The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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Malcolm was practically ranting down at the Diner the other morning at breakfast for the Flatheads, nothing too out of the ordinary for the car guyz but still … he was positively hair-on-fire. “Hundred, maybe thousands of em! All over New Jersey, what the hell?? UFO’s, drones, nobody knows, nobody cares!”

Fairlane Fred put down his forkful of scrambled and asked “What are you talking about, Malcolm?”

“I’m talking about an invasion, Freddie. I’m talking about … see, this is what I’m talking about. You guys don’t even know what I’m talking about. It’s kept under wraps, under the damn radar. We’re being kept in the dark!”

Little Jimmy said, unperturbed by the pre-dawn outburst, “Well, it IS almost the shortest day of the year, ya know.” Which send Malcolm into another spasm of outburst. The breakfast crowd, seasoned socket wrenchers all, accepted Brenda’s refills, probably hoping she wouldn’t ask Malcom, no need to induce a coronary before the boys had finished their chicken fried steaks, hashbrowns and sides of white toast heavily buttered and slathered with jam from those little plastic coffins.

“Can’t you see?” Malcolm asked. “It’s a conspiracy to hide the truth.” Little Jimmy, back to his eggs, asked “what’s the truth, Malcolm?” “I don’t know. None of us know. That’s the goddamn point!”

From my perch at the corner table, a not so innocent bystander over these many years, it seems like we’ve entered the Age of Anxiety. Climate change, immigration, inflation, Trump, the Deep State, nano-plastic poisoning, the coming Plagues, pick a subject, everything is a conspiracy. Lights over New Jersey, UFO’s in Oregon, nano-trackers in the vaccines. All politics are toxic. The enemy is everywhere except us.

Malcolm finally settled into his biscuits and gravy after sputtering to a stop. He probably figured Big Larry on the grill had doctored it. Who knows, maybe he had ….

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More and more of us South Enders are losing their religion, don’t ask me why. I just read a survey that showed a quarter of us don’t believe in a Supreme Being, too bad for Donald Trump. That’s way up since the last survey. But here’s the odd part: the number of us who don’t believe in God but believe in an afterlife doubled. Faith based Heaven, I suppose, or maybe just bad logic, a trend that seems to be more and more prevalent.

Down at the Little Church in the Ravine, Rev. Paul makes it a point most every Sunday to exhort his flock to eschew sin. Live a holy life, he preaches, and if you mess up, ask the Good Lord for forgiveness. Believe on the Lord, he says, or surely Hell will follow.

Now, I may be mistaken here, but I’m guessing most of the folks who believe in an afterlife are talking about Streets of Gold, not Beelzebub’s BBQ. You don’t believe in a deity, you probably won’t buy the quaint notion of the Devil. And if you think Heaven is waiting for you no matter what, why not enjoy a little sinning while you’re waiting for the Pearly Gates to open? No punishment waiting, no purgatory for the wicked. Believe me, Pastor Paul doesn’t pound that pulpit with his ragged Bible to tell parishioners they got nothing to lose if they covet their neighbor’s wife. Go right ahead, cheat the other guy on that used car you said was running great when you know damn well the engine isn’t getting oil up in the cylinder head. You can make a little extra money and still get a reservation in the Angel Motel after your last breath.

Shirley, my neighbor who runs the Pampered Pekingese Pet Grooming service, claims she’ll be reincarnated. As a pup. The Hindu believe the Wheel rewards those who do good, but I guess now we think we get what we want, not what we deserve. Shirley better hope she doesn’t end up at the pound with all the other unwanted pets. Not everyone gets pampered in this mean old world.

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