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Friday, August 28, 2020

Harmonic Convergence Republican National Convention Edition


“Washington has not changed Donald Trump. Donald Trump has changed Washington,” spoke First Daughter Feckless Cunt in a speech which was presaged by cat calls and a model trot out of Zoolander.  It was the start of a final night staged largely at the White House, as was much of this four-day testimonial-a-thon. A two-thousand-person corona virus super spreader event was held as a backdrop for the acceptance speech. Sadly, the impressive set-up was squandered by Cheetolini, who recited an overly long and deeply meaningless soliloquy sans focus, replete with defamatory and jingoistic allspice.  What one takes away mostly is mostly how long it was.


I made the mistake of watching all four nights on MSNBC. I tried Fox at first, but they were not covering it live at the time. The folks at MSNBC thought it adroit to continually break the fourth wall to remind us that much of what was being testified to was pure fantasy. Bless you Rachael Maddow, but most of us on planet Earth already know they’re lying. I’m unclear about the value of keeping a running tally at this late date.


On Earth Trump the plague has been dealt with, scared into a full retreat through steely resolve and swift executive action.  When others were dithering and denying our prescient commander-in-chief banned tourism by slimy infected foreigners, built millions of miles of impenetrable fortifications around our borders and dispatched medical resources with deft expedience. Millions were saved and, thanks to an effective and universal testing regime, we are now ready to continue building the best economy in the history of mankind. A full restoration of everyday life is just around the corner, as a TOTAL CURE for the plague has been WARP SPED into reality. And if that was not enough for you, THE BEST IS YET TO COME!


There were game show surprise highlights throughout. A guy got pardoned, live and on TV. Another bunch of people were suddenly made citizens. Unhinged Let’s Make A Deal audience participant behavior was on full display. Rudy Giuliani and Kimberly Guilfoyle screamed their presentations and yet both came off as undead. Various slick haired squares and imitations of Grizzly Adams stalked forth to warn of the dangers of socialism, looters, cancel culture or to remind us that the Republican Party is proudly sponsored by LAW AND ORDER. Others brandished their bibles and sincerely avowed that Joe Biden is an agent of Satan. Larry Kudlow invented his own genre of literature by describing things that are yet not to happen in an optimistic past tense. As in previous years, we had to sit through the parading of all known black Republicans. All of the president’s children performed with the zeal of Kamikaze pilots before their maiden flights.  Not to be outdone by her peers, Feckless Cunt declared herself co-president in her final appearance. Of those allowed within social distance of Cheetolini, only the First Lady failed in her trained seal act.


I kept hoping she would stab him in the back. “He shtupped a porn star when I was knocked up. He is evil.” Instead, she used the time to disabuse the world of the notion that she is near-fluent in English. Maybe she was speaking semaphore or Esperanto? It’s impossible to say.  For her last appearance, she attempted to make day-glow lime fashionable again. She would have been better served showing up in the nude.


Once the convention locked in on themes, every performer was required to hit on all of them. It was something akin to a Branson show, only without the music. The phrase that pays seems to be: Joe Biden is out to destroy the suburbs.  As clearly pulled out of the ethers as that notion may be, it at least makes sense as a sentence. In the end, even Cheetolini found it stale with repeating and substituted a promise of unending tax cuts in its place. Undefined until the end was the big promise of THE BEST IS YET TO COME.  There is an outside chance that this boils down to unending tax cuts, wherein the rich make us give them all of our money. By context, however, it seems more likely to mean putting a woman on the moon. Or putting a woman on Mars. In any case, some bitch is getting epic style stranded. (*) The silver lining in all of this is that if the Republican party is hatching any further evil schemes, they seem to be directed at the universe and not at us.


(*) Hil-Gle would like to apologize for using both the B word and the C word in this posting. It was done purely for comedic effect and does not reflect Hil-Gle’s deep abiding reverence for more than half of the human race.

Monday, August 24, 2020

Harmonic Convergence Democratic National Convention Edition


The giant clam shell split open as a ray of bright white parted black from above. A chorus of divine devas warbled. His mightiness stepped forward, a sister saint at his side. Other sister saints heralded his arrival in poem prayer songs sung loud. Taylor Swift wept.

His awesome presence has been detailed fantastic bit by fantastic bit. To see his magnificence is to be permanently instantly impressed. But a word from him will change your life. The glint off his aviator glasses can grow whole organs back. Gold pools in his footsteps. Put your watch up to the TV screen and he will tell you the time. Mostly, however, he cares damn hard. And so does Kamala.

Eek. I am glad the convention is over. For a minute there I was failing to remember Joe Biden’s number one qualification: Not being Donald Trump. I am happy to report that Joe Biden still retains this awesome feature. In all probability Joe Biden lacks the imagination needed to justify the jailing of toddlers. I’m sold!

Under the hood is a middling corrupt, carpet-bagging, half-dead but competent Center Center politician and his newly-minted, highly ambitious female sidekick. I am convinced that Joe Biden and Kamala Harris are normal as far as the population of human beings who seek to become President of the United States are concerned. That should not be mistaken for being normal normal. Both rate slightly less than Bill Clinton on the overall weirdo meter. Not being bloviating psychopathic science deniers is an important distinction this go around.

Exigent circumstances are the only Presidential Agenda. The depression and plague have voided all other policy items for the foreseeable future. Our choice could not be more stark. It’s suicide or science.

People who voted for Trump have one last chance to redeem their immortal souls.

Friday, July 31, 2020

Bozoverse USA!

What Have We Learned?


It is hard to encapsulate take-aways when one is still participating in a pro wrestling match. We know how the match ends. Many of the participants will say the same thing at the end, no matter what happens. And there will be another SMACK DOWN AT THE END OF TOMMAROW to look forward to in another time and in another place. Reflecting while one is the immediate subject of a helicopter hold is dubious on so many levels, but sometimes reflection is all you have.


The Corona Virus is Thunderlips and we are all the guy in the kitty mask, receiving an elevated 360 whirlwind perspective of what life outside the ring looks like. At some point we too shall be deposited into a seat, front and center and ready to view the misfortunes of another unfortunate. Whether we will be allowed to take our seat in as civilized of a manner as someone who has just been utterly humiliated by his opponent can, or whether said seat will be sent upside our heads, or whether we will be flung into the seat and deposited seated upside down are plot details. Thunderlips will eventually be done with us. Of that we can be sure.


The first lesson that we’ve learned is that the round is not over until Thunderlips says it is.  The ref can blow his whistle to his heart’s content. We can pee our pink kitty tights green.  Donald Trump can charge the ring. If Thunderlips wants to keep fighting, there is little assembled ringside to stop him from doing so.


It is incumbent upon us in the Kitty Suit to keep some grasp of the distinctions between the actionable and the delusional. This is not a good look. Even if Thunderlips should manage to break his own neck, we will not have won this match. At this point the damage done to us is already immeasurable. Although Thunderlips is awesome and menacing and not of our making, there is an entire Europe and Asia and Africa and Oceana and islands between who have handled his ass. Our fate may not be unique, but pissing up our pink kitty suits are endearing us to no one. If one of our mad scientists finds a cure for this mess it will be chalked up to there being at least one of us who isn’t a complete idiot… and little else.


My stock portfolio looks swimming.  Let’s bid up the cruise lines again, just to watch them fall.  Is a market really free when it is dominated by hyperfast computers who can create account activity in lieu of linkage with tangible reality? Is a market really free when the debts of public trust corporations are being subsidized by the government, when socialist mechanisms are grafted onto the issuing of private risks? This isn’t about the values of houses this time. This is about fictional beings selling fractions of themselves and taking out mortgages on those fractions with money owned by you and me. We won’t have enough pink kitty suits to mop up this mess, too.


What sort of an economy shrinks by 33% in one quarter? Stop me if you’ve heard this one. And what sort of an economic environment is it when 25% of the already defined statistically depleted work force is idle?  This would not be the picture of go go stock market time if stock markets reflected anything other than the rich pretending that they are still rich. It’s all fun until we eat you.


Our powers that be who hesitated not a blink to graft our common horde of wealth to backing the equities market are taffy pulling the idea of slipping us another grand or so.  Of our money. So that we can eat. In this universe this requires deliberation. The burning cities aren’t enough for them.


Yes, this will be over.  We are currently 155K PEOPLE down from this plague.  That’s five fair sized suburbs worth of deceased, just since April. Any idea of the total once we are flipped from the ring is guesswork. And anyone who thinks Joe Biden is the solution to any problem lacks both math skills and product knowledge. We aren’t quite at FAILED STATE yet, but we have entered the bozoverse.



Saturday, June 13, 2020

Say Mean Stupid Things

It was my fault for wanting Colonel Sanders.  Who in their right mind passes up a dozen or so locally owned restaurants to patronize a corporate chain?  That’s prima facia nuts. The KFC menu board was confusing.  The chicken was not cooked fully.  And it wasn’t the first time for either of those. KFC might be the most indifferent and scatological purveyor in the consumer products market. I’ll miss the delicious herbs and spices, but I am now cured. The fried chicken everywhere else is fine.

As I was closing in on my local KFC, I encountered a pack of Tweens—not quite teenagers.  They paraded on the sidewalk next to the highway, flicking off passing cars and cussing loudly. People in the drive thru were serenaded with cat calls like, “Get that chicken, you fat pig.” There were about a dozen tweens and they were in a dark, dark mood.

It’s nice to see free range children again. Not too long ago they were all in programs with spread charts, living lives of enriching channeled busy boxes.  Trends in parenting have now thankfully shifted in favor of having more than one child and letting those spawn play in the streets. My pack of mean tweens is part of the trend, which has telescoped up to teenagers.

All of the kids I’ve run into recently are in crappy moods.  There’s a dismissive look teenagers give you, that “how do I avoid this nitwit’s fate” glance they bestow on all non-celebrities. It’s normal. They expect better than what you have. You have been sized up as the rotund, self-satisfied sell out that you are.  Of late, this has mutated into a pack sneer.

I can’t blame them.  The global adult world’s reaction to this plague has not been reassuring.  Here in the United States, doubly less so.  Not only has what’s been played out seem chaotic, imposing and goofy, but by all measures it has been ineffective. Let’s all lock down, group ground, mass protest and then open back up when there is nothing open. Watch the adults move in competing directions. Listen as the news reports one thing while the government says something else. Or the news comes from different worlds and the governments challenge each other’s truths. This does not inspire confidence on any level.

The kids are letting us know that we’ve robbed them. We’ve robbed them of summer. We’ve robbed them of safety. We’ve robbed them of the expectation of competence.  Wipe the sage look off your face. This is not a normal part of a generation’s maturation process. This is failure.

Thursday, June 4, 2020

America Burning

My Plague Scorecard Update: First, I was declared a Soldier. Then, I was declared the Enemy.

The Plague has now progressed to the Civil Unrest Phase. Previous protests were against confinement—against the idea that we here in the futuristic-sounding 21st Century should be relegated to the Dark Ages recourse of quarantine as a response to this crisis. Science be damned if science can’t do better than that. In the Ozarks, my people massed near naked around pools and drank. In other places people played out the old Saturday Night Live “Show Us Your Guns” skit about the nearest temples of government authority. A spate of deadly, bizarre police actions against black people have driven a more normal grouping of folks into the streets. As I write this, it is dying down.

I’m not blaming the plague for everything. This is some bastard sort of a harmonic convergence. To me, the major catalyst seems to be the Cheeto in Chief, a man with a gift for disturbing behavior.  It is difficult to dignify these impulses he acts out as any form of thought.  Even psychotic killer cops can’t be happy with him.

President Cheetolini commenced his mangling of the situation by indicating his solidarity with the family of the poor soul deranged police squashed to death, seemingly on suspicion of passing funny money. So far, so good. But then Cheeto’s mouth started moving again and we were spritzed with some distracting nonsense about black anti-fascists and organized looter gangs. Next was a law and order rant, complete with a resurrection of Nixon’s Silent Majority. Gas was then deployed on the park outside the White House so that Cheeto and his immediates could go walk to a burnt church. He gets to the church and suddenly words fail him. This is someone you can’t shut up with a roll of duct tape and a staple gun, a man capable of riffing idiotic for hours without prompting. Yet nothing occurs to him. Not a few words cross the median into the brain pan during the walk he orchestrated with Military Force against unarmed civilians. Instead, he brandishes the Bible fundy-style and gives a silent Heil Jesus.

It boggles the imagination that any part of that was thought through.

If the present is any guide, expect the dumbfounded to spread. Philosopher King Obama descended today and was clearly off his game. Everything he said was perfectly correct. But this was a time to use as few of words as one possibly can. It was a moment set up for a sentence, such as “Can’t we all just get along?” Obama the law professor showed up and it was a waste, a squandering of limited attention. Perhaps Obama has grasped the obvious, that what the crowd is calling for is a mix of blood lust and pipe dreams.

There is no amount of training that would have saved any of the black people unjustly killed by the police recently. None. The problem of psychotic killer cops has been with us since the advent of organized law enforcement. There isn’t some pre-organized law enforcement state that we can retreat to. On the plus side, the standards for police have been made tighter and higher. Our best hope is that the issue of deranged men with badges will eventually whither.  Eventually does not bring back George Floyd, however.

We can pick nits with current trends in law enforcement. The warrior mind, martial focus does have a downside. People are prone to use the tactics they practice the most. Many cops are gifted at conflict diffusion, but that has its limits. Police are largely dealing with strangers, people whose behavior they have no historic knowledge of. The police cannot read minds. A little Zen with their martial arts training might be nice, but who knows how useful that would be. No one gets into law enforcement out of a deep drive to practice lay psychology or social work. No one. The police are not going to become community activist, ever.

We can pick nits with what actually happened in in the Floyd case. Since when does check kiting or passing funny money merit sending in four armed guys? I know that following up on small things is the way big things are uncovered, however there is a rational procedure off point. He didn’t have a bag of severed heads. He’s not assembling a flame thrower. At worst, he’s an unarmed check kiter. Unless something astounding happened before the video tape started rolling, there is no reason to sit on the guy’s head and kill him. That’s depraved indifference.    

We are dealing with evil. Not an evil system, but rather the defective product of an imperfect system. The officer who killed George Floyd should not have had a badge. He should have been weeded out.(*1) As for the other Junior Woodchucks observing this execution, it probably didn’t help that they were all dressed alike and given ranks. The moment we start playing army, only one person gets to think. The police are supposed to be professionals. The only person with any rank should be the station chief. Without the ranks and strict stratification of authority perhaps one of the Woodchucks would have piped up. That may be asking a bit much.

We are going to have to live with the police. They are not going to be disbanded or defunded or anything else. We will have less psychotic bigot cops when we have less bigots. And that is a heavier lift.

Getting rid of Cheeto and ALL REPUBLICANS would be a good start.

Note: As a designated enemy of the state, I have decided to skip the protests. Frankly, the looters put me off.

(*1) Who knows what this guy’s issue is? He may have spent too much time on a very rough beat. That doesn’t excuse it, but it may explain some of it. On the other hand, his soon to be ex-wife said he was a monster. 9 times out of 10 evil is what it seems to be.

Friday, May 22, 2020

Mass Graves and Bread Lines Forever!

The plague for me started at a social gathering where we were talking about the plague. And the next week we were attempting to pack up work and work from home. That didn’t work for me for a few weeks. I had to go back to work because what I was sent didn’t work from home. I wasn’t the only one. There were plenty of people working from work, all with the lights off, trying not to draw attention. There was a whole floor full of us, pretending not to notice that we were still at the office.

Then they broke out the hand sanitizer vats. That lasted all of two days before they white flagged the effort. At that point most of us had become convinced that we needed to be home. One woman was so frustrated with the laptop she had been assigned that she scooped up her desktop from work and took that. I’m not sure how well that was going to work, but God bless her, anyway.

My own laptop was some 17 pound thing repurposed from the return to lessor pile. It has little stickers on it. And it didn’t work. Then it worked and there were connectivity issues. One by one they all became resolved, my whole work environment eventually illuminating element by element.

And here I have been, plugging away by myself, working somewhat similarly to what I do in the office, only without human contact. My social event has become an online event. My writer’s group is going to computer chat. Dating is out. It was a pain in the butt anyway, but now it’s impossible.

The adventures out are memorable, each one less routine than the next. The people you want to see, you can’t. The people you do see, you don’t want to. The vast majority of folks you interact with are attempting their best behavior. Because being an ass would be pointless. There is this oddball minority of non-compliant types, mostly milling at quickie marts and fast food places. I am convinced most are homeless people, taking advantage of the disruption to invade spaces they would normally be chased out of.

I had a quickie mart employee snap at me yesterday. I’ve had a couple of people snap, including one in my apartment building. I can tell from talking to some pals that this situation is not wearing well.  As for me, I have projects. So many projects I may be dead a few years before getting to them all. I called to offer a local merchant of mine money for a gift certificate, in hopes it would help him stay afloat. He nicely talked me out of it.  The shop is owned by a well endowed party and will reopen soon. They’ve has a number of offers of cash, of which they have no need. I’ve been attempting to ply my favorite restaurants, to the degree it is feasible. I think half of them are in trouble. Those still operating have shortened up their menus to some degree.

At the start of this, toilet paper disappeared. Pages of type were spent explaining that the problem was intractable. Supply chains are blockchain fixed to deliver one third to one half of all butt wipery to industry. It was a failure of the capitalist system. Wipe your bums with napkins.

Then all of the toilet paper returned. Capitalism un-failed? Some of this stuff is not the regular brands. (Quick! What’s your regular brand of toilet paper?) It’s one step up from the ‘please poop elsewhere’ brand your office uses but one step down from fluffy bunnies for your hind that most of us are used to. Someday a business historian will do a survey of all of the brands which appeared just for the plague. Toilet paper is now sale priced. Hand sanitizer, when it appears, is going for what oven cleaner used to. Oil lost all of its value. Saudi Arabia and Venezuela may now be safely swallowed up by the Earth. Up may be down, but it’s not all bad news.

Beef is reportedly scarce, however here in Chicagoland it seems pork and bacon are what’s vanishing. This week ribs disappeared. Next week something else will take its turn on the privation lottery.

Not bad as disasters go, except for the 100,000 dead.

The corporations letting us know they care ads have subsided.  It was hard to differentiate them.  Big private ventures stuck the boss’s puss on the ads. The guy who invented a pillow now want to sell us a book on how he used to smoke crack. He hopes it will be a movie. Faceless trusts flashed their logos after an ‘Up With People’ rehash. Frito Lay refused to show us its logo, saying it didn’t matter. Our world remains flooded with artists podcasting from basements.

At some point during this crisis metrics should have descended. The governor of Illinois believes in it. Parts of the Federal apparatus seem to believe in it. Our president believes in lying and selling snake oil. The metrics say that his acting rationally would have saved 30,000 lives so far. No telling how many people he can kill until he’s punted into the ashcan of history come November. They have come up with the metrics we need to hit before its safe to reopen. And we aren’t hitting them. And we’re opening back up, anyway. Predicting something worse isn’t a matter of pessimism, but rather logic. Wishing that the big cheeses in their ivory towers with their science were just plain wrong hasn’t worked yet.

Then we were all enlisted as soldiers. Now this is a war and we are all targets without weapons. A cure, widespread available testing, anything other than the dark ages solutions are not on the horizon.

I’m not sure what will be said of this era. I suspect we will not come out looking like stable geniuses.

Sunday, April 5, 2020

Mister Fun Responds to the Coronavirus

E pluribus unum, fellow Social Distancers.  Parting  the mists of a heady cocktail of long bouts of rerun television and the occasional bleating of Kate Smith word jazz patriotism, comes time for our own vacuous corporate hood ornament to shine anew with fervent sentiment. Good lord, what does that mean? Why are the divorce attorneys and Burger King taking to television to respond to the Coronavirus? And why are they making more sense than the current president? Maybe, unlike Trump, they know that they have nothing to say other than “Hope for the best, expect the worst”  and exit the flatscreen stage before some inkling to question their motives sets in. Trump just stands there, every day at about 4:00 PM and… Let’s just forget about Trump for a moment. And the next moment and the next moment. Come on, try! There. Doesn’t that feel better? And it does not require a mask or a shot or an effective treatment or a cure. Which is good, since most of us don’t have the sort of things.

We here at Hil-Gle’s Intercontinental Operations Conclave in sunny Chicagoland are doing our best at playing Club Fed. Unlike a real minimum-security prison, we are doing our own laundry and making our own meals. We have restricted our making phone calls only to those people we have thought about for the past ten years. Thus far we can report that everyone we have contacted electromagnetically is not dead. Which is good, since our electromagnetic séance capabilities are somewhat limited. Proactive plans to cover additional communications contingencies are predicated on the term-fluidity of our current cable TV compact and whether or not there is a cash award for using ‘proactive’, ‘contingencies’ and ‘predicated’ in a sentence. We are not holding our breath, despite the larcenous levels of remuneration demanded by said cable ‘provider.’ First, they jack up my rates and then I am confined to home. Talk about being vice twisted by the googies.

Speaking of googies, let us think of them like Trump and try not to think of them. Easy enough for you to do. They’re not your googies.

Hil-Gle has always wondered what it would be like to live through a dystopian novel. Plague would not have been our first choice of background menace, however. Hil-Gle is not sure what flavor of Mad Max it would  prefer to hopefully survive, but this does suck.  A comet strike would be worse, as would a persistent solar flare. Those would be more or less quick but might still suck because there would be nothing on cable TV, ever again. I suppose the upside is no Fox News. (We would insert a joke about a plague which only kills Fox viewers, but that may prove too close to reality to voice, even in jest.) Much like He Who We Are Not Thinking About, Fox News has made the scatological switch and twitch back between plague denial, plague political conspiracy and feel good stories about Americans helping Americans during this time of crisis. Nice of them to go from National Enquirer to Stars and Stripes. (People under 100 take note: National Enquirer was a newspaper which specialized in lying as a form of reporting and Stars and Stripes was a military publication noted for stories about grunts making good.) Normally this is the time of year when internet search engines are abuzz with inquiries as to where Gonzaga is located. Basketball and sports in general seem like a minor loss compared to ACTUAL CONTACT WITH ALL HUMANS (as opposed to the idiots at the grocery store.) Let me make this clear to all of you diseasoids out there—STAY AWAY FROM ME. We joke, really, when we’re not blubbering like the sissies we are or shouting at the television when He Who We Are Not Thinking About comes on.

Speaking of ranting, we here at Hil-Gle have decided to postpone all ill feeling towards China and communism and totalitarian bastards in general. Not that this makes these people more palatable, just that there is no point to it. Yes, the Red Chinese government is entirely to blame for this. Each and every death is on their hands, the real testament to their rise as a world power. Our lack of resources for dealing with this mess is on us, on greed capitalism, on an overt willingness to exploit people we know are slaves just to save a few pennies. There will be plenty of time to contemplate this, once all this mess is over. They have a saying in baseball about how a having a good manager as opposed to having a bad manager accounts for about a 10 point difference in win/loss percentage. In American football, the coach has a much greater impact. While there is no question that He Who We Are Not Thinking About is a zero as leader, it’s unclear which game our government’s actions are analogous to.  American culture is robust, our institutions generally sound, but no one has ever designated the Federal Government a “back up” program before. Previously it was the instrument which created the Free World.  

Hil-Gle is compiling a listing of things not to think about now. Better to think about nicer things or at least make this time work for you. Oh, who the hell are we fooling. The prisons are full of people attempting to make time work for them. Consuming distractions in quantity with variety is the best most of us can hope for. We had not even started to contemplating business continuation, much less loans, when our own Mister Fun appeared at our door, demanding that we lay him off. When last we spoke with Mister Fun he had departed our employ to toil in the campaign of one Michael Bloomberg. You may recall Bloomberg’s ads, if not the person himself. You may recall that there’s a political campaign in the offing, also. When last we checked, Michael Bloomberg was not one of the viable candidates, having fallen to a venom-clad impression from Liz Warren’s dick.  I’m sure I recall Bloomberg stating that he would put the remainder of his massive war chest on the line reminding us all of the person or persons who still are viable candidates. Unlike this nation’s fine divorce lawyers and the now reemerging Shamwow guy, the Democrats and the campaign itself are social distancing. This seems a strange strategy until Hil-Gle remembers his every 4:00 PM or so date with He Who We Are Not Thinking Of. Every word out of his mouth is the best advertisement for anyone else.

As for Mister Fun, he was commissioned to craft an advertorial manifesto in You Tube form for the wonderful ex-Mayor of New York--which Mister Fun took his damn time with. He’s now on the second draft of the shoot script. This would be fine, if it were timed for the general election. And Michael Bloomberg were still a candidate. Hil-Gle has opted not to option this work, given that Hil-Gle is not Michael Bloomberg. This makes Hil-Gle part of a progression of monied entities to decline patronage for the completion of Mister Fun’s You Tube masterwork. While we are sure that such is indeed ‘epic’, it is not something that a confined to home forever game publisher can justify expenditure upon. Note: when Hil-Gle is considered a monied party, hell has frozen over. But we don’t want to stiff Mister Fun (horrifying in any permutation to contemplate), so we have offered him an opportunity to perform something like work, after which we will promptly sack his ass. Hil-Gle is not sure how this constitutes a favor, however it beats having Mister Fun live in our car.

My Fellow Humans:

Please allow me to respond to the coronavirus. The term respond is broad, although I am sure that it is not intended that I should address the virus directly. I do intend to address the subject of the virus, however not the virus itself. I am not a virus whisperer. I do not speak virus or Mandarin. I would be at a loss as to which orifice to speak into. Please be assured that I would attempt to speak to the virus if it were in you and it could be reasonably expected that it would do any good. In which case, I would be happy to speak into whichever of your orifices is most expedient in doing the trick. That’s the type of man I am—bravely offering to perform useless rituals. Sadly, I am not alone.

There is nothing a true huckster dislikes more than not having a monopoly on a subject.  He may dislike it, although it is rare that one is first in with the offers of snake oil or hopium. What hucksters really dislike is when their acts have become shop-worn through previous repetition. There is a certain degree of modeling that goes on in the huckster field and only a finite number of huckster moves. After a while you are more playing to audience expectations than you are to making an actual sale. And that ain’t right. This is where we are on Coronavirus. There is a set format. And I have only limited latitude in its application.

First let me emphasize how important Hil-Gle is to the support of its community. It isn’t, but that’s part of the gig. Hil-Gle and Mister Fun himself are here to eat, poop and buy things. As long as Hil-Gle continues to have money it will continue to do so. Adding to this is an aspiration to not resort to cannibalism or looting or eating unhygienic foods. These are stretch goals. Allow us to rah rah for those unfortunate souls in the service sector, stocking our shelves, tending the sick, facing the perhaps lethal public. This is not shocking news: you have lost life’s lottery. Those of us who are fortunate enough to be working from home shelter in place are doing so safely thanks to your support.  That most of you are not paid better is a crock of crap. Hil-Gle is itself supported by what has been dubbed an essential worker. The essential part is that this person continues to be paid. Nothing is certain, ever—and these times serve as an excellent reminder of that maxim.

Allude to other historic struggles mankind has overcome. There’s a big pot of things that we’ve done, issues solved, especially on the disease front. And plagues do die out. In the middle of it, however, it’s bad form to randomly babble preambles like “when the history of this crisis is written” and then pull specific panaceas out of thin air, such as “big data”, “internet” or “nanotech.” That has no value. That’s just being a tout. Whatever the solution is likely to be will be based on education, insight, talent, luck and hard work.  Fate will choose a hero and give his weapon a name.  Until that happens, there’s a body count to endure.

Emphasize common sense and togetherness.  Unless you have a space suit handy, your survival is probably predestined by biology. The carriers are going to live. The infirm and the susceptible are at risk. Masks, handwashing and social distancing are mitigation rituals with unknown ratios of efficacy. Common sense says shutting down all society should work. Even that is not certain and it’s certainly not a solution.  Keep in mind that much of what you are being instructed to do as far as safety is concerned is largely a distraction.  Help out with what you can, if you can. Given that no testing is likely to take place to determine which of us can help and which of us is a mobile hazard, any help you render is a risk. Your biggest role in this is to remember what has transpired. Remember the charlatans, the nimrods, the parasites and the gougers. In the aftermath there will be a rewriting of history which needs to be thwarted. We need to hold people accountable, for the housecleaning to follow.

Suddenly lose interest in the topic and talk about your pets.  This is a unique characteristic of the coronavirus crisis. Chances are, your career is not a big deal. It only seemed like it was. If you’re lucky, you’re surrounded by the people who matter to you. Take some joy in that. Make it a point to take your opportunities for happiness where they can be found. Maybe we will all be better grounded after this is all over.

End on a Hopium Note. I would if I could but I can’t so I won’t. This is over when it’s over and it is only over for you when it’s over where you are.  There’s a lot of us in this. We’re pretty smart as a lot. No society in history has ever evaporated as the result of exposure to a single plague. That said, this is the stuff of nightmares. Most of us will wake up from it. Those who don’t will leave us all the lesser, will have been robbed of their potential. This did not have to be this way. There are guilty parties in this. We owe it to the lost to make sure this does not happen again.

Keep calm. Keep score. Good luck.

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