T-20

My son brought me news today that he’s planning to get skulljacked. I told him, not until you’re eighteen, you don’t get skulljacked, unless—and what I almost said was what my old man would have said, which was unless you want to take your skulljacked ass out and sleep on the street. But then I got suspicious, man, I thought what if that’s what he’s trying to get me to do? Kids are clever, man. Could be my boy doesn’t give a shit about getting skulljacked, but he wants me to give him an ultimatum so he has an excuse not to come home at night. All of this, you ask me, is an argument for being childless. Ask the Bangladeshis, there’s too damn many people in the world anyway. Speaking of Bangladesh, the Walt Dangerfield Square Mileage Reduction Index for Bangladesh is at 25, that’s 25 percent of that swampy hellhole now underwater, with the thirty million people who used to live there causing riots and all kinds of unpleasantness in other places. What do we do about it? If we’re the Indian Army, we seal the border. If we’re the Burmese army, we let them come across and then shoot them because it’s good practice for our soldiers. Here at home, southern Arizona is security-coded orange, people, that means you can’t go there. People with orange clearances don’t listen to Walt Dangerfield unless it’s in super-secret government installations with teams of ninja assassins at the ready. But no one can find Walt Dangerfield! I orbit this culture and look down upon it from afar, beaming my brain into yours, wishing that none of you were listening.