420

 

Happy 420! Or is it Merry 420? 

Someone out there knows...

More coming to Midnight and other beasts soon 

The Bear, part 1 Winter

 Winter

Winter had taken on a tainted scent. It was the first thing Bear noticed after sloughing out of his lair that morning. Temperatures had been brutally cold for a period of weeks, though Bear could not know this. Bear did not know weeks or any other measure of time. Bear knew seasons as they were experienced, just as Bear "knew" anything. A bear's existence is entirely in the moment, blessed with the innate understanding that every event in life falls into one of two categories. There is the successful hunt, with the sating of appetite, or the unsuccessful hunt with it's resulting hunger.

Bear knew instinctively when to hunt, what to eat and what not to eat. Bear hunted without fear, knowing instinctively that he was at the top of the food chain. Bear existed in harmony with his environment, dedicated only to what he might do best: being a bear. When the sub-zero temperatures came, Bear knew instinctively to retire to his den and slow his breathing. Like a whale, drawing a deep breath but four times in an hour, his heart slowed and internal body temp dropped by a full ten degrees. It was only after the outside temperature had risen by forty degrees, and remained there for a full day, that Bear had slowly thawed and awakened.

On that morning, hunger beckoned him to depart the lair and wade into the deep snow. The ground beneath was still frozen hard and the air stung his snout with every plume of steam into the frost. Bear had been out on these mid-winter forays enough times before. He recalled a scent of Winter, and this was not it. Something was off. There was still that sharp clarity of the cold, the crispness that accentuates both sound and scent alike. There was that familiar palette of mineral and wet salt borne upon the north wind, carried from far off lands. He also detected the more immediate, the familiar oils of the cedar trees, the earthier subtlety of birch. There were faint traces of various smaller mammals, from their trails or their deposits of urine and scat. Amidst all these scent memories that matched Bear's experience of Winter, there was now one other which did not. There was the smell of fire in the air.

Fire was hardly alien to Bear; he had indeed smelled fire before, but it was not typical to his experience of Winter. Fire was common in the late Summer and early Autumn. That was peak berry season, a very active time in any bear's life, thus Bear had frequently encountered fire following the violent lightning storms which sometimes also came as a part of the season. The Great Forest was so vast in scale, that every year tens of thousands of acres would be erased by these wildfires, yet hardly make a dent in the available habitat. When these fires occurred within Bear's range of travel, he would simply move to hunt elsewhere. And always, within a few seasons after a fire, life gradually returned to the place, as Bear continued placidly in his own way. Bear knows to fear and avoid fire, while having an innate understanding of fire as a part of nature. Fire was not something, in Bear's experience, that nature delivered with Winter. This was the taint of the air. Fire did not belong to Winter!

Thus alerted, Bear tread forward warily into the sea of white. His nostrils remained flared, his ears pricked up. His breath grew labored, leaving an icy foam to form upon his snout. There was no sight of smoke or flame in the skies. In every direction the Great Forest rested, glistening with frost and ice, still deep in Winter's slumber. Bear would follow his nose to the source, despite the grumbling from his belly. He had ample fat reserves stored yet, should it be necessary to draw upon these. Such were these Winter days.

This day was still young. A pale sun strained through the veil of low cloud, so that earth and sky both radiated a dim glow. The forest was peppered by grey and black stalks reaching skyward into a sea of white. There were the occasional verdant boughs of cedar groves, also weighted by snows, but their deep green shone through the blanket. Here and there redbirds peeped from their perches. A bright scarlet flash would show for an instant in the trees, dancing amid the bare pillars as they would forage. The Great Forest was utter still, but for their minute disturbance. Like Bear, the forest had gone to deep rest; only taking breath at long intervals, waiting in sleep. Earth and sky were frozen together.

A small wind arose from the north, giving Bear a stronger scent of fire. Still distant, but now clearly to the north and east. This was the remains of fire. It had that gritty, ashy coal quality of the forest floor after a wildfire had burned itself out. Bear plodded forward through the snows, following the source of the scent. The path through the columns of trees now took a gentle grade downward. The pitch was gradual, barely perceptible at first. After the distance of some miles, Bear found himself at a convergence of slopes, which dropped further to form a great ravine. The land opposite arose to another formidable ridge, climbing to a height beyond Bear's view.

Bear halted at a distance of two to three hundred yards from the bottom of this cleft in the earth. The winds were channeled down the great ridge ahead, to sail over the bottom of the steep ravine and push up the long slope Bear had descended to arrive there. This delivered the most powerful scent he had found thus far. The source of this fire must lie ahead, somewhere below, deeper into the ravine. Bear sniffed harder at this wind. There was fire and something else strange. Something he had never smelled in Winter. Something he had never smelled at all.

Bear did not yet feel alarmed, simply alerted. Looking ahead he could see no flames, no billowing plumes of smoke cloud. He sensed that he had found the source of this recent fire. This was a fire extinguished and thus, Bear had no reason to fear. To see more up ahead, he rose upon his rear haunches, reaching a full height of seven feet. He sniffed the air again, turning his massive head this way and that, as he tried to sort out that other foreign scent. Something sour. And salty.

The birds of the Great Forest had gone quiet. Redbirds, blackbirds, the sparrows had each fallen silent in their turns. The last were a pair of doves. They had been cooing their mournful song from somewhere high above. Bear heard them for quite some while, until he had stood. Their soft cries ceased abruptly, then silently retiring their perch, they flew off into the haze. Now there was only wind through the trees, whistling as it did.

Bear dropped to all fours again and shuffled forward, edging closer to the rim of that great crevice. The wind funneling down the great slope opposite delivered the most potent scent yet. The smell of old fire was suddenly so strong, it seemed to Bear that he must be standing right atop the ash. The frigid air whistled gently as it rushed by him, but somewhere beneath this sound there were now other sounds. Strange sounds he had never heard; part grunting, part barking. 

At ten feet from the lip the earth dropped away. Bear could see over the edge and down into the bottom of the ravine. There at the floor of these slopes there was a hollow, a small bowl insulated from the howling winds. In the center there was a mass of ash and cinders, white, grey and black. Sticks, limbs and charred pieces were scattered about the space. In the center there were still embers, spiraling broken wisps of white smoke upwards. No flames, no widespread catastrophe. This was like no fire Bear had ever witnessed.

Bear continued to survey this scene with an instinctive wonder. The winds gained more force, over the gorge in a howling rush. The tips of frozen limbs clicked together high above, as the trees bent and swayed under the force. Bear was searching that other sour and foreign smell he had caught moments before. It seemed to elude him now, only there in faint traces amid the crystallized mist of snow spray. Still, he strained at the air to find it again. 

The wind biting at his nose and eyes, Bear studied the slope up from the hollow below. There were large tracks in the snow, leading away to weave between the tree trunks. His eyes followed this path, up and up further into the trees, until he spotted movement. There, nearly halfway up to the top of the ridge, there were two strange creatures climbing, struggling against the deep snows. It looked like a pair of stags, yet Bear could not smell stag. These beasts did not move like stags. They appeared to travel on all fours, as a stag would, but there was something wrong with their movement. And stags did not leave tracks so large.

This was quite curious. Bear again rose upon his haunches to stand tall against the wind. He watched and sniffed harder until he again detected the sour smell. That smell came from those strange beasts. He could not tell what they were, but he knew these could not be stags. A stag would be worth pursuing to sate his hunger. Such a feast could carry him through weeks, as surely Winter had not ended, but he would not give chase. Some sense told him that their flesh was tainted. Bear's understanding of living things in the forest told him that there were only two types: that which is food and that which is a threat.

Still raised to his formidable height, Bear let loose a ferocious, growling roar. He had drawn deep from his lungs and a great plume of steam erupted from his mighty jaws. The roar echoed throughout the gorge, rising above the howling wind. It proclaimed, "Begone, unclean beasts! Begone from My forest!" For a moment the wind ceased. The great roar reverberated again and again, pounding the dense, cold air like a drum. Bear could feel the earth groan beneath his feet as he returned to all fours.

Up on the steep slope the sour smelling creatures clumsily hastened their ascent. Now clearer than before, Bear again heard the strange grunting barks. This sound also belonged to these intruders. They would escape the clutch of his great maw for this time. He would have to see them closer the next time. He still did not know what they were, but he knew their scent and the sound of their calls. Bear would not forget these. 

Unbeknownst to Bear, he had just had his first encounter with man. He did not comprehend that man had worn the hides of stag, having little fur of his own. He was not aware that man could carry fire. Still, Bear had known instinctively that man was a threat. He would now remain ever alert to man's presence.

On this day Bear did not enjoy the glut of a freshly killed stag. He made the long, slow trek back to his den. In the general direction from which he came, he struggled against the slow grade, the wind now at his back. All the exertion redirected him to the original purpose of finding some form of sustenance. Bear wandered amid the trees, sniffing and chuffing through snows that yielded nothing. By the time Bear had returned to within a half mile of his den, half of the day's light had been spent.

 Bear came upon a small cluster of evergreens which he had not passed earlier. Their boughs were heavily weighted, the lower ones drooping near to the top of the snows drifted beneath. Some of them even lay atop the drift, as though the trees had erupted from beneath the crust. They appeared completely undisturbed, except for one small trough, one tiny breach in the whiteness that did not belong. Bear froze in his tracks, eyes fixed upon this singular point, waiting patiently.

It had passed to those hours of a mid-Winter, late afternoon, when a weak sun might have a brief reach beneath the heavy cloud bank on it's way to dusk. In one of those moments, shafts of unfiltered sunlight fell upon that hole in the snow and lingered there for several minutes. Bear remained still, watching. Something stirred behind the skirt of white, releasing a fine mist of icy crystal into the air above the hole. The shaft of light captured this spray as it drifted towards the ground.

A white hare tentatively poked it's head through the opening, it's whiskers waving in the light. The ray of sun shone directly into the hare's face. Whiskers dancing, eyes blinking, with it's long ears still laid back on it's neck, the hare crept forward. It was halfway out into the open before it even knew that Bear was there. Bear lunged and waved a mighty paw downward to crush the hare into the frozen earth, immediately plunging his snout behind to take the hare firmly in his jaws.

The hare was ripped into pieces in mere seconds, a spray of crimson blood bright upon the white-carpeted forest floor. His fearsome fangs bared, Bear chomped at his prey until nothing remained but a few puffs of fur floating about. And blood, brilliant red splashed upon this world of black and white. It was savage. And it was beautiful.

  

  

Requiem for a dirty, stinking pig

 

Agent Mueller has died. I'm not popping any champagne corks; he's hardly worth that much effort. Nevertheless, I do unabashedly share in the President's sentiment. I'm glad he's dead. Just like I'm glad when ANY dirty pig bites the dust. Despite all of the sickening sweet accolades that are being heaped upon him and his life's work, the truth is that Robert Mueller was a man whose character never rose to the impressive bona fides he managed to acquire. He bore all of the right credentials, compiled a model resume. On paper he appeared as the poster child for Uniform Fetishist Monthly; the homoerotic spank bank for an entire generation of self-loathing mouth breathers. In truth, Agent Mueller was a mercenary hack who spent most of his days defecating upon the Constitution he was sworn to uphold.

Oaths are meaningless to pigs like Mueller, a minor inconvenience. The oath is just another inconsequential box that must be ticked off of the checklist. Just one more platitude to be mouthed, like the Bureau's empty motto of "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity". They are words, when strung together, that sound good. They are meant to sound good. Not for our benefit, no. These things are mantras, soothing cope mechanisms for anal retentive control freaks; clutched to the breast like rosary beads, while they convince themselves that they are the embodiment of the law. Because being the law, one is above the law.

The weaponization of our law enforcement started a long time before Robert Mueller. Our federal law enforcement, as embodied by the FBI, is the product of an unholy union. Weaponization is the seed that fertilized the egg of a federal law enforcement agency. It has been a criminal enterprise from its conception. Now, more than fifty years after his death, the shadow of J. Edgar looms large as an institutional malignancy. Bongino bounced early and Mr. Patel isn't going to save it. It is unsalvageable.

In a career so long, there are many points to be examined. We are not going to do that here, today. We will highlight only three of the fruits of Agent Mueller's legacy. Mueller enabled Whitey Bulger. He provided cover. It's a fact. Mueller provided cover for Andrew Weissman. The report that bears Mueller's name is primarily the work of Weissman. Again, fact, not conjecture. And finally, Agent Mueller's greatest gift to us all: Saint James the Pious. Comey was nursed at Mueller's hairy teats and then handed the keys to the shop to carry on in that tradition. For this alone Mueller's name should be cursed.

There is a saying which has gained great currency in recent years: "When exposing a crime becomes a criminal act, you are being ruled by criminals". If Agent Mueller embodied anything, it was this.

Iguanapocalypse

 

So, the state of Florida, in an apparent moment of weakness, is (get this) allowing it's citizens to collect frozen iguanas from their own property. Allowing? Seriously? They actually say it with a straight face: you need their permission. To me, this seems more absurd than the fact that there are iguanas falling from the trees. At least there is some kind of science behind that.

The rationale given is that these are an invasive species, thereby placing this under the jurisdiction of the state game commission. It seems a rather thin justification in my book, but I guess we're allowing them to assert this authority. Anytime that one grants authority to the state over any matter, it very quickly becomes the proverbial slippery slope. While this may appear to be a fairly benign case, the slippery slope is no less valid as a concern.

As the video from local television reports, the state has established official collection sites for citizens to bring their iguanacicles. This comes complete with a ready set of guidelines for the proper transport and handling of the frozen reptiles. If nothing else, the Florida game commission gets an A for contingency planning. I guess that the state utilizing citizens as some sort of informal deputies, to assist in the performance of what are state duties, is not unprecedented. Traditionally there would be some sort of "bounty" entailed in this arrangement. There does not appear to be any such bounty forthcoming from the state of Florida. Floridians can be thankful that the state has not imposed some sort of disposal fee for their efforts. Yet.

This operation is not wholly without merit. I can think of another invasive species, in a different state. One might think that, given the part of the world that it comes from, this invasive species would be similarly afflicted by colder temperatures. Alas, sadly, this is not true. Just the same, I think that Governor DeSantis and Governor Walz should get together to develop a plan for citizen action in Minnesota to deal with their invasive species problem. There would definitely need to be a bounty set. Nobody is going to want to get that shit all over their car for nothing.

Diuretics and Disappointment: Groundhog Day 2026

We may have given our readers a false hope; a hope that Groundhog Day should be returned to it's former place of glory. We were indeed hopeful that we should be able to deliver the good news on this day, Groundhog Day Eve. Alas, it is not to be. Despite all our best efforts, we find that we are unable to bridge the rift that has occurred between man and rodent. 

There will be no Groundhog tomorrow morning. Don't bother looking, they're not going to show. It's nothing to do with the weather, for as bad as that is. Winter will continue. For months and, in a broader sense, perhaps years to come. The Groundhog is not eager to tender forgiveness, choosing instead to remain wary, skeptical. Some say it will take a generation to heal the break in that trust. Perhaps, yet even then, it may be healed but forever scarred.

The last time the Groundhog took part in this mid-winter silliness was in pre-plandemic 2020.  After observing the events of that year, the North American Groundhog Guild held a council and decided that they would no longer participate in the human tradition of Groundhog Day. That story was broken five years ago, on this date, by the late Carlton Milhouse. A copy of that report follows below. As of this writing, NAGG remains steadfast in their position.

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 In Pennsylvania they have Punxsutawney Phil. In neighboring Ohio there is Buckeye Chuck. I’m not actually certain if the ritual is observed there, but if there is Groundhog Day in Canada I rather imagine that there is some such moniker as Glace Bay Gord or Winnipeg Wilf. Maybe it’s Woodchuck Day in Canada, and like their Thanksgiving it is likely observed six weeks apart from our own. Given the length of Canadian winters I would reckon their Groundhog/Woodchuck Day to land somewhere around 16 March. Any interested Canadians are invited to share their insights on this topic in the comment section below. You don’t have to be an actual Canadian; an alleged Canadian will do. Really anyone, except Justin Bieber or Ryan Reynolds.

Well, we have waxed Canadian for quite long enough I should think. Groundhog Day is an American phenomenon which has been, by the silent hand of some unnamed grace, legitimized by it’s printed recognition in most common calendars. In the pantheon of meaningless symbolism that comprises the American holiday calendar Groundhog Day has been elevated to rock star status as a result of the 1993 film of the same name. For most of us within a certain age bracket we find that the film and the day itself are forever and inextricably linked in our hearts and minds. It is for this very reason that the Ale 81 Inn and Milhouse Farms chose Groundhog Day for the premiere of our Chairman’s Choice. That, and the Hilltop Groundhog Lasagna Festival. I mean come on…. fresh, roadkill groundhog and lasagna? What self respecting stoner could resist this?

It saddens me greatly to share this news, but it turns out that this decision was taken without the benefit of all relevant data. Though it was hardly our intention at the outset, we have since come to learn that there is rather a lot more involved in Groundhog Day than any of us knew. In a landscape where truth has taken heavy casualties we will proceed with some caution from here. We will attempt to be sensitive to a populace which may have been rendered too vulnerable to fully absorb these shocking revelations. If the fear and tumult of the past twelve months has left you feeling more easily triggered than normal then my advice would be that you stop here. Should you choose to proceed, do so at your own peril.

The Hilltop Groundhog Lasagna Festival went on as planned, despite a weekend winter storm and the chill and bitter winds that followed in it’s wake. The hearty citizens of neighborhoods like Wiltshire Heights, Holly Hill, Briggsdale, and lest we forget our brethren from north of route 40, even Valleyview were represented. From aging and weathered Anchor-Hocking crockery to the more modest $2 foil pan from Dollar General, they came all with their gourmet inspired interpretations of one of the world’s most beloved rodent-themed pasta dishes. The parade, postponed to Monday for inclement weather, was an abbreviated affair conducted with a modest fleet of pickup trucks led by a garbage truck of a private sanitation firm. The garbage truck with yellow caution lights flashing proceeded at the front as a sort of terrestrial icebreaker, leaving a passable set of ruts in the frozen slush for the parade to follow. Other trucks, vans and popup tents ringed the Confederate Cemetery, the steam from their many chafing pans escaping to form a cloud interspersed with liberal amounts of cannabis fume. It is said that there may have been Irish coffee and other warming beverages on offer in some of those tents. I personally did not get the chance to try it myself, but there was talk of a “Cocoa Captain”: a hot cocoa spiked with Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum. It can fairly be said that what the residents of the Hilltop may lack in sophistication they more than make up for in inventiveness.

After the official crowning of Karen Cox-Zucker as the 2021 Groundhog Lasagna Queen the top prize lasagna was announced. This year’s prize winner was a dark horse in the race, Mr. Otis “Whitey” Cruikshank of North Wheatland Avenue. Mr. Cruikshank is the proud recipient of a year’s supply of Mountain Dew and Slim Jims, redeemable at the BP station on the corner of Hague and Sullivant Avenues. In glee of his victory Whitey was inspired to don an adult sized groundhog suit and dance about the crowd, exhorting them to greater celebration of that Groundhog Day magic. Though his intentions were completely benign, the results were counterproductive. The home made suit animated by his unsteady movements bore more of a resemblance to a brown bear with Tourette’s Syndrome and really only served to frighten the young children. What public event isn’t complete without shrieking infants?

As daylight waned on Monday evening the citizens of Hilltop began to make ready for the Groundhog Day Eve vigil. Before everything was broken down and the crowd began to disperse I had an announcement to share. I was acutely aware that this announcement would be a complete buzzkill, so I held it back for as long as possible. I did not have the heart to break the merriment of the day with this sad news, but I realized that it had to be done. Better to save it for the end.

” Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention for just a moment? I have an announcement to make before everything wraps up here. I am… I am afraid that I have a bit of sad news to share. I didn’t want to dampen the occasion before now, but this has to be told.” A slow murmur grew and then a hush fell over the crowd. “Tomorrow is indeed Groundhog Day and nothing will change that. Make no mistake: your efforts here are profoundly appreciated. Despite this, however, there will be no groundhog tomorrow morning.”

I paused at this point, thinking that this would be met with a sudden outburst of shock and disbelief, perhaps even howls of derision. Instead there were only muted groans of disappointment. I had expected that surely one person would cry out “Why?”, but that did not happen. It was a reaction of a populace who has come to expect that no matter what they do there will be some nameless, faceless prick to thwart their desires. There is no explanation to be expected, only blind compliance. And so they part in sullen silence, scheming how they might circumvent yet another round of ill informed and baseless regulations foisted upon them. As more and more rules are added to the game they have simply opted out of playing altogether. This has become a common theme nationally with a strong and surly undercurrent. Despots dance as the alternative economy grows under their noses and the people see that the state is not a partner in prosperity, rather it is a parasite riding upon it.

The distribution of The Chairman’s Choice continues apace, despite being cheated of the inaugural event. In what follows here you will learn that this theft occurred not as a result of any government intervention, rather it comes as a result of the groundhog likewise deciding to gather up it’s toys and go home. They have decided that they don’t want to play any more. I know this because they told me in a clandestine meeting on Sunday 31 January. I warned you that these revelations might be shocking.

In preparation for our premiere I sought out the local groundhog population for coordination. To begin it should be stated that the Groundhog Day celebration is not the result of various and random woodchucks deciding to poke their heads out of their burrows at some appointed hour to amuse their fellow mammals. There is instead an extensive Groundhog Guild operating beneath our feet on a daily basis. Those which you may see in the recording of events in Punxsutawney and elsewhere are not volunteers. Instead they are the result of a sort of subterranean college of cardinals convening on an annual basis. The groundhogs who appear on that most blessed of days do so as a result of having been selected by their peers. I have learned that this is in fact an ancient tradition among their species and it has NOTHING to do with meteorological prognostications. I could continue to recount this tale for all of you, but I should think it better that you have it as a transcript of the original tale as related to me by the Hilltop steward of NAGG (North American Groundhog Guild), one Westgate Wally. It should be noted that this does not necessarily reflect the personal views of Westgate Wally, rather it is an approved statement emanating from NAGG’s central committee. What follows here is an abridged version of my brief conversation with Wally and then, in italics, the official NAGG statement:

(on a park bench, northwest corner of Westgate Park, Sunday 31 Jan. 2021)

” Jee-e-e-sus! Could ya picked a better day Carlton? I’m freezing my fuckin’ tail off here!”

“Uh, yeah… sorry about that Wally. As a token of our appreciation for coming out to meet us like this here is a pound of The Presidential Cheese…..”

“A pound!? Really? Where the fuck you think I’m gonna carry that, huh? You think I’m a Kangaroo… like I got a pouch or somethin’?”

“Well…uh, I could maybe carry it back to the burrow for you?”

“Yeah? You’re fuckin’ A right you’re gonna carry that back to the burrow. So where’s Ford, huh? You’re saying we like there was more than one of ya’s, but all I see is you. How’s come Ford didn’t show up, huh?”

“Ah, Ford. Yes. Ford sends his regards, but he is currently in a state of exile I’m afraid.”

“Uh-huh. Gone manic again, has he?”

“Well, you could say that, I suppose…”

” I gotchas, brother. You don’t have to say no more. Oo-kay… we got some business here, right?”

“Yes. Yes we do. We wanted to have the ceremony set up around the Confederate Cemetery, but for the official appearance we were wondering if you had a tunnel opening somewhere inside the wall?”

“Ya know what Carlton? I think you been samplin’ too much of the product ’cause you don’t have any idea what the fuck is really goin’ on. You think that Punxsutawney Phil is like North Pole Santa and all the rest of us…me, Buckeye Chuck, Strongsville Steve, Waverly Wilma, all of us… that we’re just like shopping mall Santas that you can rent for a few hours on Saturday morning. I mean…DAMN! Fuckin’ humans. You’re garbage is top rate man, but all the fuckin’ drama! You know what I’m sayin’? Not you personally Carlton. We’re cool. Just… I dunno man. It’s just all gone wrong somewhere, ya know?”

“Well, I guess I never thought of it from that perspective Wally. I mean, I feel like maybe I owe you some kind of an apology, but I’m still not really sure what it is that you’re trying to say.”

“Yeah. Look Carlton… this ain’t all coming from me, okay? There’s some things you need to know. It’s time that you and all your kind finally learn the truth.”

“The truth? The truth about what?”

“Fuck! Okay, here it is kid. You ever heard of a group called NAGG?”

“The National Organization of Women?”

“Nah, not those cunts! NAGG… N A G G. Nag-guh!”

“Uh, no.”

“Yeah? Well ya just did. North American Groundhog Guild. That includes ALL North American groundhogs and the Walla Walla Woodchucks sub-chapter. Our legal department makes us put that last bit in. Any-hoo…take me for an example, huh? Me and my furbearers have been crawlin’ around this patch since before the Johnny Rebs were picking ticks off each other over yonder in Camp Chase. We were here when the French trappers passed through. All the way back to before the white man. No offense!”

“Oh, none taken my friend. One tribe’s savagery is as good as another’s.”

“Indeed. Thank you Carlton. You have provided me the perfect segue to the statement.”

“The statement? What statement?”

“THE statement, dumbass! From NAGG!”

“The North American….”

“That’s right! Spit it out… guh- guh- guh- Groundhog Guild!”

“Okay. Their official statement. Now?”

“Yes. Ya ready?”

“Can I blaze up first?”

“<sigh> Sure, g’ ‘head.”

“Ok. That’s better. Go ahead.”

“Ya sure?”

“Yeah. Go.”

Annual statement of NAGG policy advisory board January 2021

As we enter our second decade of the twenty-first century we are at a crossroads. We look back at our long history, a history of long traditions, of our culture and customs. And we look forward. Forward is always unknown, but until now forward has always included a light somewhere in the distance. Somewhere on the edge of the horizon there has always been that dim glow, but this glow has dimmed to a mere ember. We have no hope that it should not be extinguished.

In a time before the Iroquois descended from the Laurentian Plain; before Comanche had lain with Spaniards; before the Mayans had folded their tents and vanished into the jungle, there came an awful winter. A winter years long when darkness painted the sky. We shivered in our burrows as food grew scarce. This famine killed many of our number and of the native peoples of this land. As conditions reached desperation many of our brethren ventured forth in the quest for sustenance. The native peoples were starving too and haunted the entrances of our vast network to take our flesh for their own sustenance. One by one we were massacred until we were at the gates of extinction.

Finally a fair wind breathed across the land. The snows abated and life slowly returned to our fields and forests. It was in commemoration of these dark times that an agreement was forged between the groundhog and the red man: that every year in mid winter we would sacrifice one of our own to the red man as a testament of faith to this agreement. This was our custom for hundreds upon hundreds of years. Then came the white man.

As we witnessed the genocide of the red man this custom was slowly abandoned, replaced in symbolism by only appearing at our burrow openings in mid winter. This is how we arrived at the white man’s tradition of Groundhog Day. Groundhog Day is the white man’s tradition; it is not our tradition, but only a shadow of our suffering long past. With the exception of more remote areas the white man’s palate has lost the taste for Groundhog flesh. We have, sometimes with reluctance, continued to humor this tradition in exchange for the relative safety accorded to us under the white man’s rule. Times are changing and there is an ill wind upon our fair land.

We have been concerned for some time. We have observed crimes against nature. They remove trees to create “lawns”. Then upon these lawns they pour fertilizer and vile chemicals to soak the earth. These make the weeds grow and for four to five months a year they ritualistically cut the weeds, bag their clippings and have them hauled away to “landfills”. They are hauled by rumbling behemoths they dub “garbage trucks”, frightful, multi wheeled carriages with a house of horror laden upon their backs. Many a groundhog has given the last full measure before these monsters. To these and lesser vessels our numbers are decimated every year and it keeps getting worse. Their wheeled metal boxes are everywhere, in every color, shape and size imaginable. And they are actually working on something called “self driving cars”. We are not certain what this actually means, but we are pretty certain that it will not be good for us. The carnage far exceeds anything we suffered in our blood sacrifice to the red man.

Still we have played along with their annual charade. Every year there are a select few of us who are honored by the vote of our peers to rise above ground at dawn on a mid winter morning. Those brave few have endured on our account the horrors of television crew lights, the madding crowds, the clutching hands and toddlers with snotty noses frozen in the cold. And for what? A cameo appearance with Bill Murray? A footnote one day of the year on their calendars? Clever tongue twisters?

My friends the urban back lots; the back alleyways; utility right of ways along major roads, all of these have had a good run for us. We have managed to adapt and thrive, but that tide is turning. It is time for us to return to the wooded lot; the fence lines of grain fields; the irrigation ditches, to our homes of old. Our scouts have remained diligent. The reports of human activities in the past nine months alone are enough to make the case on their own merit: it is time we cut bait on these motherfuckers.

This year on February 2nd remain in your burrows. It’s not safe out there. If you must go out you may only do so between the hours of 6:00 AM and 6:00 PM. If you must go out wear a diaper. There is no telling what those depraved fuckers will try to stick up your ass. Finally, any groundhog participating in the human celebration of Groundhog Day will be PERMANENTLY expelled from NAGG with no opportunity for reinstatement. These are stringent measures, but we are in dangerous times. Its completely necessary. TRUST ME.

You were warned. Now you know the truth about Groundhog Day. If you were paying close attention you may have discerned a few other truths.

Well friends that is all for this High Tea. Until next time this is Carlton Milhouse, your botanist, saying Keep Calm and Blaze On.

Survivor's Guilt

 

I'd go back and save them all

if I could

probably wrong to do so

For reasons not for us to know

their deaths served some purpose

I would save them for selfish reasons

For good or ill, part of my own

Only wanting to discover

where continued intersections lead

So selfish

No respect for their wishes

or desires of those passed

Might not even have been a part

or grown to be someone's villain

We read the book

the art you commended

Now acquainted with the inspiration

and feeling quite unmoved

A well-practiced leer at the Rumba Bar

a girl dancing looked like Annie

Made me think

of a home so far away

Bail, part 3

The check in had been easy. A weekday, technically still afternoon. The evening refugees from the highway, only a little more than one hundred yards distant, had not yet arrived. After presenting his Hilton Honors card, he decided to ask if they had a jacuzzi suite available. They did, room 313, for $145 a night. He booked it, paid and had a couple of key cards for the room inside of ten minutes. It was more than he typically would pay for one night's stay, but this wasn't a typical day. Today it was worth it.

When he returned to the lot Vic found Tammy, casually leaning against the side of the car, smoking a cigarette. She looked so... young! For just that instant Vic heard a scolding voice inside his head. You're old enough to be her father, you piece of shit! This was followed almost instantly by another voice inside his head replying, Yeah, don't care. She's an adult. When he arrived within earshot of her, he realized that wasn't a cigarette she was smoking.

"Hey! Hope ya don't mind I decided to start without ya. This shit's really loud, ya know? Didn't wanna stink up your ride."

"Yeah? That's real nice of you. Pass it over!"

They spent ten minutes out there, leaning against Vic's car and sharing that joint in a chill March wind. Vic now had some context for her meaning of the term "loud", though he was missing this property out in the open air. Just as most do not drink beer for it's taste, there are few who smoke weed for it's smell. Of course, the smell of beer is hardly an indicator for it's potency. As it had been quite some time since he'd had any, Vic was woefully unprepared for this. The strain that had been gathered that day was of a variety that some might refer to as "creep weed". After smoking three quarters Vic could feel that familiar buzz and was ready to tag out. He wouldn't become aware of how baked he was until they went inside Longnecks for their early dinner.

At ten of 5:00 the two of them entered Longnecks, not reeking, but certainly carrying a hint of the herb upon themselves. The first warning sign to Vic came the moment the entry door closed behind them. The inside of the establishment was reasonably well lit, but following the dun white skies it was like entering a cave. He felt frozen in his tracks as his eyes adjusted. Then suddenly, the panic seized him. All of his periphery was darkened and fuzzy, leaving him very concerned for whatever might be lurking there. The only thought that remained clear was that he wanted to reach the bar. There was a narrow tunnel of light, cast from the row of flat screens mounted over the bar. They just needed to follow the light for thirty feet.

There was a hostess seated at the cashier's station to their left. Marla. Vic had not seen her. Marla was thirty-something, had one of those cynical faces that said nothing would surprise her. She had instantly caught a whiff of them, bringing a smirk to one corner of her mouth. She looked them over, trying to sort out what was their deal. This is one of those valuable life lessons that one learns from being a hostess in a sports bar.  

They did present quite the pair. There was the tall, lean figure of a man who looked to be in his late forties. Salt and pepper hair, well-tailored wool jacket, grey slacks and some expensive looking shoes. Probably some kind of sales rep or insurance executive. And the girl. The girl didn't fit. A daughter? She looked young enough. She looked like she had dug her clothes out of a Salvation Army donation bin. Maybe a college student? Maybe this was some kind of neo-punk fashion statement. Marla was kind of digging the black converse. Could this be some kind of daddy-daughter smoke down date? 

"Hey, y'all. You folks want a table, or would you like to sit at the bar?"

Tammy and Marla both giggled a little when Vic jumped, he was so startled by her sudden appearance. He recovered quickly, didn't seem to notice their amusement.

"Yeah... we're just gonna... yeah, the bar's good." 

Marla just waved them on then. No reason to get up, no reason to think about them anymore. They were Paul, the bartender's problem now. They shuffled onward to the bar, where surely adult beverages and cooked vittles awaited them. Vic felt like he was wearing lead boots. It was taking a frightfully long time to cover that thirty feet. 

At last, they were there. Vic collapsed onto a stool; Tammy took the one on his right.

"Jesus, Vic... you okay? Don't stroke out on me!"

"No, no... nothing like that. What the fuck did you put in that weed?"

"I told ya it was some good shit!"

"Yeah... fair. You did. Holy shit!"

"Ya know what you need, Vic? You need a drink!"

Yes. Indeed. A drink and many more. The evening was young and there were great hills to be conquered. They began with two 24oz tall drafts. They both had a serious munch on, ordered a fifteen piece wings, a basket of smothered fries. When the food arrived there were two more tall drafts. And an order for a bacon cheeseburger.

For the next hour and a half they gorged themselves on draft beers and fried foods. A sparse crowd filtered in during that time, all taking seats at a distance from them. The closest of any were a pair of hard hat types, huddled over beer and shots at the end of the bar to their right. Tammy gave up on the drink after her second tall. Vic had four. Throw a few double bourbons into that mix. By 7:00 Vic was in the full throes of a crunk attack. At 6:00 Tammy had dropped two more 500 oxys. It is a good thing they closed the check when they did. Shortly after 7:00 they weaved their way to the exit and out into the waiting darkness.

It had grown colder out. The wind, which was coming right at their faces, had picked up, now spitting cold sleet. The frigid air was bracing, restoring just enough sobriety to arrive at the idea of going to the car to smoke another joint. It was another of those minor miracles to be found in mind altering substances; those fleeting moments of clarity only serve to remind that you still want more. They felt like they were racing to get in the car. It was more of a wobbly jog, comical to any who may have been watching. Thankfully, there were none.

They each slammed their doors shut behind them at the same time and Vic immediately started the engine. He set to the fan and temperature controls, ignored the wipers. They weren't driving anywhere.

"I'll roll us another one in a minute. I gotta warm up a little! Feel like my nips are gonna break off!"

"We sure don't want that."

"Right?"

That 6:00 dose was really kicking in now. Part of it was the cold, part of it was him. It had been a while since she had found herself this excited for a man. Part of her wanted to go for his pants and give him head right there in the car. But that's what you did with a John. Vic wasn't a John. She wanted to fuck him. 

"What kinda music ya like, Vic? Do ya like country?"

"Fucking hate it."

"Oh... I bet you're a classic rock guy, then? Am I right?"

"Yeah, I suppose you could say that. So, if I put some music on will that get you to roll that joint?"

She knew he was only teasing her and responded in kind. "Put on somethin' sexy, maybe I'll give ya a dance", she pouted seductively.

"Yeah? In the car? How you gonna do that?"

"I could show you...", she couldn't resist any longer, reaching over and placing a hand on his crotch, "... show you mine, if you show me yours." She purred over dramatically to keep it playful, but the way she was groping him through his trousers said she wasn't just playing.

"That sounds like a lot of fun, sweetheart, but we got a room for that. Last time I got laid in a car I was seventeen. Let's smoke that joint, then you go get your shower..."

She withdrew her hand with mock offense and then grinned. "You're right. I wanna get good and fucked up, then I am gonna do you right." She pulled out the bag and papers, improvising a tray out of the glove box. It was just beginning to warm up inside the car. When she finished the task, she held it up for Vic to take. "Here...got something else for ya...", as she replaced the bag and papers inside her coat, she fished another bag out, placing it in her lap. "Here, take a couple of these." She handed him two of her oxys and the rest of her Mountain Dew from earlier. "So, where ya wanna smoke that thing, Vic? "

He downed the pills without hesitation. "Gimme a light, will ya? We're gonna smoke it right here in the car. Too fuckin' cold out there!"

"Cool! You want me to crack the windows? I know you don't wanna stink up your car."

"It's okay. Doesn't matter anymore."

They did crack the windows, with the front panel heat at full force. Most of the smoke escaped, but they still managed to create quite a cloud inside the car. Tammy didn't think too much about what changed his mind, chalking it up to being so buzzed. She was feeling no pain herself. The fresh dose of the potent weed, atop the oxys and the drinks, was leaving her tingling all over. All she could think about was getting out of these clothes and into a hot shower. She wanted to be nice and clean for him. 

They smoked two thirds of it, until Vic had a coughing fit. It was enough, he tagged out. Both of them having achieved their stated desire to get really fucked up, they then hastened indoors, to the elevator and to the warmth of room 313 beyond. Left out of the elevator, three quarters of the way down the hall, on the left. Right where the desk said it would be. He took the key cards from his jacket pocket, handed one to Tammy, and then fumbled with the other until the familiar click opened the door. He pushed the door open and bid her to enter.

Vic stepped in right behind her and hit the wall switch on his right. It was as big a reveal to him as it was for Tammy. He hadn't taken the time to check the room earlier. In his intoxicated state he was only vaguely aware that maybe he should have, but all turned out well. The entrance was a very short hallway, with an alcove closet to the right and a full-length mirror opposite. The hall continued for ten feet, until reaching an archway that framed the room beyond. It was standard fare for a Hampton, variations on a theme of taupe, clean, well furnished.  

Tammy passed through the arch and turned to her right, then gasped in shock. After a very short wall the space opened up into the jacuzzi suite. It was a cool, blue tile throughout with a bank of mirrors, a glass doored shower and a whirlpool tub set into the floor. A toilet and sink were partitioned off in one corner with a door. Otherwise, the space was open, looking over a king with plush bedding.

"Oh! Fuck yeah! I'm havin' a bath! This is awesome, Vic!"

Vic followed her and watched on as she rushed to start the bath. It was pretty nice. Better than he'd have expected for Richwood, Kentucky. He'd been surprised they even had such a suite. This one was actually one of two on site.

He'd grabbed a gym bag from the back seat of the car, slung over his left shoulder. He unloaded it, dropping it casually on the bed, and then sat down next to it. The tap was roaring, echoing off of the tile as steam began to rise. Tammy was saying something, but he couldn't make out what it was over the water. She continued testing the water, adjusting the knobs until having it just right. Vic leaned back on the bed, drunk, stoned as fuck and now the oxys were starting to kick in.

Once she'd found the right balance of temperature, Tammy arose to stand over the tub, watching it fill. As the steam gathered, she began to methodically disrobe, keeping her back to him. He knew she was teasing him and he was enjoying the show. Stripped down to the waist she still appeared to be a very small-framed girl. Her back was creamy white skin, without a single blemish. Unlike most young women of the day, there was hardly any ink on her. She had a small, red rose tattoo on her right shoulder. Unencumbered of any top, her wiry mane spilled freely across her slender neck. When she slowly unpeeled her jeans, it was clear this was no girl, but indeed a woman. Her hips were broad and limber, her ass full and firm. Before even seeing the front of her, Vic could tell that she had given birth. At least once. She hadn't made any mention of children and he never asked.

She continued to tease, keeping her back turned to him as she stepped into the tub. He noticed one other tattoo, on her left hip. It was black, maybe a gothic script. It looked like it might be a name, but he didn't get a clear look at it before she melted into the water. She gave out a deep sigh of satisfaction as she swirled about in the tub, finding the right spot to recline before turning on the jets. She had a direct view to Vic over on that bed. Most guys would already have their pants off by now.

"Hey! Whatcha doin' over there? Plenty of room in this bath! Get your clothes off and bring that cock over here!"

Vic could not decline that invitation. Though he could barely stand up, he managed to strip bare in two steps and strut proudly into the bath with a full hard on. For the better part of the next two hours, he proceeded to defile her from head to toe. They started in the tub, moved to the bed and back again. They drained the water and dried... and continued on the bed. She straddled him, grinding against him until she had come at least six more times. She was raw. Spent. 

Vic lay upon his back with her curled up on his right side, her backside pressed against him. He examined the tattoo on her hip more closely.

"What does that say, that tattoo on your hip? Is that a name?"

"No. Just a word. Bail."

He absorbed this in silence. So fucked up. Had to wonder what it meant but could barely form the question. After several minutes it came to him in the fog.

"What... what is that? I mean... what does it mean?"

"Okay, so it's kinda like... it's like this philosophy in a word. Somethin' I got from an old boyfriend. It's like... like it's okay to fuck up, right? No matter what you do, shit will always fuck up, so stop trying so hard for other people. Accept the consequences of being who you are, just "bail" on everything else."

"Whoa! That's some deep shit. Sounds like Bukowski. So, do you believe that?"

"I don't know any more. I must have believed once. I got talked into the tattoo, right?"

Vic was nodding off, thinking. Bail. Accept the consequences of being who you are. It was completely relatable.

Vic never did decide which direction he was going to go. He didn't have to. When this day had started, he only knew he was headed south. Maybe Texas, maybe Florida. He was looking for signs along the way to tell him which.

He had taken four grand out of the bank, what he reckoned was enough for two weeks. If the docs were right, he wouldn't need any more than that. Vic was on a mission to find a good place to die.

When he was first diagnosed, it was already considered that it was likely too late. The tumor had to be classified as inoperable. It wrapped about the spine, assuring that any attempt at surgery would at best result in total paralysis. There were some "hail Mary" options with radiation and chemo, but the only thing these could guarantee were a foreseeable future of nausea and vomiting unto death. If he did nothing? Maybe a couple of weeks. He decided those two weeks were going to be his. All his. Not answering to anyone again, just walking silently into the void.

Sometime in the night Vic just stopped breathing. Tammy had drifted in and out of a slumber, never coming fully awake. She didn't notice that he had not moved until about 3:00AM, when she had to get up to pee. When she returned to the bed, he looked very tempting to her. She decided that she'd try to arouse another round, but very quickly found that something was wrong. He had begun to go cold. At the instant she realized what had happened, she uttered a reflexive "Oh fuck!"

The adrenaline rush of panic is ten times more sobering than any cold air. Tammy had no idea that Vic had been ill in any way. Her thoughts immediately leaped to the frightening conclusion that the oxys, combined with the liquor, had caused his heart to stop. She'd heard of shit like that happening. They were pills that he had got from her, pills that she had without a prescription. Oh fuck, oh fuck! Her heart was pounding. She had rapidly convinced herself to get the fuck out of this room, out of this hotel. Maybe go to Waffle House until the rest of the world woke up.

She forced herself to slow down her breathing. Calm down. Get dressed, gather up all your shit. She hadn't really done anything wrong. She met a guy next door at dinner, came back to his room and fucked him. She had to leave; he was alive when I left. I don't know where he got any pills. I never saw any pills. 

She finished dressing, looked around the room. She would hold on to the bag. Vic couldn't use it. No sense letting the damn cops have it! She looked on the body one last time. Shame. Hell of a good fuck. As she turned away, she stepped on his jacket. It made her freeze for a minute. She could not resist. She knelt down to search inside the pockets. There was a bank envelope with nearly thirty-four hundred dollars in small bills. The cops would probably pocket it anyway. She might as well take it too. 

She couldn't look at him again. She slipped out the door quietly, instinctively looking both ways in the hall before creeping to the stairwell. Once the hall door shut behind her Tammy hustled down those flights of steps and lunged at the exit door, like she was underwater, clawing to the surface. 

Cold! Cold air. The sleet and wind had ended and there was no one on the street. Just the empty, cold night. Tammy cinched up her hood and braced herself for the walk. She could probably make it over to the Waffle House in ten minutes. Fifteen tops. 

On that day Tammy accepted the consequences of who she was. She was a whore with an opiate addiction. Sometimes even a whore is deserving of some kindness. She didn't really know who Vic was, or his story. She had paid him the only kindness she had to give. She was truly sorry that he had died. She thought that maybe, just maybe, this could be a turning point for her. But probably not. She plucked a couple more oxys from inside her coat pocket and choked them down dry. Off to the Waffle House, then. Now it was Thursday.