Blame it all on them

By David Grima | May 18, 2017

Uncle Phil claims he went to a certain fast-food restaurant recently, and ordered two cheeseburgers.

“Sure,” said the perky young clerk behind the counter. “And would you like cheese with that?”

In all fairness, Unk has just returned from a marathon trip to the South, trying to find a state that would let him at least spend the night, so it is possible this disturbing cheese-related event took place in any one of a dozen parts of this dear country.

* * * * *

Frank picked up the paper the other day, scanned it with a puzzled expression, and put it down again in great disappointment.

“It’s all the same stuff I read last time,” he said. “I was hoping for something new.”

I think he was looking for a newspaper that automatically updates itself from hour to hour. Of course, there is no such thing. Not yet, anyway. The nearest thing we have to the continuously updatable newspaper is the internet, and, as we all know, the internet is absolutely useless for swatting flies.

* * * * *

I see that now our City Council wants to be paid to do their job. Is there no end to human greed? Next thing, they’ll be wanting special license plates so they can be immune from parking tickets.

What is the world coming to? Tut tut.

* * * * *

What ever happened to that plan for a field of solar energy generators somebody was going to build between Holmes and Thomaston streets? We all knew it was just a cover for a spy satellite network, anyway. Surely?

* * * * *

The first cruise ship of the season put in at the harbor over the weekend, a few days earlier than expected. I really feel sorry for the poor passengers, who arrived on the wettest day of spring so far.

* * * * *

Last Saturday was quite fair, weather-wise, and I saw my first yard sale, on Broadway.

* * * * *

There is a woodchuck that I am told lives in a stone wall in Cushing, and he has apparently been christened Jackson.

See if you can figure it out.

* * * * *

Speaking of the internet, it is remarkable how all the great news organizations in the nation have failed to figure out exactly what is the story behind the recent news that 300,000 computers in 150 of the 195 countries recognized by the United States were hacked with so-called ransomware. This is a naughty electronic program that takes all an infected computer’s files prisoner and will not release them until the owner pays a ransom.

The simple answer is that my dear friend Lord President Trumpleton did it. He explained the whole thing to me the other night, in a dream I had while sound asleep in the cardboard box at the top of the concrete towers at the foot of Mechanic Street, where I am forced to live.

As is well known by now, the computer virus that caused worldwide havoc – closing down car factories in France, hospitals in Britain, wombat farms in Australia, etc. – belongs to the U.S. National Security Agency, a shadowy arm of the federal government. Until now everyone has assumed the virus was either leaked by a Russian sympathizer in the NSA, (and there are so many of them that he or she would be impossible to trace,) or simply stolen by the Russian spy the president invited into the Oval Office the other day.

But the facts as obtained by your humble correspondent indicate otherwise.

It is widely understood that Lord Trumpleton never sleeps, but stays up all night composing Tweets with one finger and trying to spell them correctly. Last week he was particularly restless in the wee small hours of the morning, so he went wandering through the corridors of power wearing only his pajamas and carrying a cup of coffee he got from Starbucks, but which he did not pay for, because he told the clerk it wasn’t very good.

Walking past the office where Ben Carson is still trying to figure out exactly why the Egyptians built the pyramids, Trumpleton came across the door marked NSA. Pushing it open, he scared the night watchman, who wasn’t used to seeing the Lord Prez with his hair “au naturel,” and the poor fellow ran away in terror.

Sitting down at a computer in the empty office, Trumpleton suddenly had yet another of his brilliant ideas. He would send this virus to shut down all the computers in Mexico, and then demand ransoms equal to the anticipated cost of the wall he very much wants to build along the southern border.

“I told them I’d get Mexico to pay for the wall,” he chuckled to himself mischievously. “And the boys have found a way I can do it!”

The rest is history. The president, God bless his innocent soul, pressed the "send" button to distribute the ransom virus throughout Mexico, but he forgot to check the address list first. It wasn’t just Mexican computers he held hostage, therefore, but hundreds of thousands across the globe. This did not worry him too much.

“I am the president, after all,” he sniggered. “I’ll just fire someone and blame it all on them.”

Comments (0)
If you wish to comment, please login.