The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Every day we get out of our bunks and before the coffee has time to percolate or our brains haul into full consciousness, some new Tweet or soundbite ruins the morning. I’m living as part of a live audience for the Donald Trump Show, a reality nightmare that considers itself bingeworthy despite the sinking polls.

The plot — if you’d pitched it to HBO execs a couple years ago — would’ve gotten you laughed out of Tinsel Town. Some reality show huckster, see, a phony self-promoting real estate developer with ties to the mob and an empire fueled by banks too nervous to let his Jersey casinos fold and drag them down too, decides to run for office. Not just any office, mind you, the Highest Office. And to keep his name in the tabloids he starts the rumor the current president wasn’t born in the United States.

You still with me? So this bombastic know-nothing knows this: how to keep the press interested in every outrageous pronouncement he makes. He tweets constantly. Angry accusations. Outright lies. Mostly hysterical nonsense, but the media eats it with a silver spoon. And then the guy starts winning primaries. He attacks his own party and the voters go wild for it. TV ratings go through the roof. Then he wins the nomination and you guessed it, he wins the election too, all the marbles.

You turned off the TV yet? No? Well, okay, now the mutt is president. What’s he going to do now? Well, he doesn’t have an agenda really, so why not keep on doing what’s always worked for him. Angry tweets, personal attacks, more lies. The citizens can’t get enough. They’re part of the show now. We’re part of the show now, an interactive plotline.

At the United Nations he stepped onto the world stage, top hat and cane, perpetual sneer, and threatened to destroy North Korea and little Rocket Man. You expected Diplomacy, you haven’t been watching the entire first season. And today Rocket Man called him, get this, a dotard. No, it’s not a Korean slurword, it’s English. It means, if you’re like me and didn’t know, an old guy, probably sick and feeble. Oh … and he said he would shoot an ICBM into the Pacific and detonate a hydrogen bomb.

I know, you can’t wait for the next episode. I’m just hoping this wasn’t the Season Finale and we have to wait for Season 2. But what a cliff hanger! Great for the ratings!

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Little Jimmy was off on another of his Paul Revere speeches while the denizens of the Downrigger Lounge at the Yacht Club were hauling up the Happy Hour specials before the 6 p.m. cut-off. Little Jimmy believed, based on extensive reading, that the world economy was headed for fiscal apocalypse. The Great Recession was only the first pealing of the doomsday bell about to toll.

“Get out of the stock market now,” he advised, bolstered by two gin and tonics. “Get gold and silver. Credit cards are a joke. Banks won’t open, nothing’s good but cold hard cash.”

Little Jimmy most likely had a stash buried someplace. “God help him if Alzheimers hits first,”Ralph said loud enough for Jimmy to hear. “Go ahead and laugh. It’ll be dog eat dog when the Crash comes.”

I got neighbors who believe – who hope, actually – Armageddon is coming. I got some who stockpile guns and ammo. In case Anything is coming. I got friends who keep pantries full of food and water. For the Pandemic. Or the earthquake. Or the attack of the zombies. Hell, I don’t know what to make of this spreading anxiety, but it’s floating up from the swamps down here. Jimmy says that’s one of the Signs, public unease.

When I was 10 years old a friend of the family built a fallout shelter in his basement. For after the Atomic War, he told me. Radiation everywhere, chaos, panic —- only those who planned ahead would survive. “Can we stay with you, Malcolm,” I asked, figuring, sure…. “Your dad didn’t plan for this,” he said sternly. “You see that rifle in the corner?” I noticed the gun propped next to a 55 gallon drum of water. “That’s to keep folks OUT. They’ll realize too late what’s what and I have to take care of my own. See?”

“You’d shoot us?” I asked incredulously. He said he’d have no choice. That night I mentioned this to my father, the father who hadn’t done much planning for the end of the world. His face darkened. All he said was, “Malcolm’s got too big a mouth. You have to learn not to listen to him.”

“What if he’s right?” I asked. My old man shook his head. “That would be a world you and me wouldn’t care much to live in. Malcolm would be welcome to it. Now go to bed and don’t listen to damn fools anymore.”

Little Jimmy was on to the collapse of the E.U. Then all the dominoes would go next, world wide panic. The North Koreans had just launched an ICBM missile. Fallout shelters will be back in vogue soon. I left a tip for Cindy, our waitress, and a half finished beer. I wonder sometimes if Malcolm was disappointed nuclear war never came. Little Jimmy sure would be.

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