It’s Just Language Man, The Amazing Death Rate of .000041904, Stop Hiding in Your Basement!

Language is my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God, the dew on a fresh apple, it’s the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning sun when you pull from an old bookshelf a forgotten volume of erotic diaries; language is the faint scent of urine on a pair of boxer shorts, it’s a half-remembered childhood birthday party, a creak on the stair, a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, the warm wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl, cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.”

— Stephen Fry

Greetings from Columbus, Indiana. I’m here celebrating the nuptials of my daughter and a fellow known as Spud, an amazing young man I’m happy to welcome into our family. It’s a fantastic fucking day. Sorry, mother.  

We had a swanky rehearsal dinner at a church last night, no masks, no social distancing, and I was asked by a friend why we didn’t follow the guidelines. Well, I did a little math, and the death rate in Indiana as of today from COVID is .000041904. I think you have a higher chance of getting eaten by a shark than dying of COVID in Indiana, but hey, let’s scare the hell out of everyone for no damn good reason.

Oh no, he didn’t, did he just say that? How dare the man with short term and long term antibodies say this is all just a political nonsense. Yes, folks have died, agreed, but people have been killed at a higher rate from other things like car accidents, honeybadger bites, and lightning strikes. If you are still hiding in your basement, I request you rejoin us, those not in fear, those in the know, the freedom fighters.

Offended, well, I’m so sorry, the data does no longer support this ridiculous lockdown. Fly, be free, lick some faces, catch it, enjoy it, if you die, well, maybe it’s simply your time. If you are compromised, be smart, stay safe, but if you have no issues with your health, get the hell outside, and dance like no one is watching. I’m permitting you, yes, this white man of privilege giving his opinion. I’m not a doctor; I’m some non woke bloke just calling it as I see it. Feel free to leave your comments below; I can take it, my skin is thicker than yours.  It’s time for the men of society to stand up and fight what ails us.

Oh, but I digress young men and women from the topic I would like to drill into this beautiful Saturday morning, 8/8/20, the wedding day of my baby girl. I woke up and joined my wife, Jodi and our new family decorating, yes, ex-wife I know but I hate that, she is the only wife I’ve ever had, I’ll never have another, but most of you know, I have a Queen, that is my rock, my lover,  but Jodi is still a part of my life. Ex is so negative; I prefer to call her the mother of my children, and she is still one of the most beautiful women I know.  

I arrived at the location of the wedding; we loaded boxes, each marked with a tag written by my daughter, where the contents were to go, where the stuff was to be placed. It was organized chaos as the 20 or so of us set up maybe the most beautiful wedding ever.  My daughter is glowing, as is the rest of us. This union may indeed change the world; I can’t wait to see the babies these two amazing young people will make, my first grandbaby Maylynn Marie is the most fantastic baby ever, but these kids will make kids that will give her a run for her money. Love you, M, and M.

I returned home and well, did some gymnastics with my Queen. We’ve had a good morning, I typically write when I get up, but due to my morning schedule, this is some midmorning soup, maybe causing the spice of the opening remarks, but hey, if you don’t like my soup, don’t eat it? I’m a soup maker; I drop my thoughts daily, you can enjoy, give your opinion, I love it, those that favor and those that destruct my collection of words. Again, my skin is thick, much thicker than most. 

I got a chance to catch up with my nephew by marriage. We had a couple of drinks, well maybe 3 or 4, but we both had the same thought, “Man, I missed you.” After a divorce things get dicey with family, I get it, I understand, but in time, the relationships are remolded into something special, I think he and his wife will be coming out and staying with us in our mountain house. He’s a great young man that is now a supervisor at a large construction company; I’m so damn proud of this kid!

Tomorrow I’ll pen my thoughts about the wedding. A family friend asked me about how I was doing.  I responded, “well I like the young man, and so my heart is full of joy, if I didn’t like him, it might be a different story.”  I get to see folks I’ve not seen in 20 years today, that makes my heart full. I’ll be fist-bumping a lot of people, hugging some, maybe licking a face or two, don’t forget we have the serum. When we get back to CO, we will give blood, plasma, and other bodily fluids, anything that can help others believe the fear porn being peddled by the media.  

So there you go, get angry, get red-faced, I’m over this crisis, I’m going to live my life as I see fit now how others tell me to live. I’ll wear a mask to protect others, but I think we’ve entered a realm into the silly cartoon known as 2020. I’m enjoying it, maybe more than any other year. I’ve got a grandkid this year; my daughter is getting married. I’m in love with the most beautiful woman in the world. If I were not me, I would want to be me, but since I’m me, I’ll just enjoy every moist second of life. It’s just language man.

Language is my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God, the dew on a fresh apple, it’s the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning sun when you pull from an old bookshelf a forgotten volume of erotic diaries; language is the faint scent of urine on a pair of boxer shorts, it’s a half-remembered childhood birthday party, a creak on the stair, a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, the warm wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl, cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.”

— Stephen Fry