MARCH 21, 2021



Last week, the local Non Compos Mentis chapter of the Loud Boyz met with local chapter of the Flat Earth Society at the rented Native Sons of the Golden West parlor down by the marina. Wally finds both groups quite repellent, but anybody can rent the place and these two groups are among the few inane enough that gathering a number of people inside an enclosed space during a Pandemic does not seem something to avoid. Who else are you going to get to pay good money for meeting hall during times like these?

idea that the world is, in fact, not round but flat

Bernard Stacheldraht and members of the Loud Boyz have been lately been trumping the story that Baby Booby's dog Twaddles has not died, or if so shall rise again to lead the Nation in trimphant Booby-ism. This story is cited as originating from P-Anon, a cult group that has many things to say about the Deep State and the idea that the world is, in fact, not round but flat and cornered by metaphysical stakepost locations in all cities named Springfield.

Everyone brought their semiautomatic weapons, of course, to demonstrate their rights in this here White America, except Bill Dullerd took some flack for bringing an AK-47 which some of the Boyz found to be unpatriotic.

Advance a week or two and we all saw the Counties clawing up out of the purple tier into the Red and then marching steadily to Orange as the COVID cases continued to decline and the ICU's cleared out. Those who were going to die did so and those who did not stepped out of the isolation wards blinking in the bright sunlight of the new Spring, welcomed back by families and friends to a changed world.

As per tradition Suzie was made to wear an embarrassing green miniskirt

Padraic and Dawn threw open the doors to the Old Same Place and opened out the back where Padraic and members of the Household had prepared a socially distancing open-air patio and so it was that just in time for St. Patrick's Day the Old Same Place bar began slinging Gaelic coffees after an entire year of being closed up tight. As per tradition Suzie was made to wear an embarrassing green miniskirt as she hustled back and forth between the bar and the outside tables. There was even a 20 foot long slab of redwood with a brass rail and stools and officially certified lines feeding back to the inside so as to bring the Guinness to outdoor taps and it was like old times again with a cheerful chatter and a clatter from within and from without.

Except Padriac kept going to the front to look up and down the street with an anxious air of expecting someone. The night advanced and the outdoor lights came on and the heat towers created by Mancini warmed the people there as the nights remained chilly with frost even as the days advanced past recent rain storms into sunny skies. Then it was members of the Angry Elf gang appeared. Kring and Narita and the Cackler and others besides - Tarpey and Lyons and Gregory and Humphrey Chimpden Evermore, the four of them and roar of them, and none of them wearing masks as per house rules.

O do tell me all! Tell me, tell me, tell me all.

O I will tell you how it was that night that terrible night. You will die when you hear. When the old Narita farted and then you know.

Yes, yes I know. Go on. Hike up your sleeves and loosen up your talktapes and don't be dabbling.

Alright then. Padraic confronted the awful old crew of reppes, saying "No mask no service!"

"We are not here for service! We are not servants," said the leader of the day, Kring, and O he was sinistrous. And the cut of him! And the strut of him! How he held his head up as high as Tamalpais with a hump of grandeur on him like an upright, walking weasel rat. And it was not revealed all their sinistrous plans until later that eventful evening.

Tarpey yanked on the hem of Suzie's miniskirt, causing it to go askew and some of the drinks on her tray spilled.


The Cackler did what he does to terrorize people.

The Angry Elf gang is so named because its ringleader, living in the Gold Coast, is diminutive of stature and endowed with a furious temper that expresses itself in large acts of destruction at times. His group practices extortion, blackmail, credit card fraud, loud talking in restaurants and other terrorist strong-arm threats along with selective arson that often features car and dumpster fires.

Padraic demanded the crew leave. And in response, the various members lounged about as if they were waiting for something.

"We are wantin' nay trouble here", Padraic said.

The Cackler laughed his distinctive laugh and all else were silent.

"He is here again!"

Padraic turned away and was facing the back where the lines came in when Dawn said to him urgently, "He is here again!"

"Och, begorrah!, " Padraic said as he turned.

And there he was. As small as Life standing all of three feet tall in his boots, the Wee man in his tall hat, his green waistcoat, and his buckled shoes and his merry beard.

"We have some troubles here," Padraic said.

"So I see," said the Wee Man. "Here is a drinking establishment and quite a few have no cruiskeen luin before them. And they seem to have forgotten this is a masked ball. Well then!

The Wee man clapped his hands and as the lights blinked out then on, a tall glass appeared before each of the gang members. Along with a golden mask that sat there on the table.

"Since you believe wearing a mask is a matter of personal choice I place one before each one of you to make your decision according to selfishness or to communal safety." Said the Wee Man.

"I aint gonna fall for that and we are glad you fell into our trap. You done embarrassed the Angry Elf in the past and we cannot let these actions go unpunished. Go for it guys!"

Then their trap was revealed. They had come to the bar not to enjoy Life and celebrate the ending of the long quarantine, but to exact revenge.

Tarpey placed what looked like a golden coin on a spot upon the floor.

"Gold!" said the Wee Man and he made a motion to go for this coin.

"No!", said Eugene Gallipagus, who had often been plagued during high school on account of his name. "Let me bring it to you; I think this is a trap!"

And as Eugene roughly shoved the Wee man aside, stepped over to the coin and a trapdoor opened and he fell through, screaming.

Next, Tarpey, Lyons and Gregory attempted to wrestle a substantial iron cage through the front door but were foiled when the Wee Man caused the door entrance to shrink so that the device could not fit through.

Finally, the evil crew revealed iron pokers they had brought underneath their coats and Kring brought out a 1911 style pistol, all of them surrounding the Wee Man.

"Lead bullets do nothing to me," said the Wee Man.

"Iron, the most common thing, slays leprechauns," said Kring. And the Cackler laughed. "These bullets are tipped with iron; the only substance that can kill leprechauns."

"And so you would commit murder here in this place when your master has stated year after year he would try as he might to avoid killing anyone."

"I am not the master," said Kring. "So I can do what I want. And you are not a person; you are a myth, so this is not murder."

"There are people all around us. Your iron bullets can go far and hurt innocent people."

"No one is innocent in my world," said Kring. "I do not care about these people," he said as Eugene screamed from the pit where he had been impaled on iron spikes. "But that is why we first are going to go at you with these iron staves.

the two went down like the proverbial ton of bricks

Seeing the crew about to move on the Wee Man, Suzie flung herself upon Kring to bring down his pistol as Padraic brought out his shillelagh and started laying about in earnest while Dawn battered Narita with a pan. The pistol discharged into the floor. Lynette and Susan, seeing their favorite LGBTQ watering hole threatened had learned a thing or two since Stonewall and Lynette tased Tarpey while Susan maced the face of Lyons as the Wee Man dived down to crawl amid the scrambling legs of others. The Man from Minot tackled Gregory and the two went down like the proverbial ton of bricks. Others took part in the brawl that degenerated into a savage atavistic orgy of violent chair smashing and table jumping until the Wee Man leapt up onto a stool to raise his hands.

The flashing lights of Officer O'Madhauen's cruiser appeared outside as the Wee Man commanded all the members of the evil crew imbibe their beverages before going. Which magically they did and they all filed out the front door and fell down and were all booked on public drunken and disorderly.

"My friends," said the Wee Man. "I have scant time for farewells. May each of you be spending at least an half hour in heaven before the Devil knows you are dead!" And herewith he clapped his hands and the lights went out even as Officers O'Madhauen and Popinjay entered the door.

When the lights came one each and everyone was grasping at their waistbands and some staring down into the space between their belts and their bellies and Eugene sat in a chair quite unhurt but wearing white shorts adorned with red hearts.

"Christ on a bicycle, the sodding pervert had done it again!" Padraic said. "He's turned me knickers into golden threads!"

Suzie ran off to the restroom to change into something she knew from previous years needed to be provisioned.

"Where's the riot?" Officer Popinjay said. "What the hell happened to my boxers?"

That was St. Patrick's day this year.

At the Island-Life Offices things were considerably more grim. As the Editor closed up shop for the night and the night clicked over to the next day of the new Spring he had news over the transom that in these final days of COVID, just as hope arose above the horizon like a teletubby sun, a dear friend had been put on ventilator and was fighting for his life.

It is 1968 all over again and our buddies are dying because of government stupidity and the complicity of idiots.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White's Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.