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PERRIN LOVETT

~ Deo Vindice

PERRIN LOVETT

Category Archives: Other Columns

Columns concerning any and everything. Enjoy!

Good Friday!

10 Friday Apr 2020

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Good Friday

Welcome to the Bergoglio’d virtual Holy Week.

Church doors will be shut and the Vatican sealed off when Pope Francis leads 1.3 billion Catholics in Easter Sunday celebrations held under a worldwide coronavirus lockdown.

Fear and confusion in the face of a disease whose toll has unrelentingly climbed towards 100,000 are reshaping society and transforming the way religion is observed.

The devil could have done no worse. Now, don’t worry – soon we’ll be on to the next hoax.

Fake News of the Future – from TPC

07 Tuesday Apr 2020

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future, TPC

Headlines From The Future

 

Meet “Sarcasto,” The Galactic Herald, Page A1, April 10, 7020 AD

On a cool autumn afternoon in 6995, two ditch-diggers happened upon what they thought was a large rock. The rock turned out to be a massive door composed of steel, tungsten, and ceramic materials. When, with moderate difficulty, explorers opened the door, they made the archeological discovery of the millennia. Inside a bunker-like cave, hunched over a primitive word processing machine, were the semi-frozen remains of the shabbily-attired man who lived and died at the beginning of the last ice age. Today, after two decades of study, he has a name: Sarcasto.

Sarcasto lived in the disputed area of Eastern Georgiflorilina, a slave province of the ancient Obese States of Israel. He stood 7.754 telemaros high and weighed nearly 4,000 mixidepils. It appears he lived on an exclusive diet of coffee and tobacco. Despite being found alone, signs of premature aging suggest he was at some point married. Sarcasto’s body is the best-preserved cadaver of the Lostfaithicene Period. His manifest higher intelligence, normal BMI, and lack of tattoos suggest he was probably an outcast. He was likely a dissident hermit, a failed novelist who subsisted by foraging for twigs. 

The numerous cigars found all around Sarcasto had caused a major stir, demonstrating conclusively that mankind possessed advanced leaf technology and rolling skills thousands of years earlier than previously thought. Doctor Cubano Esteli said, ‘It’s the equivalent of opening the casket of an old man and discovering therein a cigar!’ Most exciting of all, researchers have at last decoded the cryptic etching Sarcasto left on an aluminum plate. The Galactic Herald herein produces Sarcasto’s final words, verbatim (with one explanatory annotation):

*****

To Whomever In The Distant Future Finds This Plate:

Greetings! I am Perrin Lovett [What Sarcasto meant by “Perrin Lovett” is unclear. These words, possibly an imprimatur, have never been successfully deciphered though they appear at the beginning of all recorded accounts of the great leader, Thomas Ironsides, a blessing be upon him. It is possible that Sarcasto was a follower of the Prophet or even a relative. We may never understand this mystery.] and I may be the last survivor of the Coronavirus Hoax of 2020. It wasn’t the flu bug that did us in.

Every winter season, millions of people, in my dead nation and around the world, were afflicted by numerous bacterial and viral infections. Tens of thousands died every year. This was nothing new. The COVID-19 was merely a cold virus with a slight ACE2 gene expresser suppression or latching mutation. It was easily defeated by Vitamins C and D, UV radiation from sunlight, Chloroquine, and Albuterol – that is, if any medical care was required at all. Some ninety percent of “victims” were asymptomatic and never even knew that they had the disease. The great majority for those who did show symptoms readily recovered at home without issue. Aside from initial greater-than-average affliction among East Asian males, global fatalities were only common in three predominant groups: 1) those elderly persons in poor health; 2) fat people with pre-existing disorders, and: 3) coprophagic sodomites with naturally compromised immune systems. While the late-stage United States Empire swarmed with all three demographic cohorts, the death rate was still relatively low.

In early April of 2020, there were approximately 300,000 diagnosed cases of (or with…) COVID-19; around 7,500 of these cases resulted in death (95-97% of the deaths within the three primary demographics, particularly among the old and infirm). At the same time, there were some 330,000,000 people within the porous borders of the Empire. The math:

Death rate among the known infected: 7,500 / 300,000 = 0.025 or 2.5%.

Death rate among the greater general population: 7,500 / 330,000,000 = 0.000227 or .00227%.

The people had elected as their leader a lesser evil known as Orange Man. Orange Man’s unconfirmed Twitter scare-tactic death rate among the greater population: 240,000 / 330,000,000 = 0.00073 of .073%.

Orange Man’s henchmen’s utterly idiotic worse-case scenario death rate among the greater population: 2,200,000 / 330,000,000 = 0.0067 or .67%.

For further reference and scale: every year during the early 21st Century, around 600,000 Americans died from preventable obesity-related illnesses. This was thought (if we can call it that) to be the low price of fast food and cheap sodas. Anyone attempting to raise an alarm about this phenomenon was labeled a body-shamer. Every year, during the preceding four and a half decades, around 1,000,000 tiny children were brutally murdered in America for reasons purely selfish and satanic. Those who objected to this genocide were deemed Nazis, woman-haters, or opponents of moloch.

Back to the Corona hoax pandemic, the rate of death, mostly among people who were already dying or who would soon die of something else was 2.5%. The “sum of all fears” potential death rate, which never materialized, was less than 1%. However, math and critical thinking being lost arts among the wicked, 93-IQ, television-loving populace, the concurrent hysteria was large and terminal.

From the very outset, I declared the pandemic a hoax. When all of modern life became an endless series of pitiful hoaxes, they were each in their order rather easy to identify. It was also a cover for the pre-existing collapse of the monetary and financial economies. Worse, the government used the hoax as an excuse to virtually imprison the newly unemployed, if uninfected, masses within their own homes. All domestic life immediately and inexplicably ground to a halt. And the people loved it. This collapse in civilized morals and intelligence caused me to retreat into my doomsday shelter. 

Before sealing myself in, on April 3, 2020, I made one final venture among the people. At a place called Walmart (originally a discount retailer, then having become a holding pen for retarded, gelatinous five-hundred-pound women who waddled about while screaming into electronic communications devices), I learned that many of these doomed creatures were reduced to eating toilet paper and that, driven by feminists, Walmart had ceased selling ammunition. 

Worst of all was the gleeful way in which putative Christians quickly abandoned the churches and the way the churches sealed their doors to the Christians. At once, Marx’s abolition of “illusory happiness” was accomplished. If they could be bothered, the people, even the allegedly faithful, cheered. Yet, they found not nor demanded their “real happiness.” Rather, they lived and starved in perpetual fear behind silly masks, closed doors, and unemployment checks. Orange Man spoke on television for six hours each day.

I had long closed myself off from the insane world before the heavy bombing started. Well, I assume there was war; there always is. The rumbling I heard above might have come from a passing Walmart herd, but I doubt it. In the end, the majority who were not blasted by high explosives must have succumbed to malnutrition and real pandemics. You know this outcome better than I.

In parting, I can only advise you of a few things. Keep the faith in God, not in men and their institutions. Take care of the young. Maybe consider cutting back on the technology as it has a way of dehumanizing us. Do not under any circumstances avail yourself of usury. Dispense with the evil of warfare. Democracy is the worst tyranny. Stop the hoaxes.

Your ancient friend,

-P

PS: Please do not assume me to be a crackpot hermit. I once wrote for the most highly-respected online newspaper in the Georgia Piedmont region!

*****

Editor’s final note: the preceding were the thoughts of an ancient crackpot and hermit. The primitive mind was given to obvious mental hallucinations.

In This Morning’s Herald:

CULTURE: Pastor Says Babies Inconvenient (See: D8)

FINANCE: Cohen-Goldsteinberg Says ‘Borrow Now!’ (B1)

WAR: Bomb Mars … Again! (C2)

POLITICS: Robots Vote In Record Numbers, Edge Transvestites (A4)

WEATHER: No Global Warming, But It’s Just A Matter Of Time

 

ALSO AT TPC!

Spring Break

05 Sunday Apr 2020

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hoax, Masters, spring break

…is canceled until further notice.

My “smart” phone just reminded me that it’s Masters Week! And that I should already be on vacation at the writer’s cottage. HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Oh, this hoax is hurting worse than any flu!

IMPORTANT BLOG NOTICE!

02 Thursday Apr 2020

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blog, blog emergency, Coronavirus

EMERGENCY!

I have, today, declared a state of emergency at this highly respected web log.™

In order to combat the terrible effects of the COVID-19 Coronavirus (aka Wuhan-400, Kung Flu, or Wu Flu) disease and/or panic, I have imposed the following regulations:

All visitors to this site may only read content while wearing full, hermetically-sealed NBC suits, to include DOD-approved helmets (FAST, PASGT, etc.);

All visitors to this site must at all times remain a minimum of 237 feet away from each other and 16 nautical miles away from the perrinlovett.me server (400 kilometers at any time when Perrin Lovett is active at the keyboard [look for the orange light]);

No visitors, other those female visitors pre-rated as a “9+,” are allowed inside The Bunker for any reason;

No more than 22.4 visitors are permitted at this site at any given nano-second;

Visitors are not necessarily under house arrest;

No visitor shall operate an active sonar or other RF frequency-emitting device broadcasting at or above 3.33 kHz, as such might disturb the fish;

THE FOLLOW PERSONS ARE BANNED FROM THE SITE: ALL POLITICIANS AND ELECTED OFFICIALS,* All Politically-appointed Officials, All Central and Commercial Bankers, All Grabblers, All Idiots, All Mentally and/or Emotionally Compromised Persons, All Severely Intoxicated Persons, All Persons Covered Under Previous Bans, The Illiterate, All Drag Queens and +VPC’s, and All Orcs. Ban subject to modification without notice; furthermore,

All violations of the foregoing are subject to summary Phalanx CIWS or AGM-114 proceedings, future bans, or catcalls.

Together I am confident that we can BEAT THE BUG! Do your part. Safer by comb. Etc. Thank you.

– Perrin Lovett

*Exception is made, of course, for those officials to whom an express invitation was previously extended. 

April Fool’s Special – TPC

01 Wednesday Apr 2020

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April, TPC

Clearing the Miasma

Happy April, fools! 

Listen now, I know all of this latter-day hysteria has us a little down in the dumps. We need not obsess over a teeny-tiny organism that we can’t even see. So, today we’re going to discuss something else entirely! Something fun! To the sports desk:

TPC’S EXCLUSIVE 2020 MASTERS TOURNAMENT COVERAGE

_[__________Ripoff Template 3: INSERT BS “STORY” HERE__________]_

Okay… um… the virus, then…

Greetings, dear friends. I trust you’re all at home, bored to tears. How are the kids? What? No “school” again this week? Get ‘em some of that STEM they keep talking about, which I think has something to do with botany. How was church Sunday? Got your $1,200 in government cheese yet? I jest, sorry. Anyway, one of the subjects the kiddos aren’t missing right now is literature. And part of that, fabled throughout our long history, is the art of poetry. Assonance, meter, carburetion, and other elements have always eluded my mastery. So, since you have nothing to do and I am just about out of my damn mind, let’s give it a stab. Yes, gather up your traveling papers, maintain that social distance, and let’s shelter in place while we bail ourselves out with a pandemic poem.

Safer at Gnome

By Perrin Lovett

A.D. COVID-XIX

There is a tree, in west Tennessee, outside of Jackson, they say.

There lives a Gnome, often happy at home, who can keep the virus at bay.

Just play him a tune, at a quarter past noon, on a fretted old dulcimer, true.

And, ask him politely, if he might do rightly, to stem the pandemic of dread.

But, mention not his neighbor; Leprechaun did him no favor when he gave their gold to the Fed.

Magic, you see, from a Gnome in a tree, is all that salvation requires.

Oh, what’s that you say? And, what, by the way, should we sing to our new little friend?

Just strum ye along, to this favorite song, and watch all our troubles upend:

…

More at TPC

A Social Distance – a little fiction where we left off…

28 Saturday Mar 2020

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Coronavirus, fiction, hoax, short story, Todd Vispoli, Tom Ironsides

Noo Yawkas and Congress-critters are telling each other to “shut the f-ck up,” and the police are hunting out-of-staters in RI, FL, and TX. But, let’s take a look at the lighter side, if any, of the current panic:

A Social Distance

Steubenville, Ohio, Saint Patrick’s Day 2020, 6 PM…

A woman was screaming at the top of her lungs. The words were incoherent but her tone and demeanor left no doubt as to her murderous intentions. Another woman, a little older and quieter, had just connected with the emergency operator and frantically pleaded for help. On the floor, two men rolled and wrestled violently. Neither trained or experienced for the encounter, they flailed and tugged; each unsure whether to grapple or strike, they did both with inartful abandon. Nearby, a larger man began shoving several teenagers towards a wall, cursing and spluttering as he did so. It had come to this so rapidly. And it would surely get worse as night fell. Part of the large crowd pressed in closer, jostling with each other – to avail themselves of a better view of the mayhem or, possibly, to join it. Others, having no desire for brutality, began to depart the scene.

Seeing his chance, he darted through the madness and ran a short distance. He quickly glanced over his shoulder. Someone, maybe another irate woman, yelled something about “go ahead and run!” He didn’t care so long as he was temporarily free. He had a job to do. Turning away he again scanned the environment. It wasn’t his usual neighborhood and he would have been out of place on a good day. Just then, as he started to recover his wits, a crazed man in a medical mask rushed by in a frenzy. Rammed almost to the ground, he jumped up. He resisted the urge to say anything and kept moving. He was also resisting the calls of his own better judgment: “Just get out of there, you fool!” He’d never in his life been in war nor any serious criminal altercation. As he ducked and dodged forward, he wondered if his luck would run out. He fully expected gunfire to ring out at any moment.

Then, when from behind the shouting, screaming, and sounds of physical objects being broken reached a frantic peak, he came to a corner. Turning it, he beheld utter devastation. It was like the views of some third-world country in the midst of a civil war that one sometimes sees on the evening news: he was about to enter an area of desolation and despair. He did so at a run, fast enough (he thought) not to become a target, but slow enough (he hoped) to allow his senses to process the survivors – if there were any left. 

Foot by torturous foot, he made his way – as quickly though carefully as possible – through a sea of destruction, down a veritable bombed-out street. He knew it had been quaint and civilized just hours earlier. The thoughts, augmented by the whirling fury around him, made him sick. What has become of us! he asked himself. Portions of a lunch too hastily consumed ventured to the back of his mouth. He fought the urge to vomit. He fought the stronger urge to make a break for safety. To say things were looking black would have been an understatement. Here, here of all places where it should have been, he found only chaos and the crumpled remains of civilization. Only when he was about to give in to all his urges, to abandon his desperate quest, did a ray of hope shine in like the sun through dark clouds: he saw something! No, it wasn’t what he’d come for, what he expected, or even what he thought might be useful. But, damn it, it was all he had now. Figuring any alternative would make do under the circumstances, he reached out his free hand and grabbed it. He grabbed it and ran! Now! Now, he pursued a speed he had not known since his days in college and that failed tryout for the varsity track team. This time around, his prize might well be his life. He knew that and made use of all his cascading fears and all his remaining energy.

A moment later he was rewarded. This thing, made so precious by the insanity of his fallen world, along with the other odd bits and pieces of things he’d found in a pinch, was finally and truly his. The monetary price, small though it was, did not matter. Ten times the value he would have paid and happily. The extra plastic bags he snagged, almost as an afterthought, were the icing on the sour cake. He had made it through the gauntlet of death! Phone in hand, he collapsed into the comfort of his waiting SUV, somewhere out there in the vast Kroger parking lot.

‘Honey! Honey,’ he cried into the small, flat glass screen, ‘I found some! They were all out of toilet paper, but I got a box of Kleenex. The last one. It’s a small square one, but it’s better than nothing. I love you, baby, I love you!’

‘Todd,’ Claire asked with mild annoyance in her voice, ‘where are you?’

‘Kroger. Steubenville,’ Todd gasped as another police car screeched to a stop nearby. ‘On my way back, I tried everywhere. The Kroger and the Shop ‘n Save in Weirton. Even Walmart. All I could find was a little four-pack. A roll of paper towels. Some canned tuna. No… No hand sanitizer anywhere. It’s a wasteland out-’

‘Todd Vispoli!’ Claire said, the annoyance crystal clear now; ‘It’s time you came home. I’m cooking supper and Bryson wants to toss the football around. Ruthie wants to play cheerleader. And Lizzy has a question about something. I need my husband and the kids need their father. Quit playing soldier and come home!’

‘Okay, okay, baby,’ he panted as he watched more police cars and a firetruck enter the lot. ‘But, it’s going to get rough. We need toilet paper. Basics. Tom Ironsides, my new friend, said it’s going to get really ugly. Already is. I just saw people trying to kill each other for grits and bacon. Not a loaf of bread left in the store-’

‘Todd, my dear,’ Claire said with a bit more understanding in her voice, ‘we know that. It’s all on the news – all that’s on. You didn’t need a CIA spook to tell you. I asked you not to go to Pittsburgh in the first place. Remember?’

Todd thought back to the weekend and her advice that the conference would probably be cut short even if it was allowed to commence. As he watched an officer retrieve a rifle from the trunk of a Dodge Charger, he shifted into reverse and prepared to depart. ‘You were right, you were right,’ he said. ‘We were wrapping up a panel discussion when the cops and the health inspector shut it down. Tom and I went to a bar – you’d remember it, Marv’s place on the river – for beer and sandwiches. But, we’d just started eating when the police came in and ordered everyone out. I was a little afraid we’d get arrested or something. They had many harsh words for Marv.

‘Anyway, as we were walking out the front door, these two FBI agents approached and wanted to talk to Tom. “Colonel,” they said, “we’ve got some really bad news. Need your input on some things,” they said. He talked with them for a few minutes, half of it in whispers. He seemed almost amused and kept telling them, “I just don’t care.” Then, they said something that got his attention, something about it backfiring and the Omega Section, whatever that is. All of a sudden, Tom got really serious. Before he left with the G-men, he told me to head straight home but to maybe stock up before I got to the house. He said there was about to be panic – but not for the right reasons – and that things like toilet paper would be in short supply. He said we might be locked down for a while. Said it might turn into martial law – or worse. I’ve been looking for tee-pee since I left Pittsburgh. Tough luck out here.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I did my big monthly shopping a few days ago, while you were packing. Then, this morning, based on the ordinary news reports, I decided to do a follow-up. Riesbeck’s in Anytown had plenty of toilet paper, paper towels and everything else. We’re set for a good three months, maybe longer. I’m a prepper if you recall.’

‘And, thank God, baby!’ he said with relief as he pulled onto the highway, passing an ambulance and more police cars, all with sirens blaring and lights flashing. ‘I’ll be home in thirty minutes. Tell Bryce to be ready.’ He thought for a second and then asked, ‘Hey, in all your prepper readings and so forth, did you ever hear anything about this Omega whatever?’

‘We’ll all be ready when you arrive, dear,’ she said. ‘Omega? No, sweetie. Sounds like a big hoax to me.’

 

 

Alligators and Toilet Paper – from TPC

25 Wednesday Mar 2020

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Coronavirus, economy, society, TPC

Yes, another one in the same week!

Shelter in Place or the Terrorists Economy Virus Wins

First, the good news: Guess who is the owner of 18 brand new and hopefully unused rolls of toilet paper? That’s right. This guy! Ah, the simple pleasures of good old apocalyptic ‘Murica. As an added benefit, I received the eternal blessing of staying saaaaaaaaafe from every mask-clad woman I encountered at Publix. I had found some excess cash which I had hidden away for future vices. So, upon making off with Mr. Whipple’s delight and before returning to the bunker, I sought to entertain myself with a burger from a local eatery. They were closed, as was the I-talian joint, the gym, the rec center, the library, the bar, the other bar, and even the cigar lounge. Friends, when the cigar club shuts down, we have a problem.

You might not have heard, but America is experiencing what may be the largest, most lethal health event in recorded human history. The media is intentionally obscuring the numbers. This year alone – from January 1 until today – the death toll is closing in on 200,000! Those poor souls add to the 60 million tiny babies already wantonly murdered in this dead nation since 1973. It’s not just an atrocity, it’s a genocide, a holocaust. Never forget? Never again? This being a crime crying out to Heaven for vengeance, we might expect God to act, like with a plague or something. For now, we have to settle for an economic depression.

The warnings and observations of Dr. Todd Vispoli are coming true as each new day passes. It’s almost like he, or rather, the pen behind him, is prophetic. The idiots in Washington are moving mountains to gin up trillions of dollars in alleged remediation for the financial calamity wrought by those same idiots and the very same usurious thieves they plan to give the money to. Orange Man blasphemes about a “resurrection” by Easter (when the churches will still be closed, I imagine). Interest on short-term Treasuries dipped well below zero in a display of the actual value of the currency (of which there will soon be at least $6 Trillion more). Viral unemployment benefits and fake tax rebates start to look a whole lot like universal basic income. The Federal Reserve is set to receive new and greater powers to issue more “digital currency” from their crystal ball of doom. All of the irresponsible, anti-American, globalist-minded corporations and otherwise bankrupt industries cue up like hogs at the trough. 

…

THE WHOLE THING AT TPC!

When Bubba Met Kenny – from TPC

23 Monday Mar 2020

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Kenny Rogers, TPC

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:

…

FIND OUR MORE AT TPC

The Gambler Broke Even; Kenny Rogers, RIP

21 Saturday Mar 2020

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Kenny Rogers

The AJC reports the loss of the legend:

Kenny Rogers, the genial country singer as beloved for being “The Gambler” as he was a movie star and restaurant entrepreneur, died late Friday night at the age of 81.

Rogers’ spokesperson confirmed to The Atlanta Journal-Constitution that the hitmaker passed away from natural causes at his Sandy Springs home.

About 25 years ago, I met Rogers in Athens and had a short conversation with him. Beyond the talents, musical and culinary, he was just a nice man. There remain not that many more of his kind.

The Masque of the Red Debt

21 Saturday Mar 2020

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Coronavirus, debt, Edgar Allan Poe, fiction

The following just kind of wrote itself out, perhaps a manifestation of my growing anger with this ridiculous hoax people are buying hook, line, and toilet paper. Or, it might just be another ripoff. The Prince is now considering a national lockdown for two weeks. If that happens, and when it’s over, and nothing has happened but your economy is completely wrecked, then maybe your anger will emerge too.

The Masque of the Red Debt

“And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.”

  • Edgar Allan Poe, The Masque of the Red Death, 1842

*****

THE “Red Debt” had for over a century plagued the nation. No scheme had ever been so evil, or so impactful. It reduced to ruination and nothingness the currency. All value it supplanted. The bankrupt corpses of the victims littered the land. All was seemingly lost.

But the Prince Faux Prospero was fat and stupid and insouciant. When half his subjects were aborted, he called forth a host of six-hundred-sixty-six of his friends amongst the rich, the beautiful, the lustful, and the wicked. Away they departed into the far hinterlands, where, upon a stout hillock, the Prince had constructed the super-sized-est of McMansions. Gay was their procession. “Pizza” was in the train. Upon their ensconcement, the wardens locked them within and the world without. The world, they felt, could simply burn. Within they were enriched. Without lurked the “Red Debt.”

After some time so secluded, the Prince hosted for the throng a masquerade of some significance. 

Six were the rooms of the paraded revelry – a literal half-dozen. These safe spaces were arranged in a manner that required drunken meandering to peruse in full. The Prince was crooked in all affairs, even architecturally. First, the chosen guests entered through the white hall of purity, an apartment bereft of all furnishings and accompaniment – a place of no interest to them. Second, was the beige hall of plenty, of honest endeavor, a room largely empty. The third was the hall of celebrity, wherein every surface mirrored the visages of the gleeful guests, all thrilled to see and to think of themselves. The fourth, the theater of lies, was ablaze with telescreens, each pouring forth a cacophony of disinformation to the amusement of the elite. Fifth, there was the harsh chamber of power, all adorned with flags and columns. There, brash music played in military time. The last – the sixth hall – was shrouded in shades of green and gold, which shimmered bewitchingly. This was the Temple of Usury. Here, in the center of the spacious floor, there reposed and hummed a printing press of vast proportion. From this infernal device, issued a continuous stream of cash money, free and easy for the taking. 

Within these strange walls, the Prince and his guests socially distanced themselves from the suffering of The People. Outside, beyond the tall gates and strong walls, a lone man shouted in vain, calling, “End it! Burn it!” None heeded his words or countenance. 

Within, the party raged. All about, one fool after another cavorted in garb befitting their collective, contrived status. Few if any noticed among them the appearance of a visitor. Only upon his passage through several of the halls – slowly lurching forth in much the same fashion as the grave stalks the careless youth – did the assorted oddities of his presence take note. A gasp here, a whisper there, but till forth came the shadowy menace. For all in black was he clad, in a robe without shape. A cold air went before him and lingered in his wake. Silent he was. As was suggested by his blank, sterile mask perhaps he had no mouth with which to speak. It was as if he wore a virus as a veil in a successful bid to out-Shylock Shylock.

When, upon some time, he had processed unto the theater of lies, suddenly there in all screens began to flicker and all went silent. Concurrently, in the chamber of power, abruptly halted the jingoist hymnal. So was alerted the Prince Faux Prospero, who heretofore had minded the music which haunted that chamber. From there, he cried aloud, “Churl! Who mocks our advantage with such spectral Corona? Remove thou medical mask, so we might examine our next victim!” His plea ignored by the advancing figure, the Prince broke to within six feet of him, his silver stang raised high and poised. Yet, the strike became stricken, for, with a shriek, there fell dead the False Prince of Prosperity. 

Six-hundred-sixty-six rainbow-clad mere mortals, elite no more, ran helter-skelter through the halls as, at last, the silent figure reached the Temple of Usury. Standing before the printing press, he raised his mask upon its elastic bands. Then, all beheld the RED DEBT! He had fallen upon them even as they had fallen upon the ranks of the decent and the poor – his way was deception and by it he now did war. His ghastly hand was laid upon the machine. Six-hundred-sixty-six screaming heathens swooned, swayed, and toppled down – as dead as the culture and society they had of late entombed. The screens all went out and the press hummed its final tone. Room by room went as dark as a gravity well the lifeless halls. And through darkness and death, the Red Debt destroyed all.

 

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Perrin Lovett

From Green Altar Books, an imprint of Shotwell Publishing

From Green Altar Books, an imprint of Shotwell Publishing

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