The Big C has dun us in

We have a window of opportunity to turn on, get back to whatever we did.  For most it’s back to work—got to eat, need a place to sleep, need some heat, need someone to meet.  Didn’t work too good when we were sequestered in our hidey-hole for way too long.

It’s not over—not by a long shot.

Couple months and millions lack—eat ‘n sleep ’n heat ‘n meet. A bunch of the millions on the edge from lack.  We’ll look back in history and weep.  No time to weep now, gotta’ get almighty dollars to buy stuff, essential stuff.

Are tattoo parlors out of business (or were they essential) ‘cause if dollars are really scarce, if all that essential stuff we need to survive is really hard to get, do we need a ‘tat to go with that (whatever that is)?   Food banks distribute, purchance big government pays out but don’t bank on that—at some point “other people’s money” is dun gone.  Don’t believe it?  Just look at those who’ve tried it.  

Do pills get “made in America” again or do we succumb when the next shout happens.  The next bout when the big C returns or the next buggar hits the streets –and it will hit the streets.  One hundred years or it comes next year.  “Wet” markets on the streets of Wuhan open and its neighborhood lab is researching for the perfect solution.

Gas is cheap since no one goes far.  Travel is cheap since the borders are tight, walls upright, doors ajar.  Cruise aboard a floating incubator?  Ride or fly in a noxious tube? 

Get a test saying no or yes?  If yes then what?  Get your forehead marked if no and then you’re free to go? Where but to work and back to your hidey-hole—scared of the guy next door.  Tracked by the big eye in the sky where you go, what you do, who you meet.  Did he give it to you or you to him and when and where and what to do about it?

Wear a mask or be taken to task? Shake a hand and in jail you land? Swim the Pacific and –geeze does water dilute it or merely polute it? Long ago while rafting down river in Grand Canyon we peed in it rather than peeing on the beach—we weren’t allowed to foul the landscape but at some point—don’t we drink from that river?

Don’t touch your face?  Don’t hug a friend? Don’t eat out? Don’t go to the gym?  Don’t go to school?  

Oh, yes, home schooling’s in style and unions go beserk because one teacher can video a lesson that can be observed by a million, two million students or even more for years and years.  One on one, maybe here and there by Zoom or Skype or some new communicable system developed by a guy in a garage who becomes a zillionaire—the session watched in a homeless shelter. Everyone’s homeless but zillionares.

The little guy flippin hamburgers, pickin stock in a warehouse, stockin shelves in the supermarket, drivin an Uber or Lyft or Doordasher car—oops between AI and that zillionare who developed robotic flippin and pickin and stockin and drivin—the little guy will be at the food bank door and the government bank door looking for a handout because he lacks eat ‘n sleep ‘n heat ‘n meet. Then the doors close due to lack.

The big C has dun us in!

Or, elites with a “better idea,” was it them?

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