0408blog

Grand Strategy

When they win, victory will come not with a resounding blast but rather with the drone of pathetic submission, a surrender to an accumulation of assaults that is no less painful than to be pecked to death by birds or to die of a thousand cuts also known as Lingchi.

Every day any of a collection of cuts leads me closer to posting the white flag and two of the latest involve sounds and sights, specifically the ear-splitting roar of the yahoo’s pickup truck and the blinding brightness of headlights from said pick up truck that are positioned to reflect directly into my rear view mirror and either temporarily blind me, inflict agonizing headaches or force me to close my eyes and hope I open them before the light turns green when the pickup truck’s driver will immediately and unmercifully blast on his horn that can be heard all the way to Cincinnati. Why anyone would want a very loud vehicle has several explanations, including the absence of testosterone which leads to an overreaction intended to compensate for a failure of masculinity or possibly it is simply one more calculated and sadistic though brilliant factor that will ultimately lead to my Waterloo. Those who drive those testosterone-laden metaphors for big balls often have taken their low art to a high level, as they purr at the red light only to blast off when it turns green, coincidentally right next to your open driver’s side window.

As to the bright lights, there is the excuse that the brighter the bulb the better the visibility, which on its face, makes sense but under further analysis is just so much folderol, bologna, bulldoodie, because I use normal headlights and have never felt I was driving like Ray Charles or Stevie Wonder, normal headlights function fine. Or it may be that the brighter the bulb, the dimmer the brain of the motorist. So the headlights that are brighter than a thousand suns are once again, only designed to push me yet one step closer to total and unconditional surrender.

And that same pick-up truck with the Confederate flag, MAGA, “Blue Lives Matter” and “Trump 2024” decals plastered all over is the same pick-up truck that tailgates me for miles, putting a certain amount of palpable fear into my bosom that this maniac might try to drive me off the road and then beat me to a pulp with a tire iron.

Which leads me to buffering, that tormenting condition where the television screen freezes but only at crucial moments in the movie, baseball game, press conference announcing the fall of the western world and such. I try everything, rebooting the router and waiting the required two minutes, turning the TV on and off, prayers, obscenities, threats and eventually an agreement to submission, capitulation, yielding and even, dedition. And when that moment of acquiescence arrives, the buffering’s maddening rotating blue circle will magically end until the next time, as if they are aware of their effects on me and millions other who are like me and stand on the brink of eternal oblivion.

These are but a few of the infinite number of ways that I am slowly but surely being driven mad. Which gets me to the mother of all provocations, those dastardly face masks that we’ve been coerced to wear so that nobody can see your face, your smile, your tears, those archetypes of modern fascism designed solely to get us under their thumbs,with nothing really to do with protection against COVID-19, if that condition even really exists and is actually nothing more than a flu in wolf’s clothing made up through the collusion of Democrats and China.

The mother of all provocations is the made-up COVID 19 pandemic which is making us a nation of screaming meemies but huge swaths of the population are finally battling back, as with the fed-up Floridian who is calling on all those of the Sunshine State to march on April 10 for a “Million Maskless March and Mask Burning.” It is past time to follow the government’s orders like sheep and to show that we are all free to shed the masks, to follow people as closely as we want, to sneeze into our hands, our elbows, our shirts or any damn way we please and to wash our hands once a month if we want to.

Here’s to Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis, Alabama Gov. Kay Ivey, Texas Gov. Greg Abbott, South Dakota’s Kristi Noem, Oklahoma’s Kevin Stitt and Nebraska’s Pete Ricketts, and all the rest of the brave elected officials who are willing to let people do whatever they want to do as long as they vote for their liberators on election day. Damn science, damn evidence, damn Biden, damn Fauci, damn the CDC, damn the WHO, we’re not going to take it anymore.

So in the end, dead or alive, we will all succumb not to a disease but to our own fears, fueled by you know who.