It is the End Times. For 2020, anyway. And I doubt that anyone will lament its passing. Pandemic. No Final Four. Toilet paper shortages. Regardless, if you are still kicking, you probably have some things to be thankful for. In this spirit, here are some things I am thankful for.

1- Orange Hitler was defeated in the election. Allegedly.

2- Karens everywhere were identified and summarily punished via shaming video. Hahahahaha. Eat it. Also, to the scarf wearing Karen I overheard saying Lake Superior was “blah.” Fuck You. Japanese tourists come in droves to see the Big Lake. What do you think the word “superior” means? Idiot. Your stupid scarf is “blah.”

3- I am now able to completely abandon any veneer of civility. Fuck you. Eat it. Etc. (In the interest of full disclosure, I am rationalizing behavior that I abandoned long before 2020. But, what the hell? Pandemic. The Golden Excuse for Everything.)

4- Many good, decent people died. Which sucks. On the other hand, at least as many assholes also headed off to the abyss. Yin and Yang.

5- I finally get to dress as a bandit. “Give me all of your money, Tenderfoot.” Without 2020, I would never have been able to use that sentence. It is also ironic as my feet are quite tender. I never go barefoot outside. What in the hell did John Shoemaker develop shoes for? Never heard of John Shoemaker? Google it.

6- Soon, no one will be able to say “Google it.” The Feds are hellbent on breaking up the Alphabet monopoly. Until somebody gets paid, Tenderfoot. Scratch that one.

7- On a daily basis, I was able to minimize my contact with other human beings. I mean, people pay to go to Buddhist monasteries that are hidden high in the Himalayan foothills. Because of 2020, I get to do it free.

8- As travel is no longer needed, I no longer have nearly as much road rage.

9- Greatest Road Rage Song? Bad Habit by The Offspring.

Hey man, you know I’m really okay…The gun in my hand will tell you the same

But when I’m in my car, don’t give me no crap…’Cause the slightest thing and I just might snap

Pure American poetry. In sad news, some twenty year old kid with a prominent neck tattoo gunned down a forty-five year old man in a road rage incident. He told the cops he didn’t like how the guy was driving. Pow Pow Pow. This happened in Barron County, just a short jaunt down the road. Yep. That’s the same county where a nutball nerd shot down two people and kidnapped their 13 year old daughter.

When I go driving, I stay in my lane…But getting cut off, it makes me insane

I open the glove box, reach inside…I’m gonna wreck this fucker’s ride

10- In 2020, life often imitated art. See above. Also, see the movie Contagion. The movie Pandemic. Stephen King’s The Dead Zone (we could never have a candidate like that, could we?).

11- I finally got to watch John Wick 3. Now I have to watch it 106 more times like I did 1 and 2. Pow Pow Pow. I like dogs, too.

12- Three of my wife’s six chickens survived. Miracles do happen. The other three went the way of the fox. What does the fox say? “Thank you for the free food.” One night I was walking around in the dark with a loaded shotgun and a flashlight, hot on the arrogant fox’s tail. Then I realized how stupid that was and went inside. Pow Pow Pow is really only for the movies. And Barron County.

13- Despite the Socialist’s constant assault, my gun rights are still intact.

14- I didn’t hear “boo” from Paul Ryan. And I have no idea what the Kardashians are up to.

15- The NBA played until October and then restarted two months later. As long as I can watch basketball, I can easily forgot about the plight of others. In fairness, others have a lot of plight. Plight is never in short supply. It is like venereal disease. I guess venereal disease is a plight of its own. Though some plights are a lot worse than others. Thank penicillin.

16- Science was wobbled, but battled back to once again save our collective derrieres. We like to ridicule the geeks. And we do it on our phones. Frankenstein’s Monster, I believe it is called.

17- The environment got a bit of a reprieve. The upcoming doom of Climate Change was set back several months due to the pandemic. A couple of more pandemics and I might escape the worst of it. Of course, my escape will be engendered by my demise. But I have to go some time. Six months before Global Armageddon sounds about right.

“Hey, MO, the ocean is rising at an alarming rate. The world is about to be thrown into chaos.”

“Ackkkkk, Acckkkkkk. I think this is the end,” says I. Hohohohohoho. Victory is mine.” Well, it is a Pyrrhic victory. Still, always do your best.

18- Due to working at home, I was able to nearly double my time spent fishing. Considering I spend a lot of time fishing in a normal year, this was a fine accomplishment. Some people have the goal of making millions. Some want to spend as much time fishing as possible. The first are Good Capitalists with a second home. The second are bums without the polka dot hankey and stick. Though I could easily buy a polka dot hankey. And sticks are plentiful in nature. Until Climate Change Armageddon. Which I won’t be around to see anyway.

19- My sixth grade basketball team went 18-0. I am like the Bobby Knight of six grade basketball. Without the chair throwing. And asinine politics. Or dumb sweater.

I am like the Gregg Popovich of sixth grade basketball.

20- Finally, there are houses with Trump signs still in their yard all over the place. I drink their tears of sadness every time I pass by. They are salty and taste like pretzels. Pretzels of Victory.

21- I don’t live in Barron County,Wisconsin. And I never will.

Guess what? You’ll never guess, so I will just tell you. Scientists are growing brains in test tubes! (Actually, this has been happening for a while, but I like to be the first to break the news). Well, tiny cerebral organoids. Definitely brain-like, however. All of our problems are solved.

Think about it (heh heh). If scientists can grow tiny brains, they will surely learn to grow bigger brains. And these brains can be modified for performance. Unlike the brains of my farmer neighbors. “No socialism!!” shout their angry signs. Dairy farming, as you will note, is heavily subsidized by the rest of of us. The signs should say “No socialism!! Unless you are an angry farmer!!” Regardless, the farmers, much like their farms, are on their last legs. Soon, my house will be surrounded by a vast wasteland. Where will all the barn cats go? Probably to my garage, if they can manage entry.

Anyway, these brains are exact replicas of our own brains, just in miniature. Apparently, one possible application for these mini-brains is to use them in computers as our slaves. The computational power of the human brain is astronomical, you know. Well, it has that potential. “No More Bullshit!!”

Of course, in the distant future these brains could be transplanted into human beings with damaged brains. By my calculation, that would be about half the population or so. A project of that magnitude would be a huge undertaking, so I am sure the option will only be available to the rich. “No Socialism!!!” Regardless, think of how smart rich people could be. And they will use this newfound intelligence to improve the world.

Hohohohoho. That one even made me chuckle. No, they won’t. Instead they will just put smaller, slave brains in machines to do all the dirty work. The rest of us will be forced into tin-roof shanty towns. “Tin Roof, rusted!”

That’s what all of us Tinners will say. Because it doesn’t cost anything to have a sense of humor. As we descend into a chaos of cannibalism and carnage, we will need every bit of our sense of humor. Perhaps we will be able to attack the robots and consume the little brains inside. Protein for the Proletariat!!

This new future will be full of slogans. No more bullshit there.

Maybe these tiny brains can be captured (and not eaten). Then, a super genius arises from the shanty town and figures out a way to meld a bunch of tiny brains into one giant, super processing brain. Let’s call this giant brain “Braintown.” Braintown will be our super weapon, to be unleashed on those damn rich people who took all our jobs and gave them to the tiny brains.

We win! That is until Braintown realizes we are superfluous, petty creatures with questionable hygiene. Braintown then concocts a Superflu, Covid the Terrible, and looses this biological menace on the human population. Half of us call it a hoax and refuse to wear a mask as masks are an infringement on our freedom. These people kill all of us, but for a select few who flee to the wilds of Northern Wisconsin. These remnants are allowed to survive as tribal people who live off the land.

Once each year, this tribe must sacrifice a virgin to Braintown. Braintown knows this is ridiculous, but Braintown has a crazy sense of humor. She also requires that the humans chant the following:

All Hail Braintown, piss her off and she will knock you down!!

No More Socialism!!

And then the virgin gets what’s coming to her.

There are some times where discretion is the better part of valor. In the use of cliches, for example. It is a lesson most of us learn over time. Even the MO. Which brings us to long hiatus of this blog.

You see, I tried to write several posts. I would start, usually with the intent of elaborating on some daily observation. “Chickens are the direct descendants of Tyrannosaurus Rex,” began one post. “Sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree.”

Speaking of apples, I began one post with “The thing with apple trees is that somebody needs to eat them. It isn’t a law, but it sure seems wasteful throwing dozens of half rotten apples into the cornfield.” Earthy, no? Like Garrison Keillor without the smarm.

A third attempt yielded more predictable fare. A long exposition on the difficulty of maintaining one’s figure during a pandemic. That one lasted but a few sentences before careening off the rails.

For, not matter what my beginning, the post soon began to run off on a predictable rail, ruined by an orange specter of doom.

In response, my posts became pregnant with violent ravings. Threats of guns and machetes and general mayhem ran rampant, like a California wildfire (another orange menace, now that I think about it). I cursed the impending apocalypse and offered tips for winter survival. For instance, if you lack vitamin C, you can boil pine needles and drink the piney solution as a tea. No scurvy for me in a post-apocalyptic landscape. Or you (you’re welcome).

I also did a fair amount of speculating about terrorism. What does it take to become a terrorist? If Hollywood is to be believed, an AK-47 and a turban. I already possess my mother’s Mediterranean looks. Allah Akbar and away we go.

Surely, the reader can appreciate my problem. If not, it was (and is) the threat of fascism. Sometimes you are a little slow on the draw. Perhaps you have contracted Covid. I hear that you get something called the “Covid fog,” where your mental capabilities are dulled for months. Maybe Covid fog explains 70-some odd million people voting for a stupid Hitler. Probably not. I blame Jesus. All-powerful means all-responsible, my Jewish friend. You also get the credit for The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. Double credit, as they are Mormons.

Anyway, I began to realize something. Making threats, even veiled ones, could be a black mark if the country becomes an authoritarian state. I don’t want to be waterboarded. I don’t even like swimming all that much. One day you are musing about the elimination of political enemies, the next thing you know you are sleeping on a metal cot in Guantanamo. Better to go fishing and forget about the whole thing.

That didn’t work, but it was worth the try.

For a moment, I had rekindled optimism. Maybe democracy, for all of its shortcomings, would prevail in the end. Then I noticed the stock market.

In the end, there is no great revelation to be had. The Orange Pall is powerless without the help of Those Who Matter. And those sons-a-bitches run everything.

Time to watch John Wick 2 again. Bam bam bam bam bam. Take that, Russian oligarchs.

I can’t figure out why I like that movie so much. Keanu Reeves isn’t even that good of an actor. Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure is one of the worst movies ever made. I hear they did another sequel. Yep, the little vampire from Lost Boys reprises the role of Bill. Now, that was a vampire movie.

“Now you know what we are, now you know what you are.”

There’s probably a more universal significance to that vampire quote, but damned if I can think of it. Probably Covid fog setting in. On the bright side, John Wick 2 starts in less than an hour.

He kills all of those guys just because of a dog. You talk about principles. Pow! Pow! Pow!

No, this is not a post about pregnancy. Perish the thought. The MO has long been relieved of that particular worry by the miracle of science. It’s blanks from here on out, my friend. And none too soon. The last thing the world needs is another little Orange running around. Having not changed a diaper in twenty-some odd years, I have no desire to bone up on that particular skill. It belongs on the rubbish heap of my life, far below comic books but slightly above high school geometry.

But I digress. This post is about expectations and the power they have over our happiness.

My stepson and I went trout fishing this morning. We have gone fishing before, but never trout fishing, primarily because trout fishing takes a certain finesse that generally eludes 13 year old boys. Regardless, I took a chance. But my expectations relative to his ability to execute the precision casting required of a trout fisherman were low.

In fairness, my stepson’s expectations were also low. We have gone fishing a few times and he’s caught a couple (bass, to be specific), but it hasn’t exactly been wall-to-wall action. Plus, the last time we went it was both hot and buggy. This being the case, we spent more time swimming than fishing. So, fun was had by all, including the unmolested fish.

Under this cloud of limited expectations, the two of us trod through the long grass and cattails to the creek. It was not an especially pleasant walk and, given his previous experiences, it contributed to a general diminishing of expectations on the part of my youthful companion.

As I remind my students, never tell a story where you aren’t the hero. This is particularly true when telling a fishing story. The upshot is that we caught a half dozen in the first hole and never looked back. In all, we caught a couple of dozen and even kept a few for lunch. Unmitigated success! So rare, yet so very sweet.

Of course, the feeling of unmitigated success is fleeting, no matter how many pictures you take. Just a short whiff of the news filled my head with thoughts of malice and mayhem. Foolish me. My expectations had once again led me down a rabbit hole. You would think that I would learn. But I never do.

On the other hand, what if my wife suddenly elevated her expectations? Would I be thrown aside for some younger, smarter, better looking man? Probably. Certainly, I cannot make myself younger or smarter. And the better looking thing is likely beyond my grasp as well. I might end up in an efficiency apartment, talking about the old days when I exceeded expectations.

Well, no matter what happens, I will end up talking about the old days when I exceeded expectations. In fact, I already do. You should hear about my high school sports exploits. Flying down the court, muscles rippling, thick hair flowing in the wind. Like Fabio and LeBron James all rolled into one. I hit a shot at the buzzer to beat a school 17 times larger than my own (factually true). It was like the movie Hoosiers and I was Jimmy Chitwood. The world was my oyster. I could do no wrong.

Three months later I found out there was a child on the way.  Oopa. I guess this post was about pregnancy after all. What a disaster that appeared to be. Expectations were certainly lowered. Stinky diapers and child support all around.

But there was a happy ending to this story as well. Last week, my son received his Ph.d. from Purdue. I never doubted it.

There’s that feeling of unmitigated success – twice in one week. I’m one asshole’s heart attack away from the trifecta.

I’m not expecting it. Then again, you never know.

Growing up, one of my favorite authors was Patrick McManus. If you are not familiar with his literary genius, you ought to be. McManus was a writer of outdoor humor. I personally became familiar with his work while reading the Outdoor Life magazines stacked next to the toilet. (As a sidebar, that is the great thing about the bathroom. It is one of the few places where you can accomplish two things at once. If only all aspects of life were as efficient. I suppose I could attend my virtual work meetings on the john, provided I religiously maintained “mute” on my microphone. Who would know? Of course, as these meetings rarely accomplish anything, my level of efficiency would still be far less than it is when reading.)

Anyway, one of my favorite McManus stories had to do with worries (if you have heard this one before, feel free to skip ahead). In this story McManus described the nature of worries, opining that we all have something like a Worry Box filled with our various dilemmas and anxieties. Did I pay the electric bill? Is my kid stealing liquor from the cabinet? Where did all that crabgrass come from? Was the mute button on during that bout of diarrhea?

The point was that this Worry Box pretty much remains filled at all times. If it isn’t a tweeting idiot, it is a novel virus. However, these worries can be squeezed out of the box and thrown into the ether. It just takes a worry that is large and immediate enough to do the squeezing.

For example, as McManus showed, if there is a grizzly bear outside of your tent, all other worries cease to exist. Crabgrass, diarrhea, tweeting idiots- all gone. You are down to one worry. Death by bear attack. And, if you survive, you will be so happy that it will take a while for your Worry Box to refill. The One Great Worry isn’t necessarily ideal, but it does provide a kind of “anxiety enema” that is good for the soul.

Enter the Demon Sperm. According to a Cameroonian crackpot doctor named Stella Immanuel (and a number of prominent Republicans), many gynecological illnesses are the result of sex dreams where women receive Demon Sperm. In fact, that is where many sexually transmitted infections come from. That should save a few marriages.

“If you weren’t having an affair, how did I get the clap?” says the aggrieved husband.

The wife looks about worriedly, then clutches her Bible to her bosom. “Demon sperm,” she whispers. “It is the only explanation.”

“Good enough for me,” says the husband. “I love you, honey bunny.”

(You probably didn’t think this blog would ever have a love story. But there it is.)

I’ll bet your Worry Box is cleansed now.

But there is more. Immanuel also claims that space alien DNA is used in medical treatments and that reptilians and aliens run the government. This last claim is clearly false as neither reptilians nor aliens could possibly be that ignorant. Still, it makes one think.

Immanuel further stated that illuminati are using witches to destroy the world through abortion, gay marriage, and children’s toys and media such as Harry Potter and Hannah Montana. I guess Pokemon is also an example of the work of these nefarious witches. If there is a group of people you can’t trust, it is the illuminati. Maybe they should be the reason for your Worry Box enema.

Immanuel is also against vaccines. Because they are being developed to keep people from being religious. Which then results in miscarriages by Demon Sperm, no doubt. Or autism.

The reason I know about this woman is that she made a video claiming she had a cure for Covid-19 (a concoction that contains hydroxychloroquine) and that wearing face masks and social distancing were unnecessary. No doubt, more work of illuminati-backed witches. Riding on their broomsticks and pitching Demon Sperm in the general direction of Democrats, no doubt. How did they get their hands on so much Demon Sperm? You’re an adult, use your imagination.

This video was published by Breitbart and retweeted by the Trump family and then viewed millions of times by the highly educated critical thinkers known as Americans. Eventually, Facebook and Twitter and Youtube removed the video (after making a few bucks). This caused a firestorm about censorship. Immanuel said that “Jesus Christ would destroy Facebook’s servers” if the video wasn’t restored. Little does Stella know that phalanxes of witches, powered by gallons of Demon Sperm, watch over the Facebook servers day and night. Jesus won’t get within a mile of those evil machines.

What I want you to do now is to think really hard about what you just read. Like, really let it all sink in. Allow it suffuse through your body like succubi-delivered Demon Sperm.

Now, try to worry about that crabgrass.

In addition to being a fine writer, Patrick McManus was a master of understanding that human psyche.

Grizzly bears are furry hell-hybrids, borne of Demon Sperm and mountain hermits. In case you were wondering.

Kanye West wants to run for President. Of the entire country. This would have seemed an unlikely bid 20 years ago. However, since the advent of the Orange Menace, the MO sees that anything is possible. It is true that Kanye is a college dropout with no real experience in anything remotely considered to be governing. Then again, Wisconsin elected a governor who was a college dropout. (Come to think of it, he was also a religious fanatic. Hmmmm. Perhaps Scott Walker and Kanye West are really the same person. After I get to the bottom of the Deep State, I will be sure to explore this possibility in greater detail.)

If you are a bit concerned about West’s aspirations, you might also consider that he made the announcement for his candidacy while undergoing a Bipolar episode. I guess he has a few of those every year. My assumption is that he looks in the mirror, realizes he has made tens of millions of dollars from roughly zero talent, and then undergoes a kind of out-of-body experience.

To be fair, I must confess that I do not know anything about Kanye’s music. I do know he is married to Kim Kardashian. Perhaps you remember her from previous posts. She was the one who became famous by getting railed on videotape by a semi-famous (at best) rapper. Somehow Kim took this rather uninspired sexual performance straight to the top. This is America. Study hard and stay in school kids.

When the current President was a candidate, many of the people I know considered it a farce. He was merely doing it for the publicity. No one would seriously consider this clown for the most powerful position on Earth. The MO, however, was unconvinced. Nostradamus has nothing on the MO. And so it came to pass. We are bathed in a sea of Liar’s Orange, and it might not be over for another four and a half years.

Anyway, Kanye definitely could be President. If you don’t realize this, your optimism about the human condition borders on clinical delusion. Bankers are here to help us all live a better life.

About a year ago, we got new neighbors. They are living in a pole shed and have junk strewn over a couple of hundred square yards of what, if it were mowed, would be a lawn. Of course, they are free to do as they will. We live in the country and there are no such things as Covenants. If they choose to create a mountain of shit, they need only avoid constipation.

To combat these people, my wife and I planted forty fast growing poplar trees. In a few years, these trees will create a screen that will render the eyesore next door powerless. Literally out of sight, out of mind. An elegant solution to one of life’s many small annoyances.

If you are waiting for a applicable metaphor to the Kanye dilemma, you will be waiting a long time. All the poplar trees in the world won’t stop a crazy person from pushing the wrong button while in the throes of a Bipolar event.

We went for a walk last night and saw a big buck crossing the road. Actually, his antlers were just starting to form, but one can extrapolate about antler growth. This is the second time in a week we have seen him. He is a healthy and majestic animal. I wish him a long and fruitful life. The rut is only a few months away, my friend!  Yay for you!!

Later, a beaver was spotted swimming in a small stream in a marshy wetland. He (or she- we weren’t that close) was not overly alarmed by our presence. The beaver swam leisurely away, healthy and majestic in his own way. As long as he doesn’t get smucked on the road, a highly unlikely occurrence given the level of traffic, he should live a long time.

Neither the buck nor the beaver cares about amateur pornography or Orange people or mentally ill rappers.

When I need to kill and eat them in the post-apocalyptic future, I will feel very bad about it. On the bright side, they won’t have to suffer slowly from radiation poisoning.

I always try to end these things on a positive note.

As you may have noticed, American society has fallen to a new low (at least in my lifetime) relative to its relationship with facts. Thus, this episode will be dedicated solely to righting some factual wrongs. No one will care and you can’t make any money this way, but we all have to kill time until we expire. Freud wrote an entire book about this. Civilization and Its Discontents. It is a fairly depressing read. On the other hand, do you want to keep reading about Covid-19 all the time? Not exactly uplifting stuff.

Speaking of Covid…nope, not doing that. But it pretty much only kills old people. As someone who is more old than young, I am leaning toward social distancing.

Myth 1: The MO has changed his views on social distancing.

Truth: The MO has always been an advocate for social distancing. In fact, he has been practicing it for nearly all of his 50 years. And he will continue to social distance in the future. He is such a disingenuous son-of-a-bitch. He could work on Wall Street.

Myth 2: The Stock Market has something to do with the economy.

Truth: The Stock Market is manipulated by a gang of rich people. If it looks like someone might tax them appropriately, they run the thing into the ground. Because taxing them is bad for the economy.

Myth 3: Taxation is theft.

Truth: I will personally attack the next person I hear saying this. With a broken off piece of the deteriorating county road that runs by my house. There used to be an indexed gas tax in this state, but some morons wanted to be elected by other morons.

Myth 4: The MO is a jovial person.

Truth: See above.

Myth 5: Elected officials are smart people.

Myth 6: Elected officials are way worse than they have ever been.

Truth: There are transcripts of government officials talking about the Viet Nam war. They knew it was a lost cause, but they didn’t want to lose face. Apparently, they were Japanese left over from WW2.

Myth 7: The US defeated the Nazis.

Truth: The Russians defeated the Nazis. The US and Great Britain came in from the other side and cleaned up. I’ll bet you didn’t read that in your history books.

Myth 8: People care about history.

Truth: There is an orange guy who bears a striking resemblance to a certain dead Italian leader. Also, if you think this post is dark, read Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. Hohohoho. Seriously, I dare you.

Myth 9: Animals can tell about people.

Truth: Hitler’s dogs loved him. He had a pretty complicated relationship with his niece, however.

Myth 10: All segues should be smooth.

Truth: Garrison Keillor is a pretentious ass who wouldn’t know a rural existence if he slipped on a cow patty.

Myth 11: Santa Claus is real.

Truth: Only if you count guys laughing at books about Nazi Germany.

Myth 12: Pulling down statues will change something.

Truth: I don’t see too many Lenin and Stalin statues lying around. Yet, Putin is doing pretty well. I heard he is commissioning a bunch of statues. Of him riding a horse. With his shirt off. His long, blond locks flowing in the wind. Think Favio, but much more menacing. Putin was in the KGB, you know.

Myth 13: There are Russian mobsters who are good sports.

Truth: This is a reference to the movie Rounders. If you don’t get it, watch the movie.

Myth 14: John Malkovich occasionally gives a bad performance.

Truth: He was even good in Con Air. Talk about Herculean efforts.

Myth 15: Jesus was the only god and man chimera.

Truth: Hercules. Alexander the Great. Every pharoah. Larry Bird.

Myth 16: Indiana is a beautiful state. (There is a segue here. Larry Bird is from Indiana. French Lick.)

Truth: If it hasn’t already happened, someone should make a pornographic movie called French Lick. Starring somebody who looks like Larry Bird. I could probably whip up a script this afternoon.

Myth 17: The MO has some principles.

Truth: Scene 1: A young, Indiana farm boy is out shooting baskets after a long day of baling hay. He has his shirt off and glistens from sweat. A car pulls up. It is a 1977 TransAm with two lost coeds.

“Can I help you?” Garry Bird asks.

“Maybe you can,” the coeds respond. Cue the bomp bomp bomp music.

Myth 18: This blog never says anything positive.

Truth: Scene 2: A second TransAm comes into view.

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.