October 15, 2014
This was the fifth day in a row of rain or mist, of wind or gusts, and tornadoes skirted the edges, and I felt as though I were going mad. And then, at two this afternoon, the final outrage: three minutes of sun, that cock tease, three minutes of light and blue and shine and gleam, and heartlift . . . and then gloom times ten.
There were no birds at my feeders. Where they were hiding was anybody’s guess. The fawns, now grown into young brown women, stepped delicately in the mud and matted grass as though they were afraid of sliding away.
At the Mehlville Dairy, at the café, at the doctor’s office, the worst swear word of them all was muttered over and over with bitterness and dread: “Winter.” “Ebola” was a close second. “Obama” was third.
(Of course: Africa brought us Ebola and Obama—ask any white person where I live. Africa birthed the entire human race, you redneck jackasses.)
A doctor on NPR today said that rural people should take note: Do not go to your local hospital if you are sick and somehow your third cousin twice removed had been exposed to Ebola; only trust “major medical centers.”
“It’s a government plot, Ebola,” J., the young woman who can’t go to school because she refuses to be inoculated, said. “That’s why my mom don’t vote.”
Silly me, I tried to show her the error of her ways, pointing out that her mom had no voice. She said aloud to the handful of customers, “Anybody here vote?” Not a single hand went up.
“Buncha thieves,” a guy in a “Duck Dynasty” sweatshirt said, hitching up his 38 waist pants to the bottom of his 46 inch waist. “Fuck ’em.”
I drew my conceal/carry Glock nine and shot him dead, for stupidity. “The Walking Dead” put down their 64 ounce sodas and ate him, and they all came down with Ebola, and I sent them to a rural hospital.
See what three minutes of sun (that cock tease) will do to a guy?