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Early October 2021

Carnaca la Magnifique


In my previous essay, “Sultans of Swing”, I lay claim to my own Sovereign Sultan of California, although I think the hair-gel guv is more of a swami, about to drown in the Mojave Desert of debt and medieval diseases, among other disasters. The God-willed disasters are the ones most denied by the climate cultists.


I am not a climate cultist. I therefore believe that God grants disasters, as well as gifts. All blessings, and abominations flow from Him, unless they are concocted, to seize mammon and media-idolatry, by the wicked among us. Even then, evil can be used for good. This unyielding, inspiring, and fortifying belief is a very significant theme in my opus, THE DAWN.

The God of Comfort is also the God of Equity, of setting things right, of balancing the books, of even-ing up the score. Patience, the patience of Job, is oftentimes necessary while waiting for the supreme justice that, here on earth, no mortal judge can deliver; and that any Supreme Court Justice has rarely, if ever, pontifically pronounced from on-high within that tarnished temple.


It is with an arrant sense of audacity that I — Carnaca la Magnifique — mystic from the Northeast — predict a Great Flood shall arrive this winter in the Golden Charcoal State of la Californie. Perhaps even Carnac the Magnificent, Johnny Carson of the Tonight Show (which I never watched) is on this soothsaying.


Mr. Carson quite unintentionally initiated a media-promoted panic-wave of purchasing toilet paper among the citizenry of America. Evidently, enough adults in the U.S. watched the December 1973 Tonight show in which Johnny joked about an alleged shortage of toilet paper.

The panic-purchases and hoarding that promptly ensued across this nation created a t.p. shortage that endured for weeks. The manufacturers instituted rationing, although, having grown up under the tenure of Tricky Dick, I can state that the passion for rationing was a true Nixonian personality trait.


In early 1974, Johnny apologized for the misunderstanding that led to the frenzy of paranoid stockpiling of toilet paper, but he nonetheless still resented being labelled, by The New York Times (who wanted to make this matter perfectly clear):


“a classic study of how rumors spread.”

Maybe from another dimension, Mr. Carson seeks to either make amends, or eke revenge, now that the commie-media have perfected the sleazebag tactic of terrorizing their audience?


I seek neither atonement nor retribution through my view of the mystic portal that senses a merciless deluge shall mercifully end the drought in California. That dry weather pattern is both cyclically natural and ethically expected, especially when swine inhabit the State House.


This prophetic parting of the waters was not necessarily sent to me through an incoming signal by my Divine Being, or via a Divining Rod, but by the Propane Delivery Guy. He just pulled up into my driveway, about eleven this a.m. He immediately set off Chance from the breakfast room sofa, like a bolt out of blue, from a narcotic-like sleeping position. Mr. Propane is here at this top o’ the morning to top off the three-carbon alkane in the big baloney tank located in the front of my property.

Most homeowners in my region try to disguise the propane tank with shrubbery or foliage; some even paint it. I’ve seen Army camo adorning the humongous steel hot dog, as well as a Hot Dog, sans bun. There’s also the Wonder-Bread wrapper dots and insignia. I, white Wonder-Woman, rebel against such stereotypes and stupidity. I kinda, no, I mucho like the overt bigness of the baloney, in its un-adorned state that says:


“I bring forth warm hugs in the winter. And hot water all year-round.”


Also, for sentimental and professional reasons, I feel an attachment to the term, The Big Baloney. It was the nickname given to New Melones Dam, which had completed construction during my first year of working at the U.S. Corps of Engineers, Sacramento District. My supervisor laughed that some guy had chained himself to a rock to halt the impoundment of the water behind the dam, which would thereby create a lake. This woman then calmly went back to her work.

I went back to my work which, at that time, was word processing; but My Muse filed away that tidbit of a tizzy fit by the Lovers of Mother Earth, Mother Nature, Mother. My fictional Northstar Dam does not reach that point of finality, because the villain who dooms it switched political sides in mid-stream!


This drama-king/queen cycle has now gone globalist corporate, with the wealthiest Earth Firsters chaining themselves to their bank accounts to keep the flow of money going into the appropriate reservoir of slush funds.


My Big Baloney’s got quite a carbon footprint, without any of the apologies or asinine credits that amount to political sump-pump payola to those narcissist politicians who brazenly jet around the Planet, claiming to be saving it from the Barbarians like myself.


I ask you, “Do I look like a barbarian?”

Mr. Propane does not think so. For certain special civilized friends, such as myself, I get the exclusive compatriot discount price for the propane delivered on his regular Rural Route. His monster truck rolls up to my house, on a routine basis, all filled with the good stuff to be transferred into my Big Baloney.


Mr. Propane has been reading his Farmer’s Almanac, and watching the fuel prices rising in the Fruited Plain. He’s a novice prognosticator of propane-futures.


Unlike other experts who flood the digital air-waves with their kultursmog of snooty ignorance, this industry expert truly does know what he’s talking about. He purchases the gas wholesale from an undisclosed location in the Golden State. We then buy our heating fuel on a long-term delivery basis. It’s a relationship we intend to nurture, much like having a Steady-Eddy of the Energy Cosmos.

Today, we bought the early autumn tank top-off at a summer price, largely because our winter-energy purchaser is a savvy professional. He’s going on 50 years of profitable commercial business in this region. Which means this trained ace has been through those hellacious Carter years, concurrent with the Jerry Brown years, and so he has learned to look ahead; to think ahead, to plan well in advance of crisis and calamity.


He’s got the kind of smarts that money can’t buy, and he never let schooling interfere with his education, or judgement, or reasoning, logic, common sense or horse sense. He thus is able to provide us with a low-markup on our commodity, and perhaps even provide us with a discount price.


Not all energy consumers, however, are smart customers. Those know-it-alls, particularly in the country, usually end up griping and groaning, and frigid, shivering bitterly out in the cold.

“The Grasshopper and the Ant,” by Aesop, comes to mind.


Those rural tightwads think they are the Mystery Shoppers of Propane. They call around to all the propane companies in the area, shopping for the best price. They’re commitment-phobes to any company, and most anything, even to anyone. Such ignoramii of all things economic, and of basically all things, believe they can buy propane cheaper on the spot market. They’re the Sophisticated Day Traders of Tank Fuels.


Maybe they’ll get the sellers into a bidding war for the almighty energy bucks!


Dear Husband attempted to tell me the Propane Guy’s prediction of the Winter of 2021-2022 Fuel Cost, as deduced by the information, facts, figures and data in the Farmer’s Almanac.

I, Carnaca la Magnifique, am guided only by gut instinct, creative intuition, and a madcap desire for the mayhem redress of those karma chameleons. I pronounced:


“The price of propane will be double this winter, as compared to last winter. And that increase will come with a flood, of global proportions.”


I may be 100% wrong on these statements, or even on one of them, but 50% right is a better stat than what’s being blared out in the Public Square. I’ll keep my bet on the table of probability, with a pretty high level of confidence . . . that the real science, and reality, win!!