I’m telling this story backwards. I started with the day of the election… its dénouement. That’s not the start of the story. What you did on election day is your business but I planned for not only election day but several days before and after.
As The Felon and The Hairball lurched towards the finish line (and the press lost its shit), I withdrew. The last few days I counted campaign signs and celebrated the Cubs. Then I slipped out the metaphorical back door to go hunting.
My last post outlined how election day began; a clear crisp dawn of leaning against a tree listening to squirrels running through the leaves. One could do worse.
It was according to the plan. (And Dr. Mingo’s plan too.) I’d erected a mental wall between myself and the coming tsunami of bullshit masquerading as news. Should the nation elect The Felon this might be the last moment of peace. After a year (a lifetime!) of having propaganda shoved up my ass I needed one full week of peace.
This might be the last chance for several years. If it happened, who knew when the scandals would end? Weeks? Months? Years? Would The Felon survive in office four years? Eight? I doubted it. I thought the Hairball had a shot but nobody else did. I partitioned that tiny hope to a corner of my mind and girded my loins for the endless flow of scandal and misinformation that always drips from The Felon.
If you vote for a candidate with a demonstrated history of dishonesty, cheating, “lost” documents, inflated bank accounts, and secret deals that’s what you’ll get. Would it end after the first pardon? Or would it require several pardons? Would there be a pardon for Weiner? What freak would pardon a pedophile?
What if it was a close race? More hanging chads? Partisan hacks divining “voter intent” from dimples in paper?
What would happen when Hillary’s next crime emerged? (There is always another crime with Hillary. Her turtles go all the way down.) What was left? What rule hadn’t yet been broken? Convenient suicides? Secret messages? Tossing scapegoats in the clink? Selling access? Blaming everything on Russia? IRS audits of deplorables? Professionally funded riots?
There would be retribution too. The FBI is already in disarray. Like all thugs, Hillary gets caught committing crime and hurls insults at the source of incriminating information. “If the cops hadn’t found my stash I wouldn’t be in jail. It’s the cop’s fault.” It’s bad enough hearing it from Jethro the methhead or a fence selling jewelry out of a van. Could I bear it from the oval office?
What would be unknown during her secret rule? Would she be perfectly healthy until she keeled over three days ago? Incommunicado during a coma? Making private deals and shuffling between donors while claiming she was jogging in Manhattan? How could anyone know what she was actually doing? With the press gone full retard how to know what’s true and what’s not?
I don’t remember Nixon’s final months in office. I doubt they were pleasant. She would lead to the third run at impeachment in my lifetime.
The Meyers Briggs test sorts people into classes like E for extroversion and S for sensing. Classes add up to personality types with codes like ESPF or ENFP.
When I take a Meyers Briggs I get LMTFA. It means “leave me the fuck alone”.
Observing my personality profile, the third-year psychology intern administering my Meyers Briggs test begins to cry. She has seen the dark side. Having been exposed to my cruel and unforgiving mind she knows… knows beyond a shadow of a doubt… she will never pay off her student loans. My answers have shown not my mind but her future. Nine years as a barista until the new iLatte vending machine by Keurig/Apple is perfected and she’s replaced. Then slowly fading until she dies alone in a room full of cats. Retirement without a job to retire from. Pining for the glory days (2013) when Miley Cyrus’ twerking was as new as Madonna’s missile tits had been in the ‘90s. Mourning lost youth; when life was glorious and bearded freaks from the hinterland stayed away from innocent psych students. Tears stream down her face. I notice nothing. Her laptop bursts into flame. I’m thinking about bacon. She runs for a safe space where she’ll spend hours sobbing and hugging a teddy bear. I shrug my shoulders and leave. What can I say? I’m not a people person.
OK fine, I’m exaggerating. But I’m comfortable with solitude.
The upshot of this is I hunt alone. It’s just a thing that happens. Everyone else hunts with a group; old buddies, friends, and relatives. They hang out in deer camps, play cards in the evening, and form long lasting bonds of comradery. I don’t. I pet my dog, hug my wife, grab my rifle, and leave. Except 2016 is a year of change and I was joined by Dr. Mingo.
Dr. Mingo, a good friend, lives in a liberal paradise where he has a 35 mile commute to work and gumdrops grow on trees. He has suffered for it. I live in the middle of nowhere and am allergic to Facebook so I’m spared the endless circular firing squad he sees daily. In particular, the Republican primary shitfest was so revolting he quit his party (link). Shortly after the primaries he called me:
Dr. Mingo: “I need to get the hell out out of here for the election and go offgrid. Let’s go fishing during the election.”
Dr. Mingo: “Everything! You’ve seen the candidates. I can’t bear that much stupid.”
Curmudgeon: “Bad timing for fishing. I’ve gotten iced in before and it’s sketchy. Let’s go hunting. Guns are better than fishing poles anyway.”
Dr. Mingo: “My place is out. Your place?”
Curmudgeon: “Sure, it’ll be fun. I’ll stock the beer fridge and thaw some meat. We can grill steaks and act like whiskey is a food group. It beats the press shitting in our pocket and telling us it’s a dime.”
Dr. Mingo: “Can I bring my banjo?”
Curmudgeon: “Hell yeah! It’s going to be a freedom vacation and that means banjos are welcome! If you want to stand naked on the porch at 2AM with a bottle of whiskey and a banjo go right ahead. Think of it as ‘Freedom and Stupidity, the Theme Park’. We’ll hunt and drink and ignore the end of civil society. Mrs. Curmudgeon has been after me to take a few days off so she’ll approve. I’ll make sure she tells us absolutely nothing about any news.”
Dr. Mingo: “I’m in.”
Thus, it came to be. I always hunt solo except when I don’t. Dr. Mingo always watches social media except when he doesn’t. Even if the nation imploded we’d have a good time.