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.