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October’s End 2021

Pleading the Fifth

I now live where the deer and the coyote play. I therefore do not often interact with suburbanites, and far less with citadins.

It’s a choice I’ve made, consistently, throughout my life, even while, especially while, living in suburbia and in the city. My life, and its habits, preferences, routines, and vicissitudes have not changed all that much over the course of decades.

The areas and environments that surrounded me changed, for the drastic worse, and I consequently left those places, rarely to return to them.

I told Dear Husband recently that had I not felt claustrophobic. and empowered by my fight-or-flight mechanism, and had I not acted upon that survival skill — in 1979 — he never would have met me. I’d not have vacated D.C. for la Californie. I undoubtedly would have adventured forth, from that foggy bottom, to higher, drier ground, geographically and morally. Maybe to a snowy alcove in New England, or a bluegrass region of aesthetic beauty in Kentucky.

I move where the beauty and the grandeur are . . . an artistic demand that can limit me, at times, but which also inevitably and perpetually expands my horizons.

Yesterday, as I ventured forth from my abode, I did not intend to achieve any creative goal. Which is how the creativity usually creeps up on claustrophobic me, stalking me on little cat feet!

I merely rode out to the local blood lab, stationed in the Corporate-Pig HMO outpost, to offer up some hemoglobin for a yearly routine test. It was mid-morning, in Debra-Time, about 10:15.

I was not prepared, emotionally, for the scene that I encountered: Overweight, old, balding, grizzled, and grumpy patients were packed into the room, like sardines, with those stupid blue air-restraints on their snouts.

I refuse to call that paper device a surgical mask; it’s an insult to surgeons. NO competent physician would use this flimsy, cheap face covering to perform surgery. And the more that Dr. Fraud shows up for his weekly Sunday narcissistic TV-feed, the more I become convinced that that man has not spent a day in medical school.

Evidently, social distancing has vanished from the socialistic medical facility. The patient-filled chairs are crammed together, and no one, including me, is happy about this pressing of the human flesh in the waiting room. I’m not touch-phobic, just claustrophobic. I’d gotten used to having room to breathe, although my nostrils couldn’t inhale properly under the mind-control face diaper.

I, of course, was not wearing a mask. Even (especially) in the Corporate Pig HMO, I defy the stupid rules. Although, to be most honest, in the confessional way that has overtaken the digital waves, I’ve never been compliant with doctor’s orders, unless they complied with my personal dictates. Even then, I’ve always had a unique way of making the moment my own.

I was known, by the childhood GP and his nurse, as A Kicker.

During the vaccination procedure, Little Debra would wait, until just the right moment, when the tray with the needle and vial came within the optimally precise distance from me. I’d kick the metallic platter, and its contents, clear up into the air.


I’ve got excellent foot-eye coordination!

Debra the Kicker has mellowed, with age. I nowadays use my fertile imagination to realize my feats of rebellion; but I do admit that my goalie foot often yearns for excitement in certain institutionalized arenas. Under such circumstances, I’ve wisely chosen to limit the expression of my First Amendment Rights to my potent powers of observation.

This past spring of 2021, I observed the crowd of cowed patients in a practitioner waiting room. These elderly persons looked scared stiff of whatever predatory virii were floating, in the air, ready to stalk them, and silently wipe them out. Three Corporate-Pig-Traveling Salesmen of Big Pharma were also there, in the doorway, yukking it up with two Corporate Corpse-Counters of Big-Med. None of them wore masks.

They were too busy, laughing, though at what-all I cannot precisely say. Their whispered sniggered-statements were out of my earshot. My guess is that the hilarity from the Big Pharma shoats erupted from having just palmed off to the wuss-bureaucrats 20,000 of those worthless blue-tissue covid-cloaks, made by slave-labor in you-know-where.

Oh, yes, those collectivist porkers were having a swell time, joking about having to catch their flights for the long 3-day weekend ahead.

You know, Memorial Day.

My blood boiled so much that the vital-fluid draw was a quick and easy poke!

Fast forward to yesterday. I entered the same medico-building. I beheld the newest warning signs plastered all over the entrance. The Official Edicts were straight out of early Bolshevik life.

You must wear a mask. If you do not wear a mask, you will be tested for COVID.

I proceeded, maskless, past the entry doors, into the inner sanctum of this shrine to public health: The Waiting Room. It was there that I came, maskless-face-to-masked-faces, with the wall-to-wall debris of humanity that now must, en masse, line up for the myriad of procedures to be performed, at rocket-speed, by the end of Q4.

No one took note of unmasked me; I thus wasn’t wrestled to the dirty-carpet floor by the petty zealots who despicably still feel power-filled over the rest of us, the infidels who saw the fraud-farce from the start of 2020.

“I’m here for my procedure,” grumbled a fat aging hippie-dude in a tie-dyed t-shirt, shorts and sandals. He was speaking to the woman behind the plexiglass screen, but she couldn’t hear him, so he had to repeat his reeking complaint.

The doctor came in, stinking of gin . . . to more closely identify with his patient.

I immediately fled the scene, the room, the building.

I should mention that the weather yesterday was 50 degrees and rainy. And that my little index toe, on the right foot, the toe that got broken when I kicked my husband during the summer of 1992, throbbed incessantly last night. It usually throbs whenever the barometer comes crashing down on my stuffed sinus.

This morning, I awoke to steady rain, and my toe felt fine. Dear Husband was most relieved. The Toe has not been in touch with The Weather for a few years. Now he does not have to go online to those always-wrong and ludicrous meteorological sites spouting the cult creed of Climate Change.

After my flight, yesterday morning, from the regulatory theatre of the ailment-absurd, I drove west on the freeway. It was about a 20-minute trip to the alternate universe HMO, in Roseville, my former town of long-time habitation. That dump of a building has been closed shut, tighter than a drum of ivermectin. What a relief! At least, I won’t ever again have to navigate around the pail on the lobby-floor, catching the abundant stream of rain flowing, down, from the soggy stained synthetic ceiling.

Those glass entry-way doors were also littered with warning signs:

If you have any signs of chickenpox, measles, mumps, cold, flu, or any skin rash or hives [where else would a rash or hives be??], do not enter this building.

I scratched the itchy allergy-hive on my skin that is also allergic to public health hysteria. And I wondered if that run-down managed-care enclave had failed to manage a real health outbreak. Here, in California, there are so many actual infectious hazards to choose from:

TB, bubonic plague, typhus, or cholera, any of those medieval diseases currently proliferating in Los Angeles.

By that point in time, it was nearing noon. My blood sugar was running a bit low. My typically small breakfast had long since been metabolized, digested efficiently, in spite of the sickening sights I’d taken in. I got into my cross-over vehicle, and crossed over to letting Dear Husband drive us to Whole Foods for some . . . food with a hole in it. A doughnut. Maybe a cup of de-caf coffee.

“How long has it been since you’ve been into Whole Foods?” calmly asked my spouse.

“Five years. Since that idiot side-swiped the fender of my Cadillac and drove off.”

Yes, the parking lot of the morally superior grocery store is a haven for hit-and-run drivers.

I wasn’t shocked by the worsened decrepit condition of the odiferous organic Amazon Foods. I fully expected it. Quickly, I grabbed hold of Cake Donut #1 and #2, for Hubby and Me, from the hard-to-find bakery-cart; stuffed them into the officially sanctioned paper bags, and handed them to Dear Husband. He would experience the endless wait at the Coffee Counter whilst I sat in the cafe area, and felt ever more disgusted by the globalist swinishness of this capitalist business.

Ten minutes later, Dear Husband had not moved forward in line. There was one lowly-paid employee, a girl, behind the counter. She alone was expected to handle the late-morning, and noon hour rush for the caffeine fix that, in Hipsterville, truly never ends.

I rescued my dear spouse from the Endless Wait-Line. He paid for the donuts and the loaf of bread at the automated check-out. The Amazon-ing of this store is fairly well complete. Customers are expected to buy online, or have the underpaid grocery-clerks deliver the food to them curbside, or race through the store to escape the sloppy smelly scene after an impulse-buy that could not be denied.

I shall deny any further impulse to go into Whole Foods. As I choked down my dry donut, sans fluid, I inquired of Dear Husband what that weird overweight woman, in line in front of him, wanted.

“She wanted a pumpkin spice latte, with oat milk."

“Are you sure it wasn’t goat milk?” was my incredulous reply.

“No. Just think of when you make oatmeal. The water that floats to the top —”

“I’m getting sick!”

Oat milk was discovered in the 1990s by a Swedish scientist.

Of course! Where else?! Did the Scientist get a Noble Prize for Nutrition?!

It’s not every day that you can witness life as described by The Babylon Bee.

Dear Hubby also informed me of the existence of “almond milk” which I mis-heard as “llama milk.” At least that’s from a mammal!

To return to the vial of blood that must be rendered unto Dear Doctor. I joyously returned home, whereupon I drank a cup of, no, not hemlock, but Scottish breakfast tea, with a chaser of cranberry juice for fortification. I then called up the local HMO, which I’d just fled three hours earlier. I made a non-fasting appointment for the needle activity. I much prefer the walk-in basis for anything, but the walk-in isn’t working for me, anymore. An appointment can be so . . . inescapable.

The calendar-gal sighed while stating that she’d have to ask me a few COVID questions.

“Can I plead the Fifth?” I asked.

She laughed in a deep, hearty and conspiratorial way.

“We’re not there yet, are we?” I responded to her merriment.

Much more laughter from her side of the digital phone wall. I joined in with my giggles of mirth, chuckling over the possibility that Our Call May Be Monitored.

Laughter is the best medicine.

Enough said. But They will undoubtedly say more, and more, and more. Talk is all They’ve got left. Talk is all They ever had. I wonder when They will notice that no one is listening anymore?