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Books for Everyone!

December 2021

The Island of Misfit Toys


I have spent the past several days, nearly a week, attempting to accept the fact, or situation, that I’ve had to accustom myself to eating good food, with delicious spices, all prepared in a setting that is extraordinarily beautiful, efficient, and comfortable.


My new house, the Dream Home, really is a dream-come-true.


Every day, however, and every night, I face the odd challenge of continually adjusting to a level of contentment and loveliness I’ve not had in my life. Had I purposely deprived myself of the Good Life?

No.


I spent money on what I could afford to buy; and I budgeted my pleasures, which are simple, but, at times, luxurious. Baking a pumpkin pie with the aromatically potent spices from Spice Jungle created a dessert that tops any Thanksgiving pie of my home-making life.


Granted, there was the Thanksgiving that I forgot to put the sugar into the wet mix, but I was distracted and overly busy that year: a not-quite toddler who had just learned to walk (quickly and well, I might add), a baying beagle, an overly-excited kindergartner, a landline phone ringing off the hook. (No spam alerts in those days.)


Life can become what you make of it, often without realizing what it is that you’re making of it. That misfortune seems to be happening to millions of individuals in the world who feel that the Government is abridging their rights. Those public poltroons truly are abridging the rights of democratically-free citizens. Not for the first time, however.

A thief, at least a clever and practiced one, steals in ever-increasing increments, starting with the tiny pinching, until, at last, he’s filched to the max. There is also the go-for-broke con who risks getting caught. The thrill of getting caught perhaps exceeds that thrill-up-the-leg of robbery.


Burglary is clearly a matter of whatever turns a burgling freak on. It has become quite clear during the past two years (if not longer) that the sneak-thief-freaks are titillated by abhorrently weird impulses and sensations.


The scientific world does not lack the madmen and madwomen that are typically viewed as filling up art-world. The reality is that art and science can overlap, abundantly, at least in the more sublime cases.

The control-freak who decides to wield a paintbrush can just as easily be the control freak who opts to grab hold of a hypodermic needle — or a clipboard chart of statistics. Setting innate talents aside, the true artist and the true scientist are driven by aesthetic lofty goals. Dollar signs in the mind are secondary and, among the most magnificent of artists and scientists, money is an afterthought.


We do not currently see many starving artists and struggling scientists in the public realm of pulling a fast one on the public. I’ll boldly protest that the counterfeit scientist is the more reprehensible of the two inventive types.


The taxpayer-funded frauds and public health weirdos truly do look like something out of, hah - science fiction, very pulp science fiction. I’ve had to turn my head away from the grotesque names that, like a morbid hand in a latex glove, fit the faces of these real people. A fictional writer can feel speechless in the face of news headlines masquerading as . . . life.

The emergence of characters from Star Trek (the one and only, The Original) on the island of England gave me huge pause as to this Otherworld Enclave of the latest Covid-variant, the hilariously apt anagram of MORONIC — Omicron.


Let us all chant, Ommmmm


— and be done with these hideous imposters of scientists, physicians, professors, number-crunchers, and leaders and their robust bureaucracy. The pathological regulations are multiplying faster than any of the virii, variants, vaccines, and their virulent side-effects.


The witless Chief Medical Officer, Professor Chris Whitty; and his fiendish partner in phobia, Chief Science Officer Sir Patrick Vallance (or Variance) are two characters who cannot be concocted, even from the most fertile imagination.

The Brits have got Bones and Spock (wearing Blue Shirts) in their midst!


Those two are fixated on the public monies that must be amassed and used, somehow, so they can keep their jobs — even as the GDP shrinks daily in face of government-stoked fear-induced unemployment. The funding of job security has never cost the UK this much in terms of the sanity stakes.


Those two socialist hacks are the Blighty equivalent of the duplicitous political toady in the U.S.: Dr. F. — albeit very much without the ghastly wig.


Maybe this Christmas, those Health Stasis can don the Red Shirt!

One reason why I shall never live on an island is the lack of escape routes off of it. And one reason why I have never, and shall never, place an App, of any sort, on the me-Phone is the certainty of the vulgar intrusions into a person’s life that have become the everyday appalling App of the apple-polishing Health Czars. All of this hanky-panky medicinal madness transpires in a land where citizens just want to ignore the sick comedy that their Government has become.


About a month ago, I encountered a black-masked gal wearing crosses and crystals, demanding her 3rd booster shot in a waiting room. She was coarse and rude, overweight, uppity and unhealthy. She was informed by the receptionist behind the plexiglass that Booster #3 had not yet arrived. This gray-haired woman, clad in pitch-black garb and accessorized with garish silver horoscope signs hung about her neck, along with the crosses and crystals, nearly lost it.


Across the room, a maskless man pulled out an Excuse Form, written by, he said, His Doctor.

This receptionist, ensconced behind her plexiglass, was wearing a form of a welder’s mask, in clear plastic (and I’d thought that plastic had been banned as evil). The unfolded paper Excuse Form indicated that this man has multiple sclerosis. He cannot wear a mask due to the lack of oxygen to his already compromised system.


This patient offered to read aloud the doctor’s Excuse Form. The receptionist lied and said she believed him.


I highly doubt this gentleman was telling the truth. I also highly doubt the New-Age geezer believed in the truth. There you have the opposite ends of that Bell Curve so beloved by scientists, statisticians and sleazy marketers. Those two tails of the reality beast are what we, the blob in the middle, are presently engaged in trying to ignore.

We’ve always been battling, in one form or another, the lunatic fringes. They have now entered onto the hysteria-hyped battlefield of public life, and they cannot leave it. The headlines, the glaring online ubiquity, the press conferences, the TV lights, the cameras, the non-ACTION:


Like a moth to a flame, each Public Health Booster demands the booster, of whatever, to protect against the variant that shall never cease to mutate. Because, during 2020, a treatment (not a vaccine) was designed for a virus that had already mutated by the beginning of 2021. That inoculation has less efficacy against variant A than it pathetically had against the original Covid-19 virus; it’s even less effective against variant B, and so on, and so forth, into variant infinity — and beyond.


The hack in-name-only scientists and doctors know those time-proven facts. They also know that mutations are how a virus survives. The Spanish flu virus of 1918-20 still exists. It’s a Hini — a H1N1 swine flu. Any vaccine for such a virus actually accelerates mutations.

For those publicly-paid employees to survive, they too must mutate, much more than would any virus that — in a non-politicized world — would live out its life in quiet anonymity.


What those Public Health attention whores and power-addicts need to find is another virus! Quick, before the old one disappears!


Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is one vintage (1964) American televisual Christmas tradition that my family enjoys, but I do not.  I appreciate some of the songs, and I identify with Yukon Cornelius.  When all the reindeer loved Rudolph, after finding out he’s in with Santa, I annually state, in an augmented voice:

“The hypocrites.”


I also think that the Santa in this show is a curmudgeon.


One song symbolically applies to Great Britain this year, hopefully not next year. “The Island of Misfit Toys” expresses the sorry state and imperiled fate of a fantasy island which houses toys that no one wants because of their rather unusual imperfections. Santa swoops in on the eve of Christmas to fix and to rescue those woe-begone playthings for children.


I do not believe it’s the citizens of the UK who are the misfit toys that must be fixed. The bumbling half-baked piglets at the public trough are long overdue for an overhaul. No one can really be sure of the sordid details that will comprise the ending of this panic-porn fable, the contrived fake-science seamy saga that just won’t come to its squalid end. One thing, though, is certain:

There will always be an England.


I’ll predict that, one fantastic day, the pompous swine and clumsy piggies will be gone, along with their variants and their covert sacks-full of hush money. They can all go to their misfit island of libertine pleasures, where liberty does not exist for girls and young women.


Liberty is the reward for the victorious fight against tyranny. That struggle never ends. I, for one, welcome everyone to the fight — against the flabby, gloating decadent pretenders to the throne that is, in reality, the power of the people called democracy.