The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Merry Christmas, Friends and Family!!

I guess it’s okay to say Christmas, but if you find that offensive, Happy Holidays! This has been a great year for the Daddle family and as we do every year, we like to share our glad tidings. Daughter Brenda went back to community college after her degree from Swarthmore proved less than marketable. She is taking Business Accounting and expects to find much better prospects after graduation. We told her English Renaissance History narrowed her career chances, but you know kids these days. A year working for Burger King convinced her to change her major. Even with the minimum wage increase that’s coming.

Son #1 Jeremiah served his 9 months and two weeks at the Snohomish County Jail for some breaking and entering. Drugs! You think you’ve warned them about the consequences but they think we’re just old fogies. Jerry should be fine after his Narcotics Anonymous regimen. For the time being he’s comfortable in the basement apartment Linda and I set up. Sure, I miss the pool table, but family always comes first! And it’s great to have him home again, even if we have to lock up our valuables.

Son #2 has joined a religious commune down near Santa Cruz. Brian is not supposed to contact his earthly family so we haven’t got much news to report. Occasionally he writes for money and we are happy to help out. Well, Linda is, I confess it irks me no end to send that little twerp anything beyond a message to Wake Up! But these things too shall pass, isn’t that what they say?

Linda is doing much better this year. As you might remember she struggled with some mild depression. Empty nest syndrome is what I thought it was, nothing she wouldn’t pass through soon. Boy, was I ever wrong this time! But her doctor has her on some very effective medications and her crying has greatly lessened. Jerry has been a great help. Sometimes he even makes his own lunches.

Retirement, as a friend of mine likes to say, is greatly underrated. Oh, I struggled a little with boredom at first. Like everyone. But right after my heart attack in February (not to worry, I’m okay, just a couple of stents) I started walking more. You know I never really liked exercise of any sort, but that ticker-tweet kicked me in the butt to get up off the couch and get outdoors. I’ve been walking every day. Truthfully, I walk almost all day. Linda says I’m obsessed, but I say a walk a day keeps the cardiologist away. I tried to talk Linda into walking with me, but she says 20 miles is too much for her. Ha ha. Her sense of humor is coming back!

We did make a couple of trips this year. One to Santa Cruz to see Son #2 at his Seeing Orb Commune, but we were told at the security gate no one was allowed inside, not even parents. Admittedly things got slightly out of hand and the sheriff’s office had to intervene, but in the end I settled down — without some damn mantra — and we drove to the coast and stayed at a very nicely restored auto court overlooking the beach before driving back home.

We also attended a Trump rally in October up at Lynden. The man can connect with an audience, I’ll say that, and we were happily surprised when he won on Election Night. He’s going to make America great again and even though I know some of you didn’t vote for Mr. Trump, I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised. The business of America is business and this is a billionaire businessman. Okay, enough politics….

Hope you and your family have a warm holiday. We in the Daddle household are going to make Christmas Great Again. It will be Yuge, as Donald says. Ha ha! I mean Ho Ho! Love at ya! Linda and Jeremiah and Skeeter

In a surprise turnaround Donald J. Trump announced his intention yesterday to tap Smokey the Bear for head of the Dep’t. of Interior. “We need to shake things up a little in Interior, very important,” the president-in-waiting tweeted. “Smokey has been wonderful all these years, very great actually. So great!”

Critics responded with alarm after the tweet went viral 30 seconds later. “Mr. Trump obviously doesn’t understand the requirements for holding office in the cabinet,” said a senior Democratic senator who spoke on anonymity. “My god, the bear is a bear. I’m fairly certain animals are barred from serving office.”

A Representative from Montana stated, “This nomination might be in real danger. Smokey may be a tree hugger for all we know, but when we’re finished doing due diligence, we WILL know. The last thing our parks and forests need is a damn tree hugger. We have real issues here, oil leases and coal reserves. We need a man who understands that these take priority over spotted owl rescues,” the Republican said.

The New York Times, in an op-ed piece later that day, pointed out that Smokey the Bear was dead. Mr. Trump tweeted, “That bear isn’t dead. I saw his picture just last week and he looked healthy as a horse. Great hat, really a class hat! We might consider having every park ranger wear one.” Smokey the Bear was found after a forest fire 66 years ago, burned badly but nursed back to health and taken on as a mascot for the Forest Service. He lived a long life in a zoo and died of old age in 1976. Or so the New York Times claimed ….

Immediately the Times was attacked by the Trump transition team for its faux news stories once again. Bear lovers trolled the Times with death threats by the hundreds. Smokey is Alive! dozens tweeted. The Times published obituaries of the bear’s demise, but by then Mr. Trump had confirmed his nomination of the mascot.

President-elect Trump had interviewed other contestants as well for the position this past week. Woodsy Owl and Ranger Rick as well as Sarah Palin had been considered top contenders, but the nod to Smokey caught many by surprise. Kanye West was seen leaving Trump Towers recently and this had led to speculation the rapper might be in line for Interior given Trump’s penchant for choosing cabinet members with no experience in their departments.

“Shaking the tree,” Mr. Trump tweeted when Ben Carson was chosen to head HUD. “The man has lived in Detroit, what more does he need to know to operate a government agency with a budget of billions? Great surgeon, really the best. Split a Siamese twin in two. You should read his book.”

The search is now on to locate the missing bear. Trump tweeted that he expected to find Smokey soon. “Probably fighting that fire down in Tennessee. He saved Dollyland, you know. Great job. Dollyland is a national treasure and that bear put out the fire a hundred yards from the front gate. Smokey will be a top notch Interior Secretary, the best. Great hat too. Did I mention that hat?”

I guess if you want to make America great again, you probably don’t need briefings from the folks who made America crummy. Our Prez-in-Waiting doesn’t bother with em so we can assume he’s got a good game plan and doesn’t want it muddied up with inconvenient truths. That, or he’s picking Wise Men to do the hard part for him, things like thinking. Which must explain choosing Gen. Flynn as his advisor, the military genius and his tweety bird son who think Hillary is running pizza pederasty out of a pie joint in D.C. Obviously the country is in competent hands. Finally.

I listened yesterday to a Republican electoral college delegate who said he could not in good conscience cast his vote for a fascist, authoritarian, misogynistic, racist know-nothing. A Republican. The other Republicans on the panel told him in no uncertain terms it was ‘time to get in line’. The man had won and they had a sworn duty to support him. Zieg Heil!

If I hear one more commentator run down the five stages of grief for us Losers of the last election, my head will explode off my torso. I’m not going through five stages. Hellfire, I skipped those the first day and landed on Slow Burn. I live in a country of fellow citizens who believe the most preposterous bullpoop imaginable, from the most toxic sources out there, then pull themselves upright to a two legged posture and cast a vote for the man who promulgated the birther issue against the current President of the not so United States of America. You think I’m going through grief? No *&%# way, man. No *&%# way! I’m sick of it. I’m sick and tired of the crappy e-mail vitriol I get every damn day. I’m already sick of the tweets from Trump that sound like a 15 year old punk with testosterone blockage, a bully born with too big a stick.

Grief? I don’t think so. I feel like I did back in the 60’s when Nixon won the right to bomb Cambodia, when the Silent Majority thought they were the heart and soul of this country, when the dog whistles of racism and divisiveness were winning tactics. Grief? I don’t have time for that. Shame maybe. Disgust certainly. Outrage, absolutely.

I have a modest proposal to make to the nation: let’s give robots the vote. You know they’re taking our jobs and beating us at chess, soon they’ll be driving our cars, controlling our homes, babysitting our kids, fighting our wars, building even smarter robots. They’re answering all our questions on our smartphones, coughing up our money at the ATM, running our power grids and running our lives. I say it’s time to give them the vote.

As usual I’m probably so far behind current events, not being a participant in what is commonly called Social Media — what I call gossip and bullshit — that maybe I’m actually out front on this one, history being a kind of closed loop where we are perpetually doomed to repeat our mistakes. Giving robots the vote might be the best way to break out of that cycle of boom and bust, peace and war, euphoria and depression. They are, after all, smarter than us. Not that it would take that much, judging by the last election. But these artificially intelligent citizens are soon going to be far smarter than all of us and I’m not just talking about folks who voted based on fake news reports. They might actually be able to distinguish between fact and fiction, something a majority of us now pretty obviously cannot. Or don’t choose to. Either way, the robots could and will.

Besides, let’s be honest, the robots are going to take over anyway. Maybe giving them voting rights now would enfranchise them. Might give them reason to appreciate our generosity. Last thing we need is a pissed off very powerful segment of society that turns to violence to achieve its rightful ends. Robot Lives Matter! Think about that protest movement a nano-second. I think you’ll agree that the last thing this society wants or needs is a disgruntled artificial intelligentsia with its prosthetic on the trigger. Sure, you can suppress the vote of minorities and students, but don’t think for a silicon second you can do it with the robots. They are, after all, the damn voting machines themselves.

I say capitulate now. With a little targeted compassion on our part, maybe they’ll allow us humanoids to continue to vote in the near future. Not sure why they would other than to inject a bit of randomness in the equation, but maybe robots will have an advanced sense of humor. The rest of us seem to have lost that talent so hopefully comedy will become a hallmark of higher intelligence, artificial or not. Think about it is all I’m asking. Let em vote!

Longevity and Bondo

Down at the Kustom Kar Body Shop the latest news of declining life expectancy for us Americans was met with some degree of skepticism at closing time. Fairlane Fred had looked up from reading the article in the newspaper he’d brought to the shop and the assembled hangers-on were smirking and laughing even before he’d finished the last paragraph.

“Gee, Fred you think those statistics apply to us?” Jake asked, lighting up a Marlboro. His empty beer can served as make-do ashtray where it balanced nicely on his beer belly and barely jiggled as he popped his third Bud. Quitting time at the Kustom was early today, it being Friday and all. George, the owner, had sent his crew home already and the Flatheads had assembled for their usual Friday wrap up. A ’62 Malibu two door sat in the paint room, its butterscotch epoxy gleaming behind the makeshift plastic sheet doorway that separated the finish room from the body shop’s clutter and mayhem. Monday George would put the wax to it, seven coats at least. Today he was more interested in putting the finish on the week. He had the fridge loaded with two cases of beer.

“Says here we’re dying faster than we did four years ago. Only going to live to be 78. Hell, Jake, you’re 73 now. The Japs get six more years than us. Time’s running out, buddy.” Freddie tipped his can at Jake. “Here’s to an early grave.”

“You believe that crap they put in the paper, go ahead, Fred, but I plan to live a long happy life.” He took a drag on his cigarette, a good pull on the Bud and laughed. “Clean living will do it every time, boys. That and a clear conscience.”

“I don’t know, Jake,” Big Ralph said, one foot on the mangled rear bumper of a Camry the towing company dropped off that morning. “You don’t look like the poster boy for ObamaCare to me. More like the Before picture of erectile dysfunction. And didn’t your doc tell you to quit smoking that last stent?”
“Doctors!” Jake snorted, “what the hell do they know?”

This sent the shop floor into waves of amusement. Half the assembled Flatheads were on doctor’s orders to quit drinking, quit smoking, get some exercise and maybe even eat right. Only Little Billy was thin enough to avoid qualifying as obese and that was barely. Little Billy didn’t really eat much of anything. He was like one of those bromeliads that attach to trees and live only off air and beer. 78 wasn’t likely to be in Billy’s cards. He said, “I haven’t been to a doctor in 40 years. And now they want to force me to buy insurance.”

“Here we go again” Phil growled, “another bitch session about health care. Trump’s gonna get rid of all that, let’s skip the crying for once.” He crumpled his can and tossed it in the industrial sized waste container George filled at least twice weekly. “Who’s ready for another beer?” he cried, rubbing his hands and heading toward the fridge.

And so another weekend got off to a great start at the Kustom Kar. Mercifully, no one would be keeping statistics down there. Or as Jake likes to say, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Words to live by on the South End.