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.

 

 

In case you didn’t have anything else to worry about, now we have Murder Hornets. Murder Hornets!!! These hornets are huge and Japanese. Some would say this is an oxymoron. Look at Pat Morita. Or Ichiro Suzuki. Neither of those guys was/is a huge person. And yet both are Japanese.

Anyway, if you have ever watched a National Geographic special about these giant hornets you realize that they are going to be a problem for our domestic bees. In Japan, the bees have evolved a strategy for dealing with the giant hornet. When the hornets enter the bees’ nest, the bees surround it and basically roast it alive using their collective body heat. A novel approach to a novel problem.

As Paris Hilton used to say, “That’s hot.” Paris Hilton is not a Murder Hornet. She is also devoid of talent. As far as I know she is still alive. But I can’t say for sure and I refuse to search Paris Hilton on the Internet. I don’t want any Russians making fun of me. They are a mean-spirited people. That’s why their noses are so red. Well, that and the consumption of vodka.

If there is one thing I would say about life it is that there is always something new to worry about. The Soviet Union (speaking of Russians) used to be something big to worry about. In truth, we didn’t know how good we had it then. They were pretty much the only thing to worry about. After all, the threat of nuclear annihilation keeps your mind pretty focused. Middle Eastern terrorists were small potatoes (also speaking of Russians, vodka is made from potatoes). They still blew some stuff up once and awhile and screamed “death to America,” but that was nothing compared to the Red Menace.

AIDS was a big worry for a while. Especially after Magic Johnson got it. Then everybody knew that it wasn’t just for the gays. When it was just for the gays, it was a worry on par with the 80’s Middle Eastern terrorists- in the back of your mind but it didn’t seem like it would really affect you personally. Kind of like when you are a man and you hear women complaining about their period. It sounds bad, but it is only a worry by proxy.

After 9/11 we got a new worry. Since I hate flying, all it did was make me worry more about flying. But most other people seemed to think the Middle Eastern terrorists were really something to worry about. So they signed a bunch of legislation to be able to spy on the American people more effectively. For the government conspiracy theorists, this was a worry come to full fruition. Into the Mainstream, Tin Hats! As Heller said, “just because you are paranoid, doesn’t mean that somebody isn’t after you.”

I also hear “paranoia will destroy ya’.” I guess now you can worry that you are too paranoid, or worry that you aren’t paranoid enough.

Of course, one of your worries will get you in the end. It could be Murder Hornets! It could be a novel virus. Probably not Middle Easter terrorists. They seem to have lost their momentum. But I’m sure they will cycle back around. I thought the Soviets were out of the picture for a while, but now we have Putin to worry about.

I guess the moral of the story is to buy a giant can of Raid. If you see an abnormally large hornet, blast that son-of-a-bitch to yellowjacket hell.

And scream out “Wolverines!!!” as you do it. Because this is America. And we don’t negotiate with bugs.

I watched Waterworld last night. It seems like a good time to be watching post-apocalyptic movies. Just in case. Though I doubt we will get to the Water Apocalypse. That would require a fair amount of global warming. I’m not saying that it won’t happen. It’s just that I will be long dead. And what will the world be without the MO? Certainly sadder and less thoughtful. Kind of like a home for the developmentally disabled.

Anyway, Waterworld is a pretty good movie. I’d give it a solid B, maybe even a B-plus. Certainly, I can think of many that were worse. I also watched part of Runaway Train last night. It’s from the 80’s and starts Jon Voight as an escaped convict who finds himself on…a runaway train. The acting in the movie is atrocious and so is the plot. Maybe if they put the train on pontoons and had it float around on a giant, continuous sea the movie would be better. Though I don’t know how that would help the acting. Perhaps I did not think this thing through. Kind of like the writers for Runaway Train. Or Soul Asylum.

Soul Asylum. Cool name. Middling effort.

Ratt. Dumb name. Mediocre effort. Those guys are on a Geico commercial now. How the mediocre have fallen. The lead singer looks like the Crypt Keeper. But not as self-aware. I wonder what happened to the Crypt Keeper. It’s not like he died. Maybe he went into retirement rather than make a pathetic insurance commercial. And love does not always find away. You give it time, some other guy swoops in there. Then you have to settle.

Round and round. You are fat and middle aged. Round and round. Too tired and sad to become engaged. Round and round. Time to make a Geico commercial. Time, time, time. Yeah yeah.

I used to think those guys were cool. I feel so duped.

Speaking of duped, I see people think Covid 19 is a Deep State Democratic plan to sink the economy. Because that makes sense (and by people, I mean Republicans- plus some tin foil hat Libertarians). Democrats hate the economy. Dirty money-eschewing SOB’s. I heard they all want to live in Love Huts and burn bibles. And that they all want to use the same bathroom. AT  THE SAME TIME!!!!

If there is one thing I can’t abide, it is wanton bathroom usage. We need order. And Walmart.

By the way, Walmart is full of Chinese-made products. I think that Walmart is really George Soros.

Dennis Hopper is in Waterworld. He gives a pretty typical Hopper performance. As opposed to Richard Dreyfus in Jaws. He gives a pretty Hooper performance.

“Mister Hooooo-perrrr. Noon the fifth day, Mr. Hooper, a Lockheed Ventura spotted us…”

“Anyway, we delivered the bomb.”

Jaws gets an A for the Robert Shaw monologue alone

If you pay attention to Netflix at all (which is almost undoubtedly the case), you may have come across a little show known as Tiger King. For the uninitiated, Tiger King is about a bunch of people who are in the business of keeping tigers/lions/ligers etc. This, of course, is a little weird. Tigers and lions eat people in the wild. In one episode of Tiger King, a tiger demonstrates this fact by tearing a woman’s arm off. The woman continues to work at the “zoo” after this happens. This is also a little weird. Some people like their arms, some don’t. Like an Almond Joy commercial. Except the candy bars are arms. And with tigers.

Anyway, one of the owners of these “zoos” is basically a cult leader. He has a bunch of young, generally buxom, women who work for one hundred dollars a week at his zoo and also sleep with him. He is pretty proud of that and I suppose one can see how. After all, the guy is middle-aged and not overly handsome. Needless to say, his charismatic personality conquers all. Or at least it conquers several women at a time. Perhaps he has Mormon blood. Though, to be fair to the Mormons, they don’t do that sort of thing anymore. Officially. This is because even though god told Joseph Smith it was okay, the federal government told them it wasn’t and that the Mormons wouldn’t get federal dollars if they didn’t cease and desist their polygamous ways. They should have just started training tigers.

If you aren’t already aware, there are more tigers in captivity than live in the wild. If this fact surprises you, you have not watched Tiger King. This probably means you are doing things like reading, an activity strictly prohibited in the United States. Keeping tigers, however, is not prohibited. You can also keep things like alligators and wolves and cobras. Because keeping a cobra is an awesome idea. They love people and are so cute and cuddly. I watched Riki Tiki Tavi. Nag and Nagina were the names of the cobras. Dumb names, Kipling. His sister’s name was probably Rudyarda. Why in the hell would a bunch of pasty-faced Englishmen ever live in the tropics, anyway? Your skin is translucent, for pity’s sake!!

I know. The White Man’s Burden. What can you do?

Personally, I would never get a cobra. I hate snakes. They are very slithery and always surprise me when I least expect them. Luckily, I have never been surprised by a cobra. And I will never go anyplace where that is a possibility. Assuming, of course, that none of my neighbors is harboring cobras. Cobra Harboring Bastards are pretty much everywhere. That’s something I learned watching Tiger King.

Something else I learned is that viruses really aren’t that bad because a lot of people are really stupid and destructive. (Did I mention that all of these places are in the South? Because that seems relevant. Though it’s not like stupidity and destructive behavior end at the Mason-Dixon line.)

One thing that the stupid people in Tiger King love is guns. And sometimes explosives. Bang! Bang! Bang! go the guns. Boom! Boooooom!! Booooooooommmmmm!!! go the explosives.

Heeheeheeee! go the stupid people. It is hilarious to them. Especially when they destroy something with their guns and explosives. Pow! Another watermelon goes to the hereafter.

Heeeeeheeeeeheeee!!!

Not that I care about watermelons. In fact, I don’t really like watermelon. I especially dislike watermelon gum. If you try to give me watermelon gun, I will probably shoot you. I’d certainly sic my tiger on you if I had a tiger. My fictional tiger’s name is Brian Dennehy. Brian Dennehy just died. And he was sometimes fierce like a tiger in his movies. Like when he tries to get tough with Rambo.

Of course, Rambo then gets some guns and explosives and gives Brian Dennehy the old “what for.” Bang! Bang! Bang! Boom! Boom! Boom!

Heeeeheeeheeeee!!

First Blood also has that red-haired guy who later plays a detective in a police show. I can never remember that damn guy’s name. It’s not Brian Dennehy. That I do know. I wonder if that red-headed guy owns any tigers.

David Caruso! I didn’t even have to look that up.

Why in the hell does a red-head have an Italian name? That’s weird. I really don’t like red-headed guys, either. They are like cobras. With red hair.

And freckles.

And sunburn from living in India. Where some of them were eaten by wild tigers.

The essay comes full circle.

With the stay-at-home order in place for my state, I have noticed a fairly large number of cars simply cruising around the country roads near where I live. Generally speaking, these vehicles are older than my oldest pair of pants. Maybe they were made after the turn of the century, but not by a whole lot. Often, they are multi-colored vehicles. Blue doors, red side panels and perhaps a dollop of Bondo to complete these creative rural chariots.

If I come across as a trifle snobbish, that is not the MO’s intention. After all, the love of money is the root of all evil. Well, that and lust. Anyway, this is not the place for class distinctions.

So I was taking a run the other day. There was a car on the side of the road. The car was part blue, part white- like Barack Obama if he held his breath for a long time. It was spewing clouds of exhaust into the cool country air. No emissions standards for these folks. Stinking governmental regulations.

Speaking of governmental regulations, many of my neighbors burn their garbage in the ditch by their home. It brings one back to the old days. Just sittin’ on the porch, smoking an unfiltered cigarette and drinkin’ a cheap domestic beer (Busch light seems the beverage of choice based on my observations of local littering), watching as mighty fire consumes all those cans and plastic and whatever else that might be in the garbage. Fire. Stolen from the gods by Prometheus so that human beings might incinerate garbage to their heart’s content. It cost him his liver- every single day (a really shitty Groundhog’s day), but actions have consequences. Kind of like contaminated groundwater is a consequence that leads to semi-retarded children. But I digress.

This car is just sitting by the side of the road. I run up to it and see there are four people inside, three young woman and a young man. They are all wearing masks. Presumably to keep them from getting Covid-19 from each other. Though it could have been because of the exhaust. Or the many clouds hovering overly illegally burning garbage. Who knows for sure? Maybe Prometheus. That fire-thieving bastard. As a sidebar, Prometheus was also the father of the Deucalion who was the hero of the flood myth in Greek mythology. (Speaking of thieving bastards, I’m looking at you Noah.)

As I ran by this car, these four young people stared at me. While I cannot know their intentions, I could not help noticing that they bore a striking resemblance, thus masked, of the head bad guy in Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior. You know, the guy with the mask and the assless chaps. Well, maybe it was one of the henchman with the assless chaps. Regardless, the head bad guy had a mask for sure.

Assless chaps aside, I continued on my run. Not long after, I came upon a man on a motorcycle. He was just sitting there, motorcycle running, looking in the general direction of the sky. I peered into the blue as well, but could see nothing. I wonder what this gentlemen could possibly be looking at thought I. Perhaps he is a bird watcher, on the look out for the first migrating bluebird.

That’s a lie. My actual thoughts were thus. What are these weirdos doing out here? And will I have to kill them later tonight?

I thought about doing it then, but I wanted to finish my run. If you don’t take care of yourself, no one will. The body is a temple.

Anyway, as I approached the biker-man, he suddenly revved up his bike and zipped down the road. “I’m the Nightrider,” he yelled.

He didn’t. But it would have been cool if he had. He probably wasn’t much of a movie aficionado. I guarantee he couldn’t spell aficionado. Though, to be fair, neither can I. It took me three times on spell check. I can spell wire pulled tight over the road in front of oncoming menacing biker, however. No spell check needed.

Before the apocalypse gets into full swing, I encourage everyone to get outside and get some exercise. That’s the moral of the story.

Also, never wear assless chaps if you are really riding a motorcycle and not merely role playing. There’s another moral.

I’m sure I can find another moral if I look. But I’m not looking. Look yourself.

The bible says that the “soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing.” There, I did it for you.

All I’m doing is enabling.

Locally, there is a pretty large Amish/Mennonite population. If you drive around, you will see them in the horse and buggy. They always seem so happy. At least they always wave which is more than I can say for some of the surly English folk. Their little children skip merrily to and from school, lunch boxes in hand. And they also wave. So friendly. So humble.

Of course, they have a lot of incest. And they don’t believe in vaccinations. But everything has its downside.

Regardless, the notion of homesteading is one that goes to the core of the American psyche. (I wonder what the author of Little Boy Blue’s Pomegranate is doing right now. Did he just run over a little Amish child? Sinister doppleganger of me!! Desist in your dark ways!)

Americans love to romanticize the frontier and the rugged individualism that it suggests. It should be noted that most of these romantics live in suburbs where a delivered pizza is just a call away and they have these buildings called hospitals. Hopefully, these hospitals have ventilators, but that is another story.

It is important to understand that true homesteading does not mirror what one saw on Little House on the Prairie. For example, if you ran out of food in the winter, you couldn’t just run to the grocery store. You either asked your neighbors for charity, or you had to kill and eat your neighbors. Cannibalism was not unknown in those times. Read about the Donner Party once. It is a story that will make you appreciate Google Maps. They could have really used a better suggested route. Turn left at Salt Lake City was a bad idea, that’s all I am saying.

However, bad ideas abounded in the days of the homesteader. People who had never farmed picked up everything and moved to another state to… become farmers? I understand that times change, but I can assure you that I wouldn’t walk to South Dakota to plant a forty of wheat. In fact, I wouldn’t drive to South Dakota unless I was going to the Black Hills and staying at a hotel with a pool.

There is a local author who has made a living describing the (rapidly disappearing) lives of rural Wisconsinites. To do this, he walks around a lot in rubber boots and says things like “how ya’ doin, dere” even though he probably knows how to talk. It’s a living, I suppose. Certainly, people who listen to NPR eat it up with a spoon. Personally, I don’t find cleaning chicken coops to be that interesting. In fact, they are not even necessary. Eggs are cheap. Cheep, cheep.

I don’t have to shovel chicken shit to save eleven dollars a year. I’m a man.

On the other hand, the apocalypse (or at least a fascimile thereof) might be upon us. In which case, homesteading skills will come back in style.

And if you can’t plant wheat, you can always kill and eat your neighbor. As noted in previous installments, it is said that human beings taste like pork. And who doesn’t like a good side of bacon?

Jews and Muslims. It is unclean.

But otherwise it is ok.

The apocalypse makes me hungry for some reason. It’s probably like when you suddenly get thirsty if you are watching a documentary on the Sahara desert.

And I am for sure going to get a Mad Max car. The ass-less chaps are out, however. There is no reason to panic.

 

Wow. I haven’t seen you in a while. It’s like it’s been a year. Though time is relative.

In fact, I recently read a book that contended that there are innumerable universes. And that there really isn’t any time. It isn’t on our side, it isn’t a precious resource, and it is not a cruel thief that robs us of our former selves. Also, a stitch in time doesn’t save shit. Things always were the way they are now. And always will be.

At least in our universe. In another universe this blog is called Little Boy Blue’s Pomegranate. And it makes that other me a whole lot of money. Unless that son-of-a-bitch is in a coma, dying from Covid 23. In that universe, Covid 19 through 22 were no more dangerous than any other flu. This is just speculation, of course. Little Boy Blue’s Pomegranate probably doesn’t make any money at all. And that other me isn’t in a coma. He’s just pissed off at Bruce Jenner, who is a shitty president.

In that universe, Bruce has continued to repress his true feelings. A lot of Bruce’s do that I hear.

Anyway, speaking of Covid 19, I have some appropriate song lyrics. (In the aforementioned alternative universe, the other me can’t think of a thing. What a dumbass. I’m the number one me. I don’t care how many universes there are.)

Don’t Squeeze the Charmin, You Dirty Son of a Bitch (slow and sad country song)

I see you in that grocery aisle, grabbing that toilet paper you don’t need–

Don’t try to hide from me, you Trumptard, mouth breathing inbreed–

I would call the cops, though, I ain’t no snitch–

But don’t squeeze the Charmin, you dirty son of a bitch–

(It might sound better in my head. Who knows? Me. And any other me who is typing lyrics at this moment. Jack and Jill’s Kiwi Fruit, perhaps.)

Fauci’s Coming for You (as a punk song)

Fauci! Fauci! Fauci! He’s the agent of the deep state–

Fauci! Fauci! Fauci! He watches you masturbate–

Fauci! Fauci! Fauci! He sees everything you do!

You damned right-wing nut job… Fauci is coming for YOU!!!!!

Coming for YOU!!! Sean Hannity.

Coming for YOU!!! Laura Ingraham.

And he doesn’t care about abortion at all!!!! Yayayayayaaaaaaa!!!!

Chinese Love Song (as a whiny love song)

We used to do your laundry, we make your Walmart things–

I-phones and cordless drills and cheap plastic golden rings—

We keep thinking of you, even though you are sometimes so mean–

That’s why we sent you some bat-juice Covid 19!!!

Covid 19! Covid 19!

I think you are turning green. Covid 19!

That’s the ugliest ventilator I ever seen. Covid 19!

Straight out of China, bitches. And we did it bigly. (angry guitar solo)

Well, I guess that one turned out to be an angry punk song as well. Those Chinese can’t be trusted. Still bitter about the “ancient Chinese secret” commercial, I guess. Talk about grudges. We are racist towards everybody, crybabies. I don’t care what universe it is.

Are you still mad at the Mongolians for kicking your ass in 1259? I bet not.

Look at it this way, in at least one of those universes you aren’t even called China at all. You are called Japan.

World War 2, you know.

You’re welcome.

 

Looking outside this afternoon, my thoughts turned to the unfortunate demise of the Wicked Witch of the West (The snow is melting. Seriously? It’s not like that took world class intuition. Perhaps a bit more sleep is in order. Just looking out for your welfare.)

You see, the Wicked Witch of the West is generally considered a villainous character with no redeemable qualities. Of course, this is merely propaganda, “Fake News” of the vilest sort. But what can you expect from Hollywood? Soylent Green was ridiculous.

Anyway, the witch clearly possesses both leadership qualities and vision. These are two things in short supply in Oz. After all, they are ruled by some charlatan/two-bit entertainer whose only trick is to appear larger than he is. Imagine if that happened in real life? Those poor Munchkins. The only thing trickling down to them will be a tax increase to pay for the yellow brick road. And what do they get out of it? About two hundred feet of yellow bricks. That’s what. I call for a Munchkin Riot (which is an awesome band name, by the way). So is Under Dorothy’s Skirt. Or Tin Man Priapism. I probably should just start a band name generation business.

Despite her obvious talents, the witch is forced to live in the low rent district of Oz. Even so, she makes the best of it. Certainly, the flying monkeys are a nice touch. (They listen really well. “Fly, fly,” and away they go without so much as a frown. I love those monkeys.)

The witch is also a character with integrity. She makes no bones about what she wants in life. She wants those ruby slippers. Which makes total sense, because Dorothy and Glinda stole them off the witch’s dead sister. Grave robbing bitches!! Nice bubble, Glinda. Dork.

In addition, the Wicked Witch of the West has a great sense of humor. Who can forget when she appears in the crystal ball?

“Auntie Em! Auntie Em!” And then she hits the audience with that infectious laugh. Later, the witch writes “Surrender Dorothy” with her broom. Skywriting. Funny, unexpected and effective.

Perhaps you still aren’t convinced. Consider, then, the various escapades of Dorothy. First, Dorothy’s dog bites Ms. Gulch. Instead of facing the music (or having Toto face the music), Dorothy decides to become a runaway. She then commits murder by dropping a house on the Wicked Witch of the East. As mentioned, she proceeds to steal the victim’s shoes. She starts a journey where she takes up with three male characters. Her relationships with these characters are never clearly defined, but they sure like the hell out of Dorothy.

On her journey, she participates in some apple stealing and insults some trees who, while enchanted, were clearly minding their own business. Then she breaks into the Emerald City and illegally trespasses in order to see the Wizard who does not want to see her. She badgers the Wizard who placates her by putting a hit out on the Wicked Witch of the West. Dorothy agrees to play hit woman and sets out for the witch’s castle. Once there, she again trespasses. Her compatriots commit assault and battery and steal some clothes. She doesn’t have Toto on a leash (once again) and the damn dog runs off through the castle. No doubt leaving little piles of Toto doo doo on the way. Eventually, Dorothy is rightly incarcerated. But she breaks out of prison and commits another murder.

When she returns to the Emerald City she whines like a child when she finds out the Wizard is actually another interloper from Kansas. He can’t help her. However, Glinda can and always could. But that Bubble Bitch wanted to see the Wicked Witch killed. (As a sidebar, we never really understand the relationship between Glinda and the Munchkins. I’m betting she eats some of them in order to maintain her youth. But that is just speculation, of course. She might also be prostituting them in a pizzeria.)

Since Dorothy has killed all the other witches in Oz (at least the ones that are presented in the movie), Glinda wisely tells Dorothy how to get back to Kansas. Well, it isn’t really that wise. After all, Dorothy could have clicked her heels three times after stealing the slippers and that would have been that. Anyone with any brains would have gone for the witch-killing trifecta. Luckily for Glinda, Dorothy is a rube who can’t put two and two together and she departs for her tornado-plagued home.

I guarantee the Wicked Witch of the West wouldn’t have taken that shit. But she was already dead. Because thieving Dorothy killed her. And her sister. Of course, nobody cares, probably because she is green.

The moral? It ain’t easy being green.

And girls from Kansas are all murderers and sex perverts.

On the bright side, Dorothy ends up in an insane asylum in the next book (and movie). Then she illegally escapes and kills the Mole King and another witch. Frank Baum was a bit darker than most people suppose.

It seems that a bunch of rich people got caught cheating. Specifically, they were using bribes to get their children (who are apparently morons) into college. This came as somewhat of a shock to people- if you believe their reactions. Which I don’t. In reality, everybody knew that this sort of thing has been going on forever. In fact, it is how we do things in the United States of America. The entire country is built on cheating, run by cheaters, and is not one bit sorry for any of it (generally speaking).

To whit, America was founded by rich guys who didn’t think they should have to pay taxes. Of course, these rich guys also had slaves and were given most of what they had. But, dammit, they wanted more. Don’t tread on me, you dirty, red-coated sonsabitches. Luckily for these rich guys, there were many local yokels who could be easily moved by the clarion call of their patriotic duty. And, although these yokels had very little to gain, they went and died for Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. Of course, these ideals were all a big scam.

A century or so later, the American West was opened up. To adequately exploit this new area, the country needed railroads.

Actually, most of that was a big lie. But some rich guys saw a good opportunity to make money and were able to sell a bunch of local yokels on the idea. The yokels bought stock, the railroads failed, and the rich guys got richer and started universities in places like Palo Alto. Right on.

Simultaneously, the US was cheating the Indians out of their land. The indigenous folk were so very gullible. Heh heh. Thar’s gold in them thar hills.

Fast forward another hundred years to the Cold War. The USSR has just launched a satellite named Sputnik. Yipes! Those damn, sneaky Russians. This was surely a national disaster (Even though Sputnik was the size of a basketball- but why quibble over little details?) The Space Race had begun. And, thanks to US ingenuity and know-how, we got that man to the moon.

Well, actually we used Nazi rocket scientists (Gutentag, Herr Von Braun) who we had whisked out of Germany at the end of WW 2. Of course, as Nazis they probably should have answered for some war crimes or shit like that. But they were really smart. And we beat those Commies flat.

Anyway, my point is that America is all about cheating. Did you ever read the fine print? I’ll bet not, though there is probably something important in there.

Tax shelters, private schools, rich kids feigning ADHD, backroom real estate deals, insider trading and the list goes on and on right to Trump University.

Good thing we have our guns. And Jesus. When everybody dies, he will be sure to sort things out and all of you honest folk will get your just reward. In heaven, where the angels fly. And Steely Dan never gets to play on the radio. Ever. Because Steely Dan will be playing Hey 19 in hell for eternity.

I was going to mention the damned Cheat Codes for video games. But that would have been piling on. It’s not like the Canadians or any of those other countries are any better. They don’t even speak English in Quebec, for Christ’s sake. If that doesn’t seem suspicious, I don’t know what does.

Lee Greenwood. (So I did know, after all.)