As I write this, I can hear the angry whine of snowmobiles. Well, I could before the furnace started running. It’s like minus ten with the wind chill. Ain’t no cobras going to survive this one. “Hisssssss-shiiiittt. I’m dead.”

Cobras swear far too much. That is why the mongooses hate them. The mongoose is a very pious little animal. Like a furry, weasel-like Evangelical. As far as mongooses are concerned, cobras are an abomination unto their god. Mongesus. That’s their god’s name. He’s a pretty angry god. More Odin or Thor. But furry and weasel-like.

I hate snowmobiles. Well, I don’t hate them. I just find them to be extremely irritating. It’s just difficult to understand how riding around on a bumpy trail all day, smelling like gas and snowmobile exhaust, can be that fun. Of course, they do drink a lot. Which I sort of condone because that habit tends to weed them out a bit. (I don’t really condone drinking and driving. Lighten up, you stupid mongoose. And why are groups of you not called Mongeese? I suppose a group is probably called a Congregation of Mongooses. Heh heh. I just make this stuff up as I go along. And still it is genius. GENIUS!!!!)

People who ride snowmobiles are known as bubbleheads. This is not a disparaging term. Their heads are always encased in a bubble. It’s not my fault. Seriously? Have you forgotten about the Washington Redskins? Now that is completely asinine. Washington Bubbleheads would be a way, way less offensive name. They could use Newt Gingrich as their team mascot.

Newt. For the love of the howler monkey, how in the hell does a guy named Newt ever end up the boss of anything? Perhaps the amphibian exhibit at the zoo, I guess. That makes some sense.

Anyway, the bubbleheads ride to and fro, joggling their insides and then drinking down beer in a sadistic march to diarrhea-land. DiarrheaLand. You don’t want to go down that water slide, I can tell you that much. At least there is always a soft landing at DiarrheaLand. It’s a lot better than Six Flags Kidney Stone.

One thing I do know, you don’t want to ride a snowmobile with a kidney stone. That would be pain only a true martyr could enjoy. Or one of those weird sex perverts who wear leather and put that little red ball in their mouth. “Yeah, that kidney stone is really turning me onnnnnn. More bumps.”

Even I am shuddering and I wrote the damn thing.

I suppose that somewhere there is a factory that makes those little red balls. I think it is in Kansas or Iowa. They seem like likely states for red sex ball manufacturing. The company motto: “No blue balls around here.”

Double entendre. That’s French. They do some weird stuff. Like not ever properly defending Belgium.

Do you think the French ever get sick of hearing that? I mean, WW2 has been over for 73 years. They don’t pick on us about Vietnam all the time. Of course, they screwed that up as well, so it would be rather hypocritical of them.

Tete de bulle. That’s “bubblehead” in French.

And you said this was lowbrow.

 

For whatever reason, it has started to snow a lot in this locale. Winter was going along fine and then, whoosh, snow disaster out of nowhere. Like a cold, white venereal disease, ruining all of our good times. If venereal diseases could be cured by April. That would be nice for the long suffering. April brings May flowers and a herpes free summer. That’s good of April. It would be ironic, however, if someone had contracted a venereal disease from a person named April. Not to be disparaging any Aprils out there.

Anyway, like all bad things, the sudden influx of snow has come with a bright side. No, not snow blindness (I had an IronFist comic book where the hero became snowblind chasing a guy with long hair and claws. “‘Snowblind!” he shrieked. And then the bad guy clawed the shit out of him. And yelled “Should have worn your sunglasses, dumbass!” The bad guy had a fine sense of humor. I wonder whatever became of him. Probably continually relegated to shitty comic books, never to make a Marvel movie. What a waste.)

As I was saying before I was interrupted by my nostalgic meanderings (which may or may not be a faithful rendering of what actually happened as I was like nine when I read it), the snow comes with an upside. For, while interminable shoveling is bad for the back, it does take your mind off the collection of fools who are running the country. I use “running” in the most euphemistic of ways in the prior sentence.

Of course, there are plenty of people who appear fine with the fact that we are hurtling toward nuclear doom. And, I understand. There are many unhappy people who want to die. Their lives suck. Husband is a fat, toothless hillbilly. Children are delinquents running meth labs. They work as a cashier at the Dollar Store and their boss is a twenty-three year old kid who plays Fortnite in his spare time. To be honest, I would want to die, too. It’s just the part about taking the rest of us with you that causes me consternation.

If you want to hurtle towards Armageddon (which, for your information, was originally just some shitty little town in the desert- talk about something going out of control), I really think you should keep the rest of us out of it. Perhaps we could just draw a line of demarcation (North and the South, anyone?). All of the people who no longer want to live and think they are going to a better place can go South. Of course, they aren’t going to a better place. They are going to Mississippi. But they don’t care much about facts or details. I mean, when brushing your teeth is beyond the purview of your personal responsibility, does it really matter?

Anyway, all of you can go down there and begin the Libertarian End Times. Yay!! No taxes or homosexuals!! Heaven on Earth I’d say. Maybe that will make all of you so much happier that you won’t even care about MS-13 coming to take away your babies.

As a sidebar, MS-13 is a really dumb name for a gang. Bloods. Crips. Those are scary names. MS-13 sounds like some guy who will be headlining at Electric Forest. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Zeeeeeeeeeeeee- zipppppp. Boom. Boom.

Y’all don’t get to go to Electric Forest. But the MO does. He’s on stage right between The String Cheese Incident and Pigeons Playing Ping Pong.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. “I am the Real Orange, I am the Real Orange, I am the Real Orange. Nothing rhymes with me…. Bitches.”

BoomBoomBoomBoom Zeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee- booooooooom!!!