When Bubba Met Kenny
There is a terrible viral epidemic in America. Already this year, nearly 30 million Americans have been infected and nearly 25,000 have died. I write, of course, of the yearly apocalypse known as the ordinary flu season. We’d better shut down the entire economy. We are doing just that at the moment for the strangest reason imaginable. My friends, say what you like, but it is my opinion that the Coronavirus Panic is a ridiculous, low-effort hoax. That is not to say it isn’t real. A hoax, being a thing or activity conducted or utilized for deceptive purposes, generally involves something very real, not fake. I perceive it as a most-convenient cover for the pre-existing, independent collapse of the economy, of which I have written about before, here and elsewhere. But, just like the free-fall collapse of Tower Seven, the disease obviously exists.
As I write this, the US has around 40,000 cases. Upon your reading it, we’ll probably have 50,000. On Saturday morning, I talked to one of them, my old friend and Augusta-area patient zero, Jason Hasty. I use his name because he said it was okay and because he previously disclosed his condition to the media. He’s running for District Attorney and wanted the truth to prevail regardless of how it impacted his campaign. That’s the kind of man he is. Accordingly – and, Lord, I never thought we’d come to this – I hereby endorse Jason Hasty for DA of the Augusta Judicial Circuit! A plague. A depression. Perrin endorsed a politician. I know, right? Anyway, if you live and vote in the counties of Columbia, Richmond, or Burke, then you have no better option than Jason, a true friend of freedom, truth, and justice.
Much of what we discussed and he shared with me appeared in a weekend article in the Augusta Chronicle. He’s not exactly sure where, when, or how he contracted COVID-19. And his symptoms, like those of many patients in the news, are slightly different than the “fever, cough, and chest pressure” the CDC repeats. He had all of those, to varying degrees. On the phone, he sounded a little congested. Then again, as I spoke from a park bench in a pollen blizzard, I’m sure I sounded much the same. But he reported fatigue and pain, specifically in the legs and neck, as the worst of it, rating those a “nine” on the old scale of one through ten. His treatment has consisted of staying home and resting. It’s working – I am most happy to report that he is on the mend and already feeling much better.
I had drafted something else about the COVID and the economy. Read my letter to President Trump (I doubt he will). Also, read more of my infamous ripoff poetry, The Masque of the Red DEBT. There’s much else to say, which I might get to later (assuming we maintain electricity and the internet). The closing of the churches bothers me, although given how Americans have shunned God, it might be a fitting return. If not, then perhaps we can answer their “spiritual communion” with a little of what I call “spiritual tithing.” I had a lot more, but then, something else terrible happened…
Kenny Rogers died last Friday at the age of 81. Many people know his songs. Many know his acting and his roasters. But few ever got to know him, if just briefly. I was one of the lucky few. Here’s how it happened: