leave it to the South End Chamber of Commerce how they want to capitalize on it. Crab Dog Day. Nice profitable ring to it, don’t you think, kind of like a cash register. If we can keep PETA at bay….

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.