GOT WHOMPED

In every hurricane there are always those residents who tell reporters that they'll sit it out, they survived the storm of ninety six, they'll simply batten down the hatches, put plywood on the alligator cage, switch on the generator, and shoot looters. Days later their beer soaked corpses are recovered from the Flutahatchee River and their neighbors elogize them for the camera as a proud individualist who always did everything his own way and scoffed at authority.

He just wasn't the same since Covid.

Once the cameras are gone, they raid his supply of Ivermectin, and steal his collection of superhero action figures. And the less said about Bubba's porn stash, the better.


Here in California, we don't have hurricanes or alligators. Both of those are known to wander around golf courses in Florida, mingling with the mobsters, flotilla thugs, retirees, and senile retired businessmen. Oh, the humanity.


Florida is where steaks are customarily very well done. So that grampa's dentures can get through the meat. In the Pan Handle, many natives have bad teeth, so that too.

The situation is dire.

One can only imagine. Seeing as I don't watch the news, that's all I'll do. Well, mostly.



If I were there I'd have to miss out on my medical appointment today, and having packed in a hurry I might not remember in which shopping bag I had packed my pills. So I might be panicking right now. Surrounded by thousands of other people and their pets.

And alligators.



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