Something interesting happened the other day. Matt Gaetz, a Florida Republican, found a son. Or perhaps he generated a son. Conjured a son? No, not in the way that you are thinking. After all, we wouldn’t know the sex of the child yet, nor would I presume to peek into anyone’s bedroom.

A couple of days ago, Matt got into a back and forth with Cedric Redmond, a Democrat from Louisiana (They have Democrats in Louisiana? And they can get elected? Another reminder of the imminent Apocalypse.). In this argument, Redmond intimated that because the other representatives were white males, they couldn’t fully understand what it was like to have a black child. This comment, in the vernacular of the day, caused Matt to become triggered.

“Are you suggesting that none of us have a non-white son?” Matt exclaimed. Matt was very indignant. Being indignant is apparently a prerequisite for being an American politician. Usually this indignation is reserved for covering up a lie.

Who can forget “I did not have sex with that woman?” Not Republicans. Or my left-leaning Mother. She hates the man. But, I digress.

A day later, Matt found himself a non-white son. Well, the kid is Cuban. And he is actually the brother of his ex-girlfriend who came to live with him when the kid was 12 (he’s now 19). Anyway, he’s like a very convenient son to Matt.

Here, let me have Matt tell it. You can’t make this stuff up, so why even try when you don’t have to.

Foolishly, I sometimes read the news. This leads me to stories that keep me agitated anywhere from a few hours to several weeks. And if I am agitated, then you should be as well. Misery and company, you know.

If you haven’t heard, there is a group known as QAnon. This group promotes the messages of the mysterious “Q” (who has nothing to do with the James Bond character of the same name). Q is an internet figure who drops digital “crumbs” about a secret war that is apparently being waged by Donald Trump. Apparently, Trump feels guilty about dodging Vietnam and has decided to substitute this war in its place. The war is being waged against a cabal of pedophile political elites in Washington because, as everyone knows, Washington is crawling with pedophile political elites. I know I wouldn’t take a child within fifty miles of that place.

Anyway, I guess there is a an upcoming event called “The Storm.” (Not a very imaginative title for an earth-shattering event, but it’s not my call.) When this Storm occurs, Trump will reveal the mass arrest- and perhaps even the mass execution- of the shadowy figures who are not only responsible for the above-mentioned child sex ring but who have also committed various and sundry other crimes including the murder of a DNC staffer. Did I mention that the QAnon folks see Trump as a kind of Messiah? I suppose that is pretty germane to the story.

To recap, Democrats are abusing children across the world and murdering people. I wouldn’t be surprised if they are sometimes eating babies torn from the wombs of virgins and then re-impregnating these virgins (now deflowered) with their demon seed. Angela Merkel is also Hitler’s granddaughter (that’s QAnon talking- I like Angela Merkel).

If you find the above information amusing, I am here to steal your mirth. Fifty-one promoters of the messages of Q are currently running for Congress. Fifty-one! Seven have emerged in congressional Republican primaries. And one, Marjorie Taylor Greene of Georgia, is probably going to win. Hahaha. Your mirth is mine. Where’s your mirth? Right here. It sure as hell isn’t in Georgia.

While I don’t like to be a pessimist, it seems there are a great number of people in this country who fail to understand the difference between real and imaginary things. Generally, I would now go on a long diatribe about religion, but I will keep the diatribe short. However, when people believe that a man loses his strength through a haircut and that snakes and donkeys talk, I have to say that religion is a part of the problem. But I can pick on religion anytime (and have). When I am burning in hellfire I will probably regret it. Though Kurt Vonnegut is in heaven now, so maybe there is still hope for a deathbed reprieve.

While this story is not necessarily funny, the possibility exists that the mysterious Q is a group of high school kids who find their cryptic messages absolutely hilarious. After all, what is better as a teenager than to make adults look stupid? Well, I can think of a few things, but then again I didn’t have internet when I was seventeen. Of course, if this is the case (and I’m here to spread that rumor right now) these teenagers might be on the cusp of learning a very important life lesson. This lesson is that stupid people are sometimes funny and sometimes extremely dangerous. There is a long historical tradition of hanging acne-ridden smartasses. And burning uppity women as witches. Some of those will be thrown in there for sure. This is America.

Q could also be an alien, an eel-like creature whose sole desire (other than swimming Earth’s many oceans) is to root out Democratic pedophiles. Assuming that this is true, I think that all of us can agree that even illegal aliens have their place in our society. Trump. Bringing people and aliens together for a better world.

Spoiler alert!

The eelien (ho ho, just made that one up on the fly) is really Mitch McConnell. I’m surprised no one has realized it before. It’s not even that good of a disguise.

A while back I was criticizing people who own chickens. I mouthed off about the dopey local author and his rubber boots and fake accent. Eggs are cheap, I said. Cheep, cheep (just as funny the second time around).

Anyway, my wife got six chickens. For a couple of years I said, “No chickens.” And no chickens had we. Because I forbade it.

When I was a kid I knew many people who had chickens. Chickens are a lot of work. Chickens shit a lot. Chickens don’t obey their masters. This would be the time for a wife and obeying joke, but she may read this sometime in the future. I watched Farrah Fawcett in The Burning Bed. Being burned alive is never good. It is especially unnecessary over something as trivial as chickens.

The problem that I ran into was that when we moved here there was already a chicken coop and pen on premises. When these things exist, they take away one major obstacle to getting chickens. Under ordinary circumstances, somebody would have to build a coop and pen and that somebody would have been me. And I wouldn’t have done it. But there was no need for me to build anything because the previous owners had already ruined a very convenient obstacle. I might add here that they hadn’t owned chickens for some time. I did mention this to my wife. Apparently, she didn’t hear me.

Six chicks arrived and they are cute and all. My wife is very happy and that is a good thing. I do not begrudge her this happiness, but I understand the vicissitudes of chicken ownership. For example, chickens taste good. Of course, I won’t eat them (except in case of emergency- then break glass and wring Henny Penny’s neck). But I have restraint. Other creatures do not.

Have you ever considered what might eat a chicken? I’ll tell you. Raccoons. Hawks. Eagles. Drunken hillbillies. A roaming farm cat. Our own cats. The many turkey vultures circling overhead (it’s either me or the chickens they want). Crows. Ravens. Foxes. Coyotes. Bears. Domestic dogs. Badgers. Bullsnakes. To name but a few. And none of these potential predators cares a whit about my wife’s feelings. Why should they? They probably have their own problems. Regardless, now I have to be always one step ahead of this ravenous horde who, only a few short weeks ago, were nothing to me but curiosities.

“Look at that cool vulture circling over me again.”

“Coyotes are so cool.”

“EEK! A giant snake is in the yard!” I don’t like snakes.

So there is a raccoon that has been occasionally raiding my bird feeders. This is an irritating habit, but not a mortal sin. After all, it is not necessary to feed the birds during the summer. In fact, it is bird welfare. Get off your lazy rumps and forage for your living! Damned freeloaders.

However, now that we have chickens the raccoon has to go. Where I am from, this would probably mean death by firing squad. Brutal, but efficient. Alas, I am no longer in the forgotten reaches of the Northern forest and I must therefore conform to the rules of my pastoral Rome.

So, I have to live trap the damn thing. This sounds relatively straightforward, provided you have never live trapped an animal. Unfortunately, the reality of the situation is a bit more complex. For example, when you set a live trap you may or may not trap the animal you were looking for. If the trapee is a cute fox, it becomes a humorous anecdote to tell by fireside. On the other hand, if the trapped animal is a badger you may or may not be making a run to the emergency room. You may also trap a skunk, which is a dilemma of a different, but no less serious, sort.

But I choose to be an optimist. I believe I will trap the raccoon on the first try. And I also believe that I will be able to release this raccoon without being bitten and having to get a rabies shot.

Did I mention that I live trapped a raccoon a few years back? I set it free about six miles from our old house. It was back the next day. Needless to say, the current raccoon is going on a road trip to a mostly Republican county.

Fox News Headline: “Antifa Leaving Killer Coons for Unsuspecting Patriots.”

And that’s how I made my peace with some effing chickens. Who will probably all be dead soon.

You know what’s been on my mind lately? U-boats. Basically because I’ve been reading a novel where U-boats play a prominent role. And also because fascism has been on my mind. Though fascism has been on my mind for about thirty years. If you would really like to be frightened, read Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. Guaranteed to keep you in insomnia for quite some time.

The thing about U-boats is how damned small they are on the inside. I’m a little claustrophobic and I can say for certain that U-boats are not the place for claustrophobic people. They are okay for anti-Semites. (Ironically, the US Navy tried to recruit me out of high school to be an engineer on a submarine. This is a true story. One hundred thousand dollars for a six year stint. You see, as I came from a low-income area all of us were compelled to take the ASVAB. Just in case that college thing fell through, I suppose. You’ll be happy to know the MO did very well, hence the offer from the Navy. The MO has a story for everything, even submarines. I went to college instead, afraid of small spaces and state-sanctioned buggery.)

That’s a pretty long digression. Usually I don’t have the attention span for that sort of thing. Monkeys are like little people in furry suits. For example.

For quite some time, the U-boats were the scourge of the sea. Then the Nazi codes were broken and the U-boats had a problem. You see, submarines are great places to be when no one knows where you are. You get to sneak around in the water and occasionally blast ships with your torpedoes and then return to the murky deep. However, when the enemy knows your location they drop depth charges on you and send you on a way one ticket to the ocean floor.

I was watching a show on U-boats (U-boats, U-boats, everywhere) when my stepson came up the stairs. Of course, I compelled him to watch the show so that he could learn a little bit about history. This is an old person thing to do and I should probably feel a little sorry for him. But I don’t. Do you know how many times my grandmother made me watch The Sound of Music? The hills were alive with the sound of my grumbling. (More Nazis? Who cared? They were almost all dead by 1982.)

One thing to learn in life is that twelve-year olds don’t give a damn about history. Why should they? It’s not their fault and it’s not like they can change it. Hitler was a bad guy. No shit. Can I go shoot baskets now?

“No, watch this story about fascinating U-boats.”

“What are U-boats?”

“This whole show is about U-boats.”

“Oh, yeah. Them. The submarines.”

“Did you know that the geeks broke the codes? If it wasn’t for them, we probably wouldn’t have won the war,” I said, shaking my head in disapproval. “And quit looking at that damn phone. You wouldn’t even have that if it wasn’t for those World War 2 geeks.”

“They worked in the U-boats?”

“Go shoot baskets.”

In fairness to him, U-boats aren’t really that interesting. Either is code-breaking. That’s why history books are full of the derring-do of the great generals of WW2, even though their genius relied upon knowing exactly where the enemy was and what the enemy planned to do. Americans hate facts, especially about America (which is really the United States and not America at all).

If you don’t believe me, tell somebody that Jefferson was a slave owner who only thought rich guys were created equal. That will make their little face red. Franklin also liked little girls, but why pile on? Trust me when I tell you that you will never get past Jefferson.

Do you know what the “U” in U-boat stood for? Undersea. Pretty imaginative. These people gave us Kafka, Hess and Goethe? Gregor was a centipede, by the way.

I just read that U-boat sailors had a 75 percent casualty rate. I’m not great at math, but that sure as hell sounds bad. The German word for that is “Suicidalshufferin.” It means “only idiots get into a tin can that spends all it’s time underwater.” Three out of four. I’ll bet Jefferson’s slaves did better than that.

Jefferson and his buddies just didn’t want to pay taxes. But they didn’t mind if people like me got into a submarine. It could have been my patriotic duty. Plus I could have seen some exotic locales (albeit from underwater).

There are no bone spurs in a submarine.

There are many songs with the word “fire” in them. We Didn’t Start the Fire (currently inaccurate). Fire and Rain (I hate James Taylor. Toughen up, pussy.) Fire by Jimi Hendrix. Light My Fire by The Doors (more appropriate). I’m on Fire by Springsteen (perhaps my favorite Springsteen song).

Anyway, the fascination with fire goes back to prehistoric times. Of course, prior to actually being able to make a fire, fires were something that primitive man had to run away from.

“There’s a fire down below,” said Og.

“Run like hell,” said Kog.

“What’s hell?” replied Og.

“It’s a netherworld outside our universe where a guy with a pointy tail and a pitchfork torments sinners for eternity.”

“No shit,” said Og, scratching his back with his club. And then the fire burned them up. There is no point to philosophizing.

Which is why I’m writing about fire instead of systemic racism. Because one thing I can guarantee in life is that racists don’t change their minds. They just keep racism-ing until they die of a heart attack. But their racism lives on in their descendants, so they really don’t die. Though they do make me wish I believed in hell.

Not to make light of looting, but the corona virus is rather serendipitous for those so inclined. Everyone is wearing a mask! There are no better circumstances for looters. Or for keeping Zorro’s identity secret. If the looters started slashing “Z’s” into the sides of buildings, I might have a little more respect for them. Of course, the real Zorro could catch looters and slash a little “Z” in them. And little “Z’s” into racist cops. Like the Scarlet Letter, but socially useful. Alas, Zorro is in Mexico and is not allowed over the border.

Imagine being the first person to actually make a fire. The first one. Ever! I can see him now, doing a celebration dance and flipping off the cold, dark night.

“In your face, cold darkness! You can’t stop me!!” He started singing the Prodigy song (well, the song Prodigy stole from him). “I am the firestarter. I am the firestarter.”

And then it started raining. Two weeks later the guy died from pneumonia as the cold darkness laughed its ass off.

“In your face, hairy ape bitch.”

Fourteen years later someone else figured out how to make a fire. This guy knew better to taunt the cold darkness. He also had the sense to teach a few other people. These people immediately torched Fred Flintstone’s car. Yabbadabba doooooo.

Like most things, fire has its plusses and minuses. Certainly, I enjoy the heat coming from my furnace in mid-January. Good fire. On the other hand, half of Australia burned up last year. Bad fire.

I also kind of like Fire Lake. That’s a pretty good song. It’s also an oxymoron. Like Jumbo shrimp. Or Honest Trump.

Chaste Kardashian.

Speaking of fires, I bet some people had some burning sensations after a go with one of those gals.

They had the Fire Down Below for real. Burn, motherfucker, burn. (We can both watch X-files.)

But that is what they make penicillin for. Science. You need it whether you think so or not.