R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Last Saturday, when I was literally smitten with election fever, my blog was viewed one hundred and fifty-six times. A hundred and six of those views targeted one thing only—the Trump ‘You’re Fired!’ cartoon.

Since then, everything has returned to normal and everyone knows there is no more titty (Two-Term Trump).

Last night, in the one-minute window I gave him as he meandered through the usual bollocks, even his orangeness had left him.

For me, Mr. Covid has come and gone, but when I see the stats and predictions for North America and Europe, my heart is heavy.

I was very lucky—a news report yesterday of a young woman in Utah that lost her mother and grandfather to covid is one of the most poignant stories I’ve read in a while.

We called my grandpa and I put him on speaker phone so he could talk to my mom. He said, ‘kiddo, I’m not doing good,’ and she said, ‘dad, I’m not either.’ And he said ‘(Tracy), I’m dying. And she said, ‘dad, I am too.’
Her grandfather’s last words to her mom were, “I’ll look for you in heaven.”

It is on behalf and in memory of such people that we must rejoice in the trouncing of this twat. As Obama quipped in a pre-election speech, the president is responsible for protecting America from all enemies, foreign, domestic, and microscopic.

My father learned to swim on a beach in Nazaré, or Nazareth—very biblical. We’re going back to the mid-1930s for this tale, and the vast majority of families in Portugal didn’t ever go to the beach, let alone know how to swim.

Before Baywatch made lifeguards trendy, beach safety in southern Europe was an extra earner for fishermen, often older and paunchy, who also made a few bucks teaching children to swim.

Until recently—more specifically until Garett McNamara put it on the map—no one had ever heard of Nazaré. It isn’t the safest place to teach a kid to swim.

The fisherman told my father, ‘O mar quer lá os medrosos, porque os valentes tem-os lá de certeza.’ The sea wants the cowards—the brave ones it already owns.

This is a good metaphor for covid, my friends. I speak with folks who tell me this is just another flu, and that the societal reaction is completely overblown—they’re the brave (or foolhardy) ones in my metaphor; let me tell you, although technically a coronavirus is a form of flu, this one is a bastard.

It comes at you like a blizzard, and uses all the sneaky tricks in the book to make you cough and splutter, and to help generate lesions it can use to fuck you over. Your body is so consumed fighting it that any trivial activity exhausts you in a minute or two.

It was very easy for me to understand how things can get out of control, which is why respect is the operative word.

Above all, when I see the models for the forthcoming months, even considering the progress with vaccination, it’s obvious we have a very dark winter ahead. When you add to that the financial hardship so many are already going through, the immediate future of humanity is bleak indeed.

The conclusion is clear and urgent—it is science that changed the face of the earth in the last hundred years—all the cellphones in the world would be worthless against a single antibiotic, the mapping of a viral genome, an arsenal of cancer therapies, or key advances in food production and safety.

It’s time to wise up, if we want society to flourish for a further hundred years—we’ve had our fun, now it’s time to put the orange man back into whatever box he came from, understand that conspiracies are the product of mean-spirited folks with very little between their ears, and that those who seek the truth represent the future of mankind.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

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