I had no idea so many collectivist brownshirt types read this blog. I guess the reposts by all those liberals (you love me, you really love me!) on their blogs stirred up the bullies and directed them here. I’ve received formal threats from people claiming to live in New Jersey, Long Island, even one from Manhattan. You know what they say: If I can get dismembered here, it can happen anywhere.
Maybe the emergency termination of what was left of equal Web access a few hours ago will leave the idjits stranded in a morass of glittering corporate websites that won’t listen to anything they say—except ADD TO SHOPPING CART.
Heil Visitor, Haf Ve Gott Ein Deal Fuhr U!
Is it coincidence that my noisiest Congressional critic of late looks like a reincarnated Reichmarschall Hermann Goering? Both love to hunt, fly, and bully people.
I ain’t scared. Scanning a few of the thousands of flu blogs that have sprung up, I note that New York is relatively safe. I just saw my dentist, whose staff survived but for a very nice hygienist, whom we’ll all miss. She deserved a long life.
It’s the cities without water—Tucson, for example—that seem most out of control. Phoenix and Las Vegas are fighting over Lake Mead’s diminishing waters. The West is aflame, whole tracts with nothing left but angry homeless survivors. It’s as if a gigantic meteor shower spewed fireballs on a third of our country.
After all those prayers, Georgia is out of water, too. Lakes Lanier and Allatoona contain little more than muck from decaying animals and plants. (Do not drink tomorrow’s oil!) The Chattahoochee River that Lanier feeds is running dry, too. Atlantans are being evacuated to Federal camps. I feel particularly sick for the Katrina survivors who were driven into this urban desert and are now being herded into what, FEMA trailers again?
Not that the water is much better back home. Cholera, that quaint 19th Century disease, has returned to New Orleans. Heckuva job, faceless bureaucrats!
Hawaii has been blacked-out for weeks. Private weapons are said to be priceless since the state’s National Guard was deployed to Los Angeles. There, the Hawaiians stand with troops from Oregon in protecting the Hills from gangbangers and anyone else cruising around looking for loot and trouble in the better-endowed ‘hoods. Guard units from California, Arizona, and Nevada have their fists more than full at home.
I get emails from all over. I know what people are going through. I have one from a 50-year-old Texan, a Web entrepreneur whose wife and four children died. He’s desperate to figure out why God let him live, saved him. I hope he comes up with a good reason—or that fate grants him one. He sounds like someone worth knowing.
Then there’s the woman whose husband shot and killed two kids who tried to climb into their house in Kentucky. He thought they were the men who had raped his teenage daughter. But it was her loyal boyfriend and his buddy, trying to cheer her up by playing Romeo and Mercutio. Now dad’s in jail and mother and daughter have neither protectors nor friends. Just firearms. They practice a lot, she writes. Maybe the shots keep criminals away.
Further emails recount the tale of thugs who terrorized a hamlet in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains, 90 minutes from here. They butchered five residents in three weeks before someone got the state police to look into it. Two troopers were killed before the criminals got theirs.
Forty miles from here in Long Island, writes a woman who pleads that her name not be mentioned, someone firebombed a house crammed with Salvadorans, killing five children and two adults. I read last week about the unexplained accident. My informant says local lads boast that it wasn’t one.
Three buildings west, on my block, they just discovered a mother and her little boy dead from flu. A neighbor looked in when he saw that their door had been kicked open, found that their ripe corpses hadn’t deterred looting. Someone ripped the woman’s wedding ring from her decomposing finger.
The luckiest Americans fear someone will commandeer what they’ve got. The least fortunate are dying in droves from injuries and illnesses the medical system normally handles with ease. People are coming down with gangrene because they can’t obtain antibiotics. All those disabled veterans with state-of-the-art moving parts are breaking down. And this is my fault?
Did I mention that someone painted the word “PROFITER” on my building’s front door? I suspect they meant profiteer. Should I take it personally—or correct it?