16JUN2022 – Dunwich Complainer – Campaign Season

I attended the Dunwich Republican Town Committee (DRTC) meeting last night and it was all aflutter with excitement about prospects for electoral victory.  Enormous dissatisfaction with taxation and economic hardship along with blatant partisan power grabs by the Democrats both locally and at the state level had convinced many of the committee members that this was the moment when the tide would turn and Dunwich would be delivered from the Democrats and a new order would prevail.

Needless to say, I sat in the back benches and kept quiet.  The report to the committee on elections stressed that victory would be assured if we could just get our candidates through the approval process this week.  All that was needed was the Selectman Interview and the fee payment.  The committee responded with hearty applause and the candidates were welcomed to the floor to say a few words.  These four men were new to the community but enthusiastic about taking their places as selectmen and guiding Dunwich to a new day.  Their spokesman displayed their application paperwork with attached checks and more applause broke out.  This further enthused the spokesman and he went on to say that the interview was scheduled to take place at this meeting and the interviewer would be the First Selectman.  The spokesman read from a card and had some difficulty with the First Selectman’s name, “Cuh Thu Luh or something?  Must be Samoan I guess.”

Silence descended on the crowd and I shrank even lower in my seat and edged over to the emergency exit.  At that moment First Selectman Cthulhu squeezed his bulk through the bulging auditorium double doors and ponderously plodded up to the dais.  Without a word he snatched up the application forms from the candidate spokesman in one hand and with his other arm he funneled the candidates into his mouth and noisily chewed, crunched, mumbled and swallowed the screaming men down his voracious gullet.  After one fairly loud and malodorous belch he turned around and plodded back out of the auditorium.  As he reached the doors his booming voice was heard to say, “I’ll have these checks deposited in the Dunwich Rainy-Day Fund later today.”  This latter reference was slightly insulting.  The Rainy-Day Fund was the First Selectman’s euphemism for his whiskey allowance account.

The rest of the meeting was slightly more subdued.  It was agreed by one and all, that electoral gains were probably not in the cards for 2022 but that the steering committee would go to work immediately drafting a strongly worded rebuke against the First Selectman for interfering in the internal affairs of the DRTC.  It was also unanimously decided not to publicly distribute this rebuke but maintain it as an attachment to the meeting minutes and password protect it.  After smelling salts and sedatives had been distributed to the women members and some of the less stalwart men a motion was passed to concentrate all of the committee’s time and energy to making the Labor Day Jamboree the best goldarned jamboree the town had ever had.  It was also agreed unanimously that future meeting would be held in a venue that lacked double doors.

07JUN2022 – At Play in the Fields of the Lord

Today was a day to get some stuff done out in the yard.  I had to do some measurements to figure out some volume and pH control problems for the pool.  Where’s that slide-rule?  Then I had some ultra-glamorous weeding to do, followed by fertilizer application.  I had to replace some components on the hoses I use for watering the gardens and I had to disassemble the lawn mower to find out why it was smoking.  Stupid mice.

But while I was doing that stuff, I checked on the elecampane (Inula) I planted in the spring.  It’s finally starting to actually grow.  About time!  I checked out the barn swallow nest and followed the parents darting back and forth and spotting from a tree for insects and keeping an eye on the nest.  Probably still on the lookout for that stupid blue bird pair from last month.

I went and looked at the sequoias and metasequoias and marveled at the growth they’ve put on since I planted them.  I spotted the first garter snake in two years.  After they were mysteriously absent the whole of last year one popped its head out of the day lilies and shot back in after seeing me.  I’m glad they’ve returned.  Otherwise, the frogs and toads might get too uppity.  I noted that the wolfsbane was doing better in one location than the other.  Maybe I should move it.

I turned over a muck bucket full of weeds near Camera Girl’s mulch pile and a couple of field mice or voles skittered away.  There are a lot of mice around this year.  That has me thinking of a new project.  I’m thinking of buying some black rat snakes and breed a few clutches of eggs a year and release the hatchlings around the yard, especially in the rock wall.  I think they’d improve the rodent ratio around here.  A big black rat snake can get over seven feet long and not only could eat plenty of mice but chipmunks and squirrels would be on the menu too.  Raising the rat snakes would take up time for cleaning and feeding the buggers but if I could establish a population, it would be well worth the effort.

When I finished outside, I read through the news articles.  Same old, same old.  When Camera Girl got back from the supermarket, she said it’s not so super anymore.  In fact it was depressing.  The half empty shelves were stocked with food almost too expensive to buy.  I commiserated with her and told her that hopefully this situation will get the Democrats fired sooner than later.  She said some very uncharitable things about Dementia Joe and I chuckled.

So today is a day for getting stuff done outside.  Not very good for writing on the blog.  Later on I have to find the next author for the Quotation of the Day.  I think Mr. Hobbes has had enough days for his say.  Who will be the next H?  Tomorrow I’ll write something mordant and wise about our political situation.  Today I’ll enjoy a June day with sunshine and warm weather.  I could do worse.

A Great Victory for the Muse of Home Repair

Forsaking my usual patron deity, the great goddess Atrophia, I made a burnt offering of 2X4s and a mitre box at the altar of  Δόμος Επίδοσις, The Muse of Home Improvement.  The smoke was propitious.  An eagle flew from left to right across the sky and dropped a 3/8″ hex head socket at my feet which I took as a sign from Zeus that all was well.  Filling my chariot with lag bolts, drill bits, pry bars, extension cords, two throwing spears and a two-ply bull-hide shield I thundered onto the plain of battle prepared to perform mighty deeds of valor.

My enemies fled before the baleful fire that flashed from my eyes.  I grabbed my weapons, jumped from the chariot and attacked on the run.  Within an hour I was victorious.  All my enemies were vanquished and I raised a trophy of the spoils of war.  Epic bards and rhapsodes will sing the praises of this day for millennia to come. Go pound sand, Achilles.

Translation:

That fence post support worked like a charm.  The post is straight and solid as a rock.  And the steel should last long after I’m mulch in the ground.  But there was no parade.  No hecatombs  burned in my honor.  Sometimes it barely pays to be a demi-god.

Summer All in a Day

Someone here in Dunwich flipped the Winter/Summer switch and now instead of shivering under a mountain of blankets at night I’m throwing off the sheet and turning on the ceiling fan.  Well, that’s as it should be.  Summer is brief and anything in the eighties is okay by me.

Camera Girl and I have been planting vegetables and a few flowers.  But today I finally ordered some thornless red raspberry plants for her.  She is a thrifty woman which I guess I should be grateful for but sometimes it paralyzes her if prices outrage her internal value measuring mechanism.  Somehow, she thinks people shouldn’t charge money for plants.  When this hesitancy goes on for too long, I step in and buy whichever choice I think she’d like to have the most.  Otherwise, she’d end up missing the season and be unhappy which would go against my internal value measuring mechanism.

Currently I’m studying the vagaries of lag bolt, pilot hole diameter as it relates to the designation of hard vs. soft wood.  I have been collecting the hardware I need for the latest battle in the war on decay.  Current my side is losing.  If the rain holds off tomorrow, I will venture out with sledge hammer, drill, hex driver and steely determination to set the world straight again.  Or at least several fence posts.

I consider this foray a proof of concept.  If successful, this will pave the way for a permanent solution to my fence problems.  If it fails, I must contemplate drastic measures involving steel posts and concrete which would be expensive and extremely time consuming.  But, ever the optimist, I refuse to even consider the possibility of defeat.

Camera Girl has been spotting critters around the yard.  She and the hounds have cornered some frogs and toads.  And yesterday she spotted a snake in her garden.  Her description was puzzling.  It was about a foot long and relatively thin but she said it was solid yellow.

We had a complete lack of garter snakes in the yard last year which was highly unusual.  I theorized that a warming event in the middle of the winter might have awakened the garter snakes and caused them to fail to survive the subsequent cold snap that followed.  Anyway, Camera Girl’s description sounded like an extremely unusual color and pattern for a garter.  I speculated that it was some kind of aberrantly light phase of the brown snake of which we have a generous number here.  I claimed skepticism of her description but she reminded me that I’m color blind so I deferred to her chromatic superiority.  I will search out this strange creature at some point.

So, I’m mostly enjoying the Summer of Dopey Joe.  Despite suffering through the annoyance of dealing with unreliable appliances from China and shortages of spare parts due to the “supply chain breakdown” I am still mostly cheerful.  Of course, if rolling blackouts become the outrage of the month in August that would tick me off.  But it would also give us a shot at winning some of the New England states in November.  And that would be an especially sweet cherry on top of the schadenfreude parfait.  There are hints of congressional and senate seats that might flip.  These would be transitory gains.  New England is permanently blue.  The people live at the center of the Cathedral.  But if just for a moment, as some sort of involuntary reflex, they vote for a Republican it would be a barometer of the depths of incompetence of the Biden Administration and a harbinger of disaster for the Democrats in 2024.

And that’s something I always want to celebrate.  Now where is that sunscreen?

The History of Dunwich – Part 1 – It’s Annoying Origins

The origins of the site on which Dunwich sits are shrouded in mystery.  A mystery based on profound indifference and shoddy scholarship.  Legend claims that in the earliest epoch it was the Latrine of Yog Sothoth.  It is believed that the current stratum of bedrock is completely composed of metamorphized coprolite.  Professor Obadiah Bishop of Miskatonic University spent forty years of his academic career studying this coprolite formation and determined that it was almost entirely composed of triceratopsian dung formed from an exclusive diet of poison sumac.  This is thought to explain the funk that emanates from the ground, groundwater, crops and inhabitants of the present day site.  It is also believed to explain the almost constant, frenzied scratching that all Dunwichians indulge in.

The original human inhabitants of the area were members of the Pocnipnarrawampamuckutucs (sometimes shortened to the Muckutucs) tribe.  The Muckutucs were despised by the other tribes because they smelled awful, had thirteen fingers and two rows of teeth.

When the first European settlers arrived, they interbred with the Muckutucs and their descendants had twelve fingers.  Which was an improvement.  But no teeth.  Which was not.  Over time these anatomical oddities became the hallmark of the Dunwichian ancestry and somewhat explained their status as loathed outcasts and pariahs.  Suffice it to say that the rest of New England chose to avoid Dunwich like the plague.

But the American Revolution saw a change.  The patriotic fervor that swept through the rest of New England did not neglect Dunwich.  A company of stout Dunwichians headed up by “Captain” Nehemiah Hoadley marched east to reinforce the colonial army at Lexington.  But when the Boston regiment got a look at the Dunwich contingent approaching from the west, they abandoned their ambush of the British and blasted away at these toothless mutants, mowing them down to the last polydactylous humanoid soul.  After this Dunwich refused taxation by the US government until almost the time of the Civil War.

It was during the nineteenth century that the first truly disturbing events began to occur in and around Dunwich.  In 1824 on the site of Phineas Goodgroates’ orchard, a thousand ton, three-hundred-foot-long caste-iron cylinder fell out of the sky and flattened Phineas’s apple trees and because he was apple picking that day, flattened Phineas too.  This metallic meteor came to be known as the Codpiece of Cthulhu because of the inscription on its side identifying it as such.  The arrival of this piece of sartorial ironmongery was taken as an event of ill-omen.  Opinions varied, although with respect to Phineas all agreed it was definitely a bit of tough luck for him.

But by 1830 the populace had calmed down and normalcy reasserted itself until in the fall of that year when Caleb Sillwright’s turnip patch was similarly bombarded by the aptly named Moustache Comb of Azathoth.  At this point there were calls to abandon Dunwich altogether or at least to install some kind of gargantuan clothes rack above the town in the hope that the Elder Gods would take the hint and stop dropping their effects on Dunwich.  Luckily, cooler heads prevailed.

To be continued.

11MAR2022 – OCF Update – It’s a Blooming Miracle?

Today Camera Girl excitedly announced that one of her bulbs had bloomed in front of the house.  She said it was yellow and I couldn’t miss it.  But it was so small that I passed it three times before I finally saw it.

I tried to be as upbeat as I could be but I don’t know. I’m going to have to buy a magnifying glass and install it on top of this flower along with some signage.

It’s pretty enough.  But it’s not exactly eye-catching.  Well, it was covered by snow yesterday so maybe it’ll increase in size later on.  But I doubt it.  From now on I’ll have her read the descritions on the flowers she buys and specifically avoid ones described as microscopic.

On a different note we got our tax papers finished today and the accountant showed that we’ll get something less than three thousand dollars back from Uncle Sam and the rest of the thieves.  I intend to plow the money directly into some get rich quick scheme that involves a time machine and oil futures.  Right now the details are still coming into focus.  Or we might get the snow-blower fixed for next year.  Right now it could go either way.

17FEB2022 – Dunwich Complainer

Last night I attended the monthly meeting of the Dunwich Republican Committee or as we call it “The Pentaveret.”  The meeting was sparsely attended as many are recovering from a winter bout of Dunwich demonic possession.  First Selectman Cthulhu was under the weather after having eaten some bad “seafood,” which is what he calls people living on the coastline.  So he wasn’t in attendance, which was kind of a relief.  He is a big personality and what with stepping on people and drooling all over the place and dribbling bits of man-flesh when he speaks it is a distraction.

The agenda included a report from the Treasurer that showed a net liability of about ten thousand dollars in the account.  The explanation for this was the cost of repairs to the “old Bishop place” after an interdimensional portal opened up in the kitchen and swallowed up the newly renovated appliances.  And the cook.  Apparently the First Selectman’s cousin Dagon got the address mixed up in his GPS and instead of arriving at the all you can eat buffet at the Dunwich Red Lobster, he materialized in the Bishop place and ate the cook and the contents of the refrigerator.  Luckily the cook was a Democrat and an illegal alien to boot, so after a little hand waving by the First Selectman with the State Police and a fifty-dollar “gratuity,” things were smoothed over.  It really helps to have a way with the common people.

During the Q&A I stood up and asked whether the COVID restrictions mandated by the state legislature and other unpopular decisions by the Democrats would provide a chance for the Republicans to make gains in the legislature this year.  Our State Representative happened to be at the meeting.  He was there to beg us to set up a fundraiser and meet and greet with his constituents.  He fielded this question saying that earlier in February most politicians had agreed that the Republicans would make significant gains this year.  There was even talk of the Governor’s mansion being in reach.

But last week Yog Sothoth was quoted in the larger circulation papers in Arkham stating that if the Republicans retook the legislature and the Governor’s mansion that he would be appointed attorney general and he intended to dispense with all criminal justice functions and immediately round up the democratic voters and have a luau.  He figured the Great Old Ones, once assembled for the feast could eat their way through the Evil Party in about forty-eight hours.

For whatever reason this seemed to spook the voting populace.  The consensus opinion was described as, “Yes the Democrats are inhumanly cruel and a terrible governing elite, but they’ve never clearly stated that they intend to eat their opponents alive.”  When Yog heard about this reaction, he complained that he had been taken out of context.  The Committee agreed that it was most regrettable that Yog had couched his answer quite so specifically.  Leaving a little wiggle room when talking about eating people alive is probably a good idea when dealing with those unfamiliar with the Cthulhu clan.  Well Yog is known for his honesty and candid speaking style.  I’m sure he can win over the crowd in time.

The final order of business was the Green Energy Initiative.  The town had been provided with $600,000 by the state and federal governments to reduce greenhouse gas emissions in Dunwich.  The Republican Committee had been approached by the First Selectman to create a team to draft a proposal for the town.  He told us to make sure we stayed within the budget but he encouraged “creative solutions.”  As an example, he mentioned that his cousin Azathoth owed him a favor and for almost no cost he could rearrange the very fabric of space-time so that only elements below carbon in the periodic table could still exist in our space-time continuum.  When the Republican Chair mentioned that all life as we know it not to mention all solid planets would cease to exist the First Selectman was heard to say, “That kind of nit-picking isn’t going to get you anywhere in this town.”  So, we’re still fielding ideas.  The committee is thinking maybe some solar panels on the abandoned church.

27JAN2022 – OCF Update – Cabin Fever in Dunwich

 

Camera Girl has set out into the sub-zero shock of New England winter to purchase life sustaining supplies.  Like the heroine of some sort of 19th century Russian novel where the peasants are fleeing into the swirling snow with wolves nipping at their butts behind the horse drawn sleigh, she set out after raining down curses upon my head for being the unchivalrous monster that I am for sending her out there.

I hope she makes it back.  After all I do need some pumpernickel bagels this week and I do like the soups she provides.  But if not, well, the world must continue.  Eventually when it begins to warm again in May I’ll venture out and maybe I’ll discover the truth of her disappearance.  Was it the cold that got her?  Was it roving bands of pumpernickel pirates?  Did she just decide to head south and is now disloyally ensconced somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line?  These could be the questions that haunt me.  I might have to forge a new life for myself.  I might come to be known as a noble widower poet philosopher who dispenses rhyming wisdom and gasoline from behind the counter of my possibly soon to be purchased 7-11 franchise.

I don’t like the way the dogs have been eyeing me as they pace around the house.  Camera Girl didn’t feed them before she left.  More disloyalty.  They have a lean and hungry look about them.  If it comes to it, I’ll put up a stout fight.  They won’t get me without a fight.  Or at least I’ll scream a lot.  Although how bad can being devoured by dogs be?  And screaming is a lot of work.  I’ll raise the volume on the tv.  That should help somewhat.

Why did I ever let her go?  How dare she leave me here to perish in such an ignominious fashion.  What a treacherous sex they are!  And after all I did for her.  All those helpful comments on better ways to do housework and all the times I helped her find much better tv shows that she didn’t know she liked.  Well, it’s all for the best.  Who would want to live if it means going forward without pumpernickel bagels?  Excelsior!

She just pulled into the driveway.

Huh!

Alright, so forget all that stuff I said.  It’s funny how things can get confusing when you’re alone in a quiet house and the cold creeps in.  I guess I shouldn’t have watched “The Shining” last night.  I really need to get more sleep and stop spending so much time on the internet.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

All work and no play makes photog a dull boy.

Honey, I’m home!

 

Uhoh!

Another Annoying Dunwichian Disturbs My Day

Last week I was accosted by Albert Wilmarth, a nut who teaches some kind of intersectional studies nonsense at Miskatonic University.  I was heading back from a walk in Dunwich Forest when this wild-eyed kook rushes up to me and warns me that the Mi-go have removed Henry Akeley’s brain and were going to take it into outer space.  Well, this story seemed ridiculous on its face because anyone who has met Akeley knows he has no brain.

So, I tried to calm Wilmarth down by slapping him repeatedly in the face.  After about thirty slaps my hand got tired so I stopped.  I asked him to give me the details of these Mi-go.  He said that Akeley had described them as large, pink, fungoid, crustacean-like entities the size of a man, that have a “convoluted ellipsoid” composed of pyramidal, fleshy rings and covered in antennae in the place that where a head should be. So, I started slapping him with my left hand.  This time I got up to up to forty slaps.  At that point Wilmarth seemed less eager to continue the conversation and asked me to promise to stop slapping him.

Well, how could I refuse?  He’d been such a good sport up until this point.  I told him to relate Akeley’s story but keep it reasonable.  Wilmarth related a tale of how Akeley had corresponded by letter with him.  The letters related Akeley’s discovery of a drowned Mi-go at the fords of the Miskatonic river and how the living Mi-go then lay siege to Akeley’s farmhouse whispering in their buzzing voices about how they would remove his brain and take it along on their journeys to Pluto and beyond.  He further related how only his rifle and his dozen or so ferocious German shepherds had been responsible for keeping these mushroom lobsters from capturing him.  But he told me that the Mi-go were taking a terrible toll and every day he had to replace four or five of his dogs that were killed in the war.

I asked him, if Akeley was besieged how it was possible for him to procure more dogs and in fact how was he able to post these letters.  Wilmarth supposed that during the day the Mi-go went back home to their underground lair under the domed hills that they inhabit.  So I asked him why Akeley didn’t call in the police to witness this nightly battle.  Wilmarth seemed a little confused by this line of questioning and implored me not to start slapping him again.

So, I let that problem go for the time being and asked him to continue with his tale.  Then Wilmarth related how suddenly last week Akeley’s letters changed their tone.  And handwriting style too.  Akeley said that he had come to terms with the Mi-go and they were actually really nice guys and some were even Shriners.  And he told Wilmarth to come visit him at his farmhouse and Akeley would tell him amazing secrets of the interstellar travels of the Mi-go.  Wilmarth related how he visited Akeley who sat in a chair in a dark room covered in a blanket and how his face was unmoving and his speech was a muffled buzzing which somewhat resembled the noises that lobsters make when they’re thrown in a pot of boiling water.  And that the sandwiches and coffee he provided were awful but he ate them anyway.  And after retiring to Akeley’s guest bedroom for the night Wilmarth heard strange buzzing noises downstairs and when he got back to the dark room, he found Akeley missing but among the blankets on his chair he found a mask-like face and human hand-like shapes that looked like Akeley’s hands and face.  So, he ran out of the house screaming like a little girl.

Then Wilmarth started screaming like a little girl.  I had promised not to slap him so I kneed him in the groin.  That stopped the screaming.  After he was able to get up off the ground, he convinced me to go to Akeley’s farmhouse.  When we got there Wilmarth refused to go in so, armed with a fallen tree limb that was on the lawn I walked into Akeley’s house of horrors.  I found the darkened room that smelled pretty bad and the chair with the blankets but instead of the severed hands and face of Henry Akeley, I found one of those Michael Myers masks and those latex monster hands that they used to sell around Halloween.  Suddenly someone behind me shouted so I swung my makeshift club and laid my opponent low.  After finding the light switch, I realized that I had done the impossible.  I had brained a man without a brain.  There was Henry Akeley, with hands and face intact except for a large bump on his forehead where I had clonked him.

After he started to come to, I caught him up on why I was there.  He sheepishly admitted that he owed Wilmarth a bunch of money and had hoped that if he believed the whole story about being shanghaied to Pluto by lobster fungus, he could string him along forever and never pay him.  I felt bad for playing baseball with his skull so I told him that I wouldn’t rat him out to Wilmarth.  He offered me some sandwiches and coffee but I told him I’d pass.  That house smelled really funky.

When I rejoined Wilmarth out front I informed him that Wilmarth had been replaced by a Mi-go that had been surgically altered to exactly resemble Akeley.  I told him I escaped by using advanced martial arts that I had learned while studying in a Tibetan monastery.  I advised him never to go near Akeley’s house again and if he ever saw him walking around town to avoid him for fear of having his brain removed and sent to Pluto.

I really need a better class of neighbors.

Overheard in a Post Office

I get out into the real world so infrequently that I forget there are other people still inhabiting this planet.  But today I had to send off a package and buy some stamps for Camera Girl’s Christmas cards.  I was standing in one of the lines, which thankfully no longer requires a stupid mask, and there was an elderly lady probably in her late seventies in the next line with a mask on.  I was waiting for my mail lady to finish solving some kind of partial postal differential equation so I unintentionally eavesdropped on the conversation going on in the other line.  Apparently, the postman and the old lady were acquaintances and were discussing some kind of holiday performance, possibly a play, and the man asked her whether she liked it and she said she enjoyed the way they enforced their mask mandate and social distancing.  Then she asked him if he liked the intermission speech and he rather heatedly exclaimed that no he wasn’t happy that they had preached some social justice message at him.  He said, “No, I’m done with diversity, I’ve had diversity up to here.  I don’t want to hear who or what you’re sleeping with and I certainly don’t want it creeping into the story I’m watching.”  I could see that the old lady was taken aback.  He added a few other statements about how he felt about being the target of proselytizing and then got her the stamps she wanted.

So. this is a public conversation and from a federal employee no less.  I have to say this gave me a boost.  I had to stop myself from cheering and clapping.  I’ll tell you I wish that guy had been working on my postal problems.  I know he’s got the right stuff, for a postman anyway.  So even here in Dunwich, at the nexus of all things diabolical and woke there still lives a few hardy souls who aren’t writing their pronouns on their business cards and taping “Black Lives Matter” on their car bumpers.

Just a quick anecdote but worth considering.