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Escape from Dirt Mountain

3 September 2021

No, I am not talking about my back yard, now that my dirt acreage has been minimally but aesthetically and wonderfully landscaped — just a month ago. Marc the Landscaper drove away from my Larkhaven that hot August day; and then he immediately drove back. He brought news of the latest wildfire in the Sierra Nevada.

The River Fire, five miles away from my new house, started just as Marc and his crew, on that very day, finished a two-week job on my property.

I asked him: “You’ve just put in my landscaping so it can burn to a crisp?”

Ya gotta keep a sense of humor in the Charcoal State.

Dirt Mountain is the name given to the area near the Detroit Airport that has been tasked with warehousing all of those new Ford Broncos that just rolled off the assembly line — with their faulty and grungy-looking roofs, produced by the subcontractor named Webasco. Bronco-lovers call this crisis The Webasco Fiasco. The Corporate Suits deem this defective hardtop to be “cosmetically challenged.”

The PR morons who make up this pricey but insulting linguistic garbage are mentally challenged, severely mentally challenged. And it’s a nation-wide, if not world-wide, condition.

The catch-all drivel “The American People” is now "All-of-Government.” Because, basically, the American People no longer exist where All-of-Government (in D.C.) is concerned. Until the next kaboomsky occurs, and the Whiz Kids at Optics get pulled off of dousing the sound, and the “visuals” of a guy with dilated pupils, sucking his dentures to bash his predecessor while his meds, and his body slump.

Dirt Mountain is a term that can only grow in stature, significance and smell. I shall try to restrict myself to the actual pile of soil in Detroit.

The cynics among the Bronco Orderers believe the vehicles at that location are actually inflatable models, put there to trick the Ford stockholders into thinking THAT MANY CARS have really been built. At first, I found that claim preposterous, but I’m reserving final judgement, or conclusion, until this winter — when the SURGE of automotive parts fails to peak with the poppycock SURGE OF VARIANTS Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, and, maybe, India.

I think that overpopulated subcontinent land mass, India, which, is, not coincidentally, an enemy of Communist China, will be left out of the surge-excuse list to bloviate away the tanking economy of a nation on auto-pilot without a President.

The gas tank on the New Ford Bronco has not been reduced in size, but the cost of filling it sure has exploded!

And all of those Broncos, parked at Dirt Mountain, must now attempt to avoid the condition known as Lot Rot. The tires start to deform, and flatten. As for sun exposure, there’s no deflector shields on those babies!

I don’t know about you, but, for me, the purchase of a brand-new vehicle, especially one specifically and specially ordered, ought to have a virginal feel to it. Those autos have already been around the block a time or two. Ford assures every buyer that the customer has the right of refusal.

Then you get back into the end of the line.

Me, I’m wondering if the CB Radio Days/Daze of the 1970s are truly making a comeback. I was working to attain full adulthood, through working three jobs, during those Nixon-Carter years. Because in all fairness to Jimmeh, he did inherit the mess made by Tricky Dick. Carter then proceeded to self-righteously sabotage any sane attempts to straighten a sinking ship of state, until the real lifeguard, the professional lifeguard, Ronald Reagan, performed his fantastic feats of daring, all while doodling caricatures at the NATO summit.

The Gipper, he knew what he was doing.

The Gibberish, he, doesn’t know what he’s doing. And he cannot remember whatever it was he just did. The high and mighty but minimally skilled, and endlessly rehearsed performance, one that is lacking even an impersonation of a real person is — The Sourpuss Whopper:

Have it My Way.

This creepy donkey sociopath cannot remember the pile of dirt he doesn’t recall having bumblingly and stumblingly, cravenly and corruptly created. That case for plausible deniability does not seem plausible in this case, but I’m sure the lawyers, All of Government, have worked out those details, maybe not in advance, but, on the fly.

On the fly is the modus operandi of The-Hole-of-Government of the moment. The Zipper Problem of the 1990s Boomer President, whom I called a cross between a Brillo pad and W.C. Fields, has morphed into a fly in the ointment, or perhaps just a fly in the motor oil, or a fly airlifting non-Americans away from massacre.

The sicko Hollywood film, The Fly, also comes to mind. A hybrid emerges after a brilliant scientific experiment goes horribly wrong. Oh, no, wait. That’s The Bat.

We, the Patriots, we don’t eat bats, but we do swat flies, especially the ones that sneak into our houses undetected. Our techniques are highly technical, and our rules of thumb are not all thumbs. We elephants have a lonnnng memory, and virtually no cosmetics challenges.

I fully and compassionately understand that the whippersnapper technocrats running The White House were handed a sociopathic personality to attempt to humanize.

It will be most interesting, from a completely scientific and medical standpoint, to observe the rats fleeing the sinking ship of state that was christened the Adult America, with a Commander-in-Chief who cannot even be used as a lab rat. The Media Mantra will follow the same double-talk twaddle:

Who Knew? No One Knew! Everyone Knew!!!

The Broncos parked at Dirt Mountain await new roofs that function and look nice. It’s that cosmetic thing. You know the thing: If it looks good, all is well.

“It” is not looking good. In fact, in reality, it’s looking ghoulishly sick, and all is not well. But, shhhh!!

Don’t tell the Gibberish and the Whiz Kid Idiots. They’re too cosmetically challenged.


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