Hunting with the Curmudgeon: Part Five

No plan survives contact with the enemy. Field Marshall Helmuth Karl Bernhard Graf von Moltke

We had a plan. It began as intended: Mingo and I unplugged from the media (which had gone full retard for Hillary), Dr. Mingo (and his banjo) had bugged out to my hunting area, we had a wonderful day of nature and hunting on election day, and only peeked out of the foxhole long enough for me to vote. (Mingo kept me out of the bar after voting… well done sir!)

The plan was necessary. I needed to avoid media poisoning. The press is usually wrong but this has been an exceptionally reality free period. The media is an illiterate, innumerate, narcissistic, egotistic, otherwise unemployable stampeding herd of clueless Marxist lemmings. I hate their preening bloviations as they frame self-serving bullshit as the infallible word of God as reported from Gaia directly into their MacBook. I hate their imaginary glorious future of unicorn/rainbow joy in which I’m meant to be forever imprisoned (for my own good). If this election was to be a statist shitstorm I could hold back on the experience a few days. Anyone who must live in a rebooted America shoehorned into some egghead’s Utopian wet dream deserves a week hunting first. Why leap quickly onto the glide path which starts with an idea and declines until there are knife fights in the breadlines?

See what I mean? Who writes a paragraph like what I just typed? Someone who’s been kicked in the nuts too often; that’s who! All I wanted was to sit under a tree and enjoy the fact that I’m not in a re-education camp… yet. Tomorrow could take care of itself.

Unfortunately, the plan broke down.

As is appropriate during hunting season, I got up ridiculously early. Mornings suck.

Mingo grabbed a cup of coffee and was thinking about yesterday’s miss; he intended to assemble a crucifix and nail himself to it. (Missing the shot had bored into his brain. At this rate, he wouldn’t make it to lunch.)

Mrs. Curmudgeon was between me and the coffee maker. She was beaming. She knew how the election had played out. She was going to tell someone or explode.

“I have to hand it to you Curmudgeon, you were right when you said…”

“I DON’T WANT TO KNOW!” Mingo shouted as he fled from the room.

“Today is a politics free day.” I mumbled as I tried to pour coffee. (I spilled some on the dog.)

Mrs. Curmudgeon was practically vibrating with excitement, “I won’t tell you who won, only that Mexico…”

“I NEED TO GET INTO THE FOREST!” I shouted. It was still too early but I stumbled towards my hunting jacket trying to escape. I careened into Dr. Mingo (who was wandering around in circles), tripped over the dog, and reached for the door…

“I couldn’t believe it when he gave his acceptance speech!” Mrs. Curmudgeon beamed.

“He?” Dr. Mingo growled.

“I didn’t tell you who…” Mrs. Curmudgeon stammered.

“Pronoun.” I sighed. The plan had failed.

“Oh my God! You totally can’t keep a secret!” Dr. Mingo moaned.

I glanced at the clock. I had been awake 18 minutes. The secret of who won the election had lasted 18 minutes. I collapsed on the couch.

“So, the harpy didn’t win.” I muttered.

I wasn’t shocked so much as relieved. All along I’d thought Cheeto Jesus might beat The Felon but it was a lonely opinion. The vast difference between what I perceived in reality and what I had heard from the press had been dragging me down. Lies and propaganda take their toll. Hillary’s loss meant the press was just as wrong as I’d surmised. Reality had won in the end. A weight lifted from my shoulders.

“That’s a relief. All we need to do now is wait through the inevitable lawsuits.” I mused.

“I don’t think there will be lawsuits this time. He won well enough that…” Mrs. Curmudgeon was just itching to talk about it.

“I DON’T WANT DETAILS!” Dr. Mingo fled.

“I’d better get out there. Deer could be moving.” I chased after Dr. Mingo.

About Adaptive Curmudgeon

I will neither confirm nor deny that I actually exist.
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