September 16, 2018
TITLE OF THE AGE
So anyway, even though the nights have become nippy -- nippy for California in the low 50's -- the mosquitos remain out in force at dusk. Allie and Dexter went out to Bon Tempe Lake to watch the submarine races under the crescent moon and they were going at it like the kids they are from Drake High School, but every time Second Base got closer there came that insistent whine in their ears and the two of them wound up swatting at no-see-ums and protecting any exposed flesh from vampires. Finally they had to give up as it clearly was no use.
"No blowjob tonight, I guess," Dexter said.
"You are a sick pervert," Allie flounced. "I want to go home right now."
As some people may know, election time is coming up and so Babar and Papoon have been out pressing the flesh, airing their opinions -- of each other -- and generally trying to disassociate themselves from the incumbent President of the Bum, Ronald Rump, who has been busy doing and saying everything wrong, from promising that Newark would pay to build a wall, to insulting just about everybody north and south of the Island that is not enthusiastically in support of his odd ideas about trade, defense, women, and Nazis.
"CANADIANS! HAH! WHAT A BUNCH OF LOSERS! ALL MAPLE LEAF AND NO MOOSE! LOSERS! LOOOOOOOOSSSERS!"
While most people who are sane tend to agree that Nazis are bad people who have done terrible things to the world, Ronald Rump has had difficulty stating the obvious, even for political gain. How difficult can it be to say flatly that Nazis are evil incarnate with no socially redeeming value whatsoever? But Rump just cannot get around to admitting this truism. Maybe he likes their uniforms and their boots. Ever since there was a riot down at City Hall when Siegfried Nichtnutz tried to hold a small rally with members of the Nationalist Popular Front, and was knocked off of his orange crate by people throwing tomatoes when he started excoriating the immigrants and all the inferior races he blamed for the high rents and drugs, Rump has been an apologist for Siegfried's people.
One of the NPF guys shot Arthur in the legs as he was going to work at the Pampered Pup, claiming self-defense. Another NPF rammed his motorized trike into Grandpa Mosley's electric wheelchair.
It all descended into a free-for-all of nose-pulling and beard yanking that quickly became a savage, atavistic, bloody melee when the NPF brought out the clubs and the chains.
The Press, of course was there. Denby asked one of the NPF guys named Rene DeRouche just what it was they wanted. Rene said they just wanted their stolen freedoms.
Stolen freedoms, said Denby. Like what stolen freedoms?
Well, Rene hemmed and stumbled a bit. "Like the toothbrush mustache. We have been demonized. That holocaust was all fake. We should be able to wear any facial hair in any style we want."
Uh, sure, Denby said.
"Bring back the old corner barbershop and get rid of these foo-foo
salons run by illegal immigrants taking our hair away. Yeah."
In the Old Same Place Bar Papoon, of the Somewhat Progressive Party, sat with Babar, of the True Conservative Party. Joe Bob Bingle of the Pee Tardy Party would have joined them, but since everyone has gotten so acrimoniously divided, he could not spare any sign of weak reconciliation. It was all No Compromise these days.
The Pee Tardy Party is so conservative, they believe in governing human nature to the extent of enforcing only one visit to the restroom per day. "Just say No Go!" is their slogan.
Babar, a true Conservative who never goes out without wearing two pairs of pants, shook his massive head. "We used to be the voice of moderation, reason and common sense. Now look at the discourse today!" He reached out his trunk to down his drink of choice. "Bartender! Another dry Old Fashioned -- no muddle!"
"Times sure have changed," Papoon agreed. "Our slogan has been for years 'Not Insane!' but far too many people do not want sanity in government. There is no discussion any more. It is quite frustrating."
"It all started with the Clintons," Babar said.
"It all started with Richard Nixon," Papoon said. "The last great Conservative who did not suffer from dementia was Eisenhower."
"I think we can agree on that," Babar said.
In truth the usual election debates traditionally held in the parlor 331/3 of the Native Sons of the Golden West and hosted by the League of Women Voters had been kiboshed by the incumbent President.
"WHY SHOULD ANYBODY LISTEN TO ANYBODY BUT ME? ALL THE OTHERS ARE JUST LOSERS! I AM THE GREATEST AND I WILL MAKE THE ISLAND GREAT AGAIN, I PROMISE YOU! I ALONE CAN DO THE JOB!"
And more of the same. There was always more of the same. For we now have entered a new Age. First there was the Greatest Generation. Then there was the We Generation. Then there came the Me Generation, followed closely by the Greed is Good Generation, whose slogan was "I've got mine!" Then the 80's were followed by the Age of the Moron, replete with junk science and Jackass movies that exalted stupidity, when everyone was told amid violent crisis, "Just go out shopping."
Then the Age of the Moron produced the Great Recession.
Now, with reasoned discourse suppressed, encouragement of bullies and braggarts, we have entered the new Age, the
Age of the Loudmouth
Meanwhile, up on the hill near the Mormon Temple and the Greek Orthodox Church where Wally's son, Whistleblower Joshua has taken refuge, Mr. Spline sits in his black SUV with his modified Glock, keeping an eye on the door of the chapel where he knows Joshua has sought sanctuary, waiting with the patience of a man who knows the time for his kind has come with a vengeance.
The sound of the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary and wended its way through the fog-shrouded Northbay's well-matriculated hills and slid over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railbeds that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong that carried forth on the winds over White's Hill and Fairfax, ululating through Silvan Acres and the cubbied niches of Lagunitas, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridgetops through the mist to an unknown destination.