There are cobwebs on my Christmas tree. For real. They appear to match the ones on my brain – which perfectly compliment what I lovingly refer to as my Cold. Dead. Heart. After all, it’s well known that writers exist primarily on caffeine dregs and broken dreams. Well, that and fully executed terrible ideas (because someday “they will make good stories.”)
I really should have been working on the layout for this week’s edition of The Fallon Post when I noticed the offending gossamer labyrinth atop my tree. However, I was having trouble focusing. It may be helpful to note that I haven’t yet decorated the spindly thing because it stays up all year. I know – where are the twelve cats and tchotchkes? I’m not quite there yet, but I heard that crazy can be delightfully enhanced if given enough encouragement.
One thought led to another, and before I knew what hit me, I was flailing headfirst down the rabbit hole, mainly into the dumpster fire we call 2020-2021. Unfortunately, my reverie was interrupted by Becky. You know Becky – the 18-foot-long printer of this fine small-town rag. The day before we go to press, Becky finally decided that our highly complex rebooting strategy (turn her off and then on again) was not a real solution to her problems. And to make sure the terrorizing thought “Oh my GOD, what if she doesn’t print tomorrow?” was complete, someone decided it would be super if all printer technicians were at least four hours away from town and had no hope of arriving before print day. Well, done, Murphy – panic adequately instilled.
It then occurred to my coffee-deprived brain (for the love of God, someone, please bring me a triple espresso shot) that perhaps we had a more serious problem. Not only did we name her, but we also talk to her, pet her, cuss her, and then apologize. I even sing her songs modified to make her feel better. Her personal favorite is,” Oh Becky you’re so fine you blow my mind…Becky…Hey Becky!” Weird right? Probably even certifiable.
Adding to our Post woes, our scrappy little paper even qualified for a bit of leftover COVID-19 disaster money. Disaster, yes. The highly anticipated rescue funds were deposited somewhere in the digital abyss rather than into our bank account, to date we have received zero, nada, nil, zilch.
Do the powers-that-be know where the mysterious funds are? Why no. They don’t. And you guessed it, this is a government agency I am referring to. Suicide hotline…please hold. Downright lugubrious, I say! (On the upside, I just used the word lugubrious.)
All things considered (cobwebs, trainwrecks, and techno-goof-ups), I believe it’s high time that we crazy folks demand the respect we rightfully deserve. Long live mad March Hares and the fruitcakes. Hail the screwballs that are still out to lunch and around the bend. It’s time to applaud the crackbrained and nutjobs.
In response to the unjust cruelties bestowed on us this week and a burning desire to make sure we mad hatters are recognized. I am planning a demonstration – a rally even.
That is, just as soon as I can find someone to join this wingnut up here in the belfry.
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