Screw it, man!

GOIN’ BACK TO THE ‘70s

To hell with 2021, it’s turning out worse than 2020.

Screw that, man, I’m going back to the 1970s — the ‘Me Decade,’ as novelist Tom Wolfe called it. He meant it disparagingly, taking a swipe at the self-absorbed baby boomers.

So we were self-absorbed — big deal. At least we had fun, unlike the current misery of endless ‘variants’ of the pandemic lined up like planes at LaGuardia, lockdowns and shut-ins, jabs and masks, despots trying to herd us all into sheep pens and control our every move and our minds and our bodies. Pardon my French, but, putain cette merde, mec.

The 1970s was a decade of free spirits, uninhibited sex, drugs, sweet, stoned flowing love, and some of the best songs.

Let’s start with the music.

MONTHLY HITS

Compiled by Top Culture (thanks, man)

PART 1: January 1970 — December 1974

 

PART 2: January 1975 — December 1979


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God on Trial

Famous Defense Lawyer Represents

The courtroom was crowded, no fear of Covid in the air. The public gallery mumbled and wriggled in their chairs. Reporters were primed for the biggest story of their time.

The judge was looking dismayed, the proceedings had been delayed. The jury looked ahead, they sought justice for the dead. The prosecutor adjusted the rug atop his head.

But the defense table was bare — no one was sitting there.

The prosecutor stood and stated to the judge: The People are ready, your honor, but we seem to be missing the accused and his attorneys.

Who is acting for the defense? the judge wanted to know.

Enriqué Enza, your honor, and my formidable foe

The prosecutor did not get to finish his sentence. At that moment the courtroom door was flung open and in flew Enza. And right behind him, none other than the Jackdaw of Unreason.

The prosecutor turned abruptly in his chair, dislodging his hair.

Enza and the Jackdaw perched on the defense table. Sorry for the delay, your honor, apologized the Jackdaw.

The judge squinted through his glasses: You’re here, but where is the accused?

He’s right here, your honor.

Where? I don’t see him.

You cannot see Him, judge, but trust me, He is here.

What are you talking about? Why can’t I see him?

God is invisible, your honor, everyone knows that. He has not been seen in more than two thousand years.

I can see him! yelled a man from the public gallery. Others joined in: I can see him too! Me too!

The courtroom was crowded

The judge banged his gavel, he was beginning to unravel. The jury was confused, they began to smell a ruse.

Well, er, stammered the judge who was as dumb as a bag of rocks, how does he plead to the charge?

He makes no plea, said the Jackdaw, He hasn’t spoken in two thousand years.

The prosecutor was on his feet, sweating from the heat. God is charged with mass murder by microbe, you honor, I DEMAND THAT HE APPEAR!

Three things happened at once. A lightning bolt flashed outside breaking windows, the lights went out in the courtroom and a thunderclap shook the building.

MISTRIAL! screamed the judge and ran from the room.

The Jackdaw and Enza gave each other the high wing. The jury was terrified, they couldn’t understand a thing. The prosecutor was under his chair, looking for his hair.

God was spirited away by four and twenty blackbirds.

Reporters yelled questions at the attorneys for the Lord but they were too chickenshit to face the rabid horde.

A bailiff, who in such matters was seasoned, opened a side door and out flew Enza and the Jackdaw of Unreason.


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Welcome to World War III

DIDN’T SEE THIS ONE COMING

Hell, man, we were all expecting a nuclear conflagration. But T.S. Eliot was right when he wrote: This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper.

Damn, the World Powers have spent years and billons of dollars building up an almighty arsenal of nuclear weapons that would blow the whole planet to Kingdom Come.

But who’d have guessed it — a creepy little microbe, so small you need a microscope to see it, comes along and begins wiping out the human race.

And it’s not even close to being over. Like the two world wars which lasted four years apiece, this one will last at least that long.

Four more years of this. Wearing masks every time you go out — if you’re even allowed to go out in this new police state nightmare — social distancing (what a farce), not being allowed to go to the beach or a baseball game or a musical concert or shake hands or kiss a girl or a guy without fear of catching the goddamn bug.

Holy hell, man, life ain’t worth it. No wonder suicides are up. That’s one sure cure for Covid-19 — a shotgun to the head.

It’s okay for guys like me in our seventies, we’ve lived our lives, but to be a little kid just coming up, or a teenager, or a young married couple with children, what a nightmare scenario lies ahead.

And it’s no use turning to God for help. Oh, He may love you to bits and all the rest of it (strange way of showing it, but whatever), but he sure as hell ain’t gonna save you.

You’ve got a better chance in summoning the Silver Surfer. In fact the more I think about it (on this my sixth gin), he is our only hope. Meanwhile, the shotgun is loaded.


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