I have always loved you
I see Wicked Lord Trumpleton has announced his insatiable desire for the unnamable thing. Naturally I cannot use the word he uses to describe his standard sexual operating procedures, nor would I if I could, but I can at least point out that more than half the voters in America can reasonably argue they have been directly insulted by the presidential candidate for the Wiggy Oaf party.
But there is still some hope for him. Just in case you are concerned that Trumpleton has fatally wrecked his dream of converting the White House into the Playboy Club HQ, just get a grip and remember that he has also told us that he is a devout and sincere Christian boy. Thank goodness for that, as I was starting to get a bit worried for a moment.
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Speaking of things taking a turn for the worse, it has come to my attention that traffic drives the wrong way on Limerock Street outside the post office. A vehicle entering Limerock from the bank drive-through parking lot the other day turned right and headed past the post office for Main Street, and probably for two reasons.
First, it was an out-of-state car whose driver probably has no idea he was making an illegal turn. Next, there is absolutely no sign at the drive-through exit to suggest that turning right is illegal. This is not a solitary incident.
On Sunday I was in the rare position of being able to exercise good citizenship by leaning on my car horn to prevent another out-of-state driver turning left onto Limerock off Union. Why on earth we don’t use big red ‘No Entry’ signs to warn drivers about our street rules, I do not know. That would be normal, right? But are we normal? That’s a good question to ask in these peculiar times.
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Speaking of presidential elections, I see the mushrooms have been out in full splendor this year. On Sept. 27 in Achorn Cemetery I counted about 40 mushrooms on the lawn within view of a vast stone-cross monument to the late Octave P. Howard, 1838-1922. A noble chap, I am sure.
Tell me the name of a single other publication in the whole of Maine that would have told you that about mushrooms, and now reflect on how well served you are by this curious newspaper.
* * * * *
‘Twas a bit damp and breezy Sunday night, up here in these concrete towers at the foot of Mechanic Street where I am forced to live. Halfway through the night, I awoke under my blanket of wet leaves to hear a loud howling sound all across the harbor. This is not the first time I have heard it, usually during windy weather at night. It’s a hard sound to pin down exactly, and I am still not sure what it might be. But this is not the first time.
Years ago the good people of Rockland spent all night hiding under our bedclothes while listening in terror to the sound of strange deep booming noises coming in off the harbor, as though some giant ghostly banquet were in full swing in Neptune’s Kitchen, at the bottom of the harbor just this side of the lighthouse. The Courier leaped briskly into action on behalf of a sleepless community, and two or three days later reported that police had investigated the phenomenon and laid it down to a barge clanging up against another barge somewhere in the North End.
This recent noise has that same kind of pervading nightmarish quality, although it is not barges. This is more of a howling sound, rather like the tormented spirit of Lord Trumpleton dragging his leg irons up and down the breakwater in eternal spectral penance for his wicked ways. It’s almost definitely something like that, or else it is his doomed soul trapped in some building over on Tillson Avenue and trying vainly to get out. One or the other; it’s your pick, really.
* * * * *
Hats off to Christopher Columbus, an explorer famous for thinking he was somewhere completely different from where he actually was.
I am told that we have no real idea exactly where he was, either. Somewhere in the Caribbean, apparently. In those days you did not have to know much to be considered a great explorer, you just had to go somewhere.
“I’m off,” said Christopher. “Leaving after work on Thursday, probably.”
“Where to?” asked the Queen of Portugal, idly filing her fingernails.
“Not really sure,” Christopher replied. “Over there somewhere, I expect.”
* * * * *
I welcome the forthcoming election, if only for the chance that it might at last reveal to us who are these people who are all so permanently mad at America, even if it will not do much to explain why. And if they are a majority among us, then I hope Trumpleton wins. There is nothing so likely to be effective for curing such general complaints, for fixing such chronic pity-me whining, as a good old-fashioned dose of this nasty home-brew medicine.
The only problem I foresee with us all having to swallow this ghastly spoonful is that it might actually kill the patient before it has a chance to cure. In which case, farewell, America. I have always loved you and I weep for your unborn generations, but I will be content to go down with the ship.