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PERRIN LOVETT

~ Deo Vindice

PERRIN LOVETT

Category Archives: Other Columns

Columns concerning any and everything. Enjoy!

Another TPC Preview

21 Tuesday Apr 2020

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schools, TPC

This week I’m back on the schools.

Happy Corona Day, number 1,502!!!

Yes, it’s the intersection of the failed schools and the viral hoax. You’ll be happy, I think. That, here, then.

A Question and a Tip

19 Sunday Apr 2020

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America, American Dream, Smokey Mountains

What is the American Dream in 2020? I think we’re all past the point in believing in a nice little house (maybe any house) and the two kids (or even any human relationship). All that has been completely killed by the ancient enemy and, if we’re honest, by us. At least by the older generations. Thanks, assholes!

So, what is it today? Getting that stimulus welfare check and wearing a mask to Walmart to fight over toilet paper? This isn’t a dream. It’s become a reality. It’s a nightmare.

Anyway, I just learned that, like everything else, one of my favorite places, the Smokey Mountains National Park, is closed … until. This reminds me of the closure back in the 90s when the Republicrats couldn’t issue enough debt fast enough and decided to punish the people. Then, as I suspect now, the fact that the gates are closed does not mean that one can’t go in and hike or camp. I discovered that there was no force field absolutely prohibiting entry. Best of all, the crowds are gone and no pesky rangers will stoop around your site. There have been no virus sightings in the hills. So, maybe that’s the place to go. About the only dream that’s left. Happy hiking.

It Was Bound To Happen Again – FromTPC

15 Wednesday Apr 2020

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Coronavirus, decline, hoax, TPC

FROM TPC:

It Was Bound To Happen (Again)

Hey! Did ya hear about the dead guy they pulled out of the harbor? He’d been shot twenty-seven times, hanged, burned, and dragged behind a car before being encased in concrete and tossed in the water. Dr. Fauci said it was the worst case of Corona he’s seen yet…

Ah! It was Sunday morning. Easter Sunday and Tournament Sunday! I woke up happy. Outside the window, the sun was shining and all the little birds and lizards were carrying on as if nothing was amiss. Therefore, I discounted as a bad dream what I thought had befallen me on Saturday. 

In my dream, wanting to do a little writing amidst a different setting, I had driven to the local Starbucks. But, it was closed. So, I went to the public library, only to find it also closed. Next, I ventured over to the old cigar shop. It too was closed. I tried the bar. Closed. The other bar. Closed. The gym. Closed. Bookstore. Closed. As I drove around, I noticed that just about every single business was shuttered. There were few souls about. Disheartened as I wondered how any of these essential businesses could possibly survive, I wanted some comfort food. The grocery store was open! But, at the front door, standing beside a roped-off queue, was a manager in a hazmat suit. When I approached, he yelled something about “one more!” into a walkie-talkie. Peering inside, I saw a host of sullen, frightened, mask-wearing zombies shuffling around like cattle while trying to follow arrows taped to the floor. The intercom screeched about “saaaaaaaafety.” I left.

But, it was all a dream, I thought. So, I ate breakfast and headed over to Saint Mary’s for Easter Mass. However, I found the front (and side) doors locked. Posted conspicuously was a sign which informed me that no services would be held “for the duration.” It instructed that none were permitted inside and that I was to “seek shelter immediately,” although I was free to drop a monetary offering through the mail slot. The sign also encouraged me to join, via the fake reality of television, “pope” Bergoglio for a fake mass complete with fake communion. 

Desiring something real, something orthodox, I drove down the street to Saint Ignatius Melkite Church. The real deal, I thought! Their door was unlocked, but when I tried to enter, I was met by a Deacon wearing a gas mask. He bore me backward with a Lexan police shield and ordered me off: “Join us on Facebook!” he invited – if one could call it that. I heard the door lock from inside as I staggered sideways toward the street.

Sensing that something was definitely wrong, I decided to try one of the churches in protest. Alas, each – Methodist, Baptist, Lutheran, Episcopal, even the rock ‘n roll warehouse joint – were closed down. A few allegedly offered something online. All, it seemed, were still willing to accept cash in-person – the cash, but not the person. I’d heard that in other states, they were arresting and hunting Christians (well, the few they could find anymore) so I assumed this absence was defensive if overly reactionary. But downtown, I finally found a working preacher, or what I mistook for one. It turned out he was just a crazy homeless character, ranting away on a corner. His “sermon” centered around little green men trying to take his bottle. He, too, was accepting of fiscal donation.

I took matters into my own hands and simply said a prayer. As if in answer, the notion came immediately to my brain that I could head to the National and get a better parking space. I knew that I couldn’t purchase a beer until after noontime, but I figured I could watch practice chips and wander through the gift shop while I waited. So, off I went, excitedly wondering if Tiger could pull it off again.

It was eerie. The only traffic I passed, coming off the Calhoun Expressway onto Washington Road, was a tumbleweed. I indeed found the very best parking space, the one immediately adjacent to the main patron gate. It was me and me alone in the vast, grassy parking lot under the pines. And, like the churches, the gate was closed and locked. I was reading a sign that said something about “try us in November, if any of us survive,” when a loud, tinny voice spoke from behind at a distance. It was a Sheriff’s deputy barking disjointedly into his car’s loudspeaker. He said something about “shelter in place” or, it might have been “save yourself,” and then he departed at a high rate of speed as if the virus itself was after him. 

Bewildered, I went home. After lunch, I decided to put out a few signs of my own. With colorful chalk, uh, donated by the kids next door, I set about leaving inspirational messages on the sidewalk for my fellows. I wrote, “It’s A Hoax!” I was in the process of scribbling out, “COVID is Chinese for Big Lie,” when it started raining. All my work was washed away.

Anthony Fauci is the Chicken Little of epidemiology though I think he actually believes some of his own hysteria. Well, really, he’s a chicken little with the guns of a police state behind him. But anyway, he does bring to mind Mencken’s warning: “The urge to save humanity is almost always only a false-face for the urge to rule it.” You’ve probably thought this through, already, and if so, you’re right. The odds that the government which hasn’t told the truth about anything in 150 years is finally telling the truth about a cold bug are somewhere between zero and absolute zero. They literally label homicide victims, terminal cancer cases, suicides, and heart attacks as Corona “related” deaths. And they still can’t get the numbers high enough. Meanwhile, the Monopoly money flows and the economy burns.

Yet and still, for whatever reason, the masses have fallen for the predictable lunacy once again. The elites aren’t just covering for the monetary mess they made; they’re angling for total control of the population. Two hundred years ago, the population would have, by now, strung them all from lampposts. Today, the people play along, even getting ahead of the “leaders” in a mad rush to impose solitary confinement on themselves and to sacrifice any remaining vestiges of liberty. 

Mencken, again: “The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary.” The man said, “Boo!” so get to clamoring, cattle. As Jerome Adams might say, “do it fo yo pop-pop!” The alert is extreme

Patrick Henry said something about forgetting God and forging chains. Sam Adams hoped the chains would set lightly upon the would-be slaves. I’d just as soon see the chains used as whips to drive our “elites” far, far away. (I’ll likely sooner see the green man who stole Preacher’s bottle). So, this is what a late-stage Empire in terminal decline looks like during its very last days. Cool! I’ll have national affairs to write about forever, or until such time as I make like the yinshi. 

What’s next? Let’s see… I think I’m first going with the laughable closure of the failed government schools. There’s a lot going on, theoretically, though very little, educationally. There’s the new normal and all the fun it brings. And, will it be Venezuela, Iran, Russia, China, some other innocent target, or a combination thereof? Time will tell and you’ll read it here.

The Very Strangest Thing Happened … at TPC

12 Sunday Apr 2020

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Tom Ironsides, TPC

Imagine this: you “create” a fictional character, writing about him sometimes. Then, the next thing you know, he’s writing on his own:

From TPC, Sunday, April 12, 2020:

12 April 2020

A Letter to the Editor by Tom Ironsides: Celebrate Life & Hug Your Children

Dear Mr. McCart:
Greetings. I do not think we have ever met, such are my strange interactions with the “real” world. I was asked to write something for you publication by our mutual friend, Perrin Lovett, whom I have cc’d if for no other reason than to stem his incessant pestering. It is my understanding that he is working on another of his usual columns for next week (and, for that, I am blameless). The attached submission (DOC and PDF) is not what I gather he was interested in. However, as noted in the letter, it kind of sprang into my heart more than my mind. While it is admittedly a little out of my character as some know it, I hope it is sufficiently interesting. If so, then I concluded it with a brief bio, lifted from my college faculty page (my apologies, but the picture would not transfer). The title, while provided by me, is ultimately your call. I ask only that my email address or other direct contact information NOT be included with the letter.
As an aside, Mrs. Tuggle’s weekly work is always interesting and delightful. Please pass that message along to her. The rest is certainly … something. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Tom Ironsides
PS: Go Cavs!

###

Celebrate Life And Hug Your Children

Dr. Thomas H. Ironsides, II

 

Dear Mr. McCart and Friends:

My acquaintance and your colleague, Mr. Lovett, asked or begged me to write something regarding late events, both biological and geo-political. Some of my experience and opinion I understand he has recently relayed, and more of which I believe he is currently imagining. Personally, I have just about had it with my house arrest, which to my great credit, I have been breaking on a regular basis. No apologies to Sheriff Hagaman. So, of that, I have little more to say or to think. Instead, as I was instructed to write “from the heart,” I will tell you a story. It’s a little late in coming back to my mind, however, it is perfectly fitting for this Easter Season.

On the afternoon of Friday, February the 14th, I was entertaining myself in the quaint downtown of my adopted Blowing Rock. Happening upon the wonderful Art and History Museum, and having never ventured therein, I decided to peruse the galleries. Immediately, I stumbled upon what I at first took for a community party. Soon, I realized it was a public wake for a local dignitary. Someone informed me that it was not, in fact, a funeral; rather, it was a celebration. And so, I would like to share some of that experience and brave spirit with you.

The woman of the hour, of the day, was a little girl. Her name was Bexley Svana Moffat and she was only a few months into the ripe young age of two years when she unexpectedly succumbed to leukemia. Please read her unusual and heartening obituary, as linked, courtesy of the Austin and Barnes Funeral Home: 

https://austinandbarnesfuneralhome.com/tribute/details/2230/Bexley-Moffatt/obituary.html#tribute-start

According to Saint Jude Children’s Research Hospital, approximately American 3,000 children are diagnosed with leukemia every year. Around ninety percent enter into remission and are effectively cured within ten years of the onset of aggressive treatment. Why is the minority taken by this accursed disease? Most can imagine the horror of losing a precious baby. Some of us, unfortunately, know the shock and lasting pain, first-hand. In dread times such as these, we do well to remember our temporal existence in and on the physical Earth. As hard as it is to fathom, sometimes the little ones are more needed elsewhere. Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, said, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them, for the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these.” Matthew 19:14. 

Well, from the very little I know, and as you may readily gather from that infectious photograph, it is a much brighter day in Heaven. That face and especially those big, blue eyes say, “Hello! I’m sweet though a bundle of fun trouble!” The parting message left for us first-person by Bexley, notes that among the things she loved the most were her mommy and daddy, her grandparents, and her puppies. You just know each was the world among the others. 

It’s fascinating, to me, that I write about this brief encounter, particularly as I consider its context in my life. Why am I still here? For decades, I walked hand-in-hand, as a partner, with death. My own demise could have easily found me a hundred times over and yet it did not. I surmise the Almighty must require bubbly sweethearts more urgently than gruff, stubborn jarheads. (Who could blame Him?) And I could have told you a similar story about Gloria, but after thirty years, my words still fail me. I trust Bexley understands both my ponderings and my discourse.

This adorable little stranger-friend whom I never knew has given me the strength and the joy to look upon otherwise unspeakable tragedy as the celebration of the eternal. For this Miracle, I might deem her Saint Bexley (though I think she is not one for formal pretense).

I leave you with the following thoughts: our days, currently, have about them a bleak disposition. Some of us are sick. Some are scared. Some are unemployed. We lack a certain direction or purpose. Yet, it is all but temporary tribulation. Just as the Mightiest Son rose for us, so the smallest daughter helps us to raise our darkened spirits. So, right now, go on and hug your children – of any age. Leave a social distance between you that you couldn’t slip a piece of paper through. 

Thank you and may God bless you,

Tom Ironsides

[dthi/fac.jpg] Dr. Thomas H. Ironsides, II (Ph.D., Harvard) is Professor of Classics at Saint Thomas of Aquino College. When not teaching Roman philosophy and culture, he is also President of the American Classical Education (ACE) Center. He previously retired as a Paramilitary Operations Officer and Acting Deputy Director of the Special Activities Division, National Clandestine Service, United States Central Intelligence Agency and as a Colonel with the United States Marine Corps. Given his experiences, he is adamantly opposed to gratuitous warfare and attendant international usury. Currently, with an aching back and sore thumbs, he attempts to build by hand a small cabin.

 

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.’

 

 

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Perrin Lovett

From Green Altar Books, an imprint of Shotwell Publishing

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