The Young Privileged Wokie’s


Photo by Diane Arbus

“As of today, every student deceived, defrauded, and driven into debt by Corinthian Colleges can rest assured that the Biden-Harris Administration has their back and will discharge their federal student loans,” Education Secretary Miguel Cardona said in a statement. “For far too long, Corinthian engaged in the wholesale financial exploitation of students, misleading them into taking on more and more debt to pay for promises they would never keep.” This also includes loans from other universities. Taken from an article published in American Greatness.

You didn’t call me for my opinion or advice concerning your college education?

I would have told you flat out that a degree in Ancient Greek Philosophy wouldn’t get you a job as a grocery checker at Trader Joe’s. Now, after investing five years and $150,000. You work as a fact-checker at FaceBook and think the rest of us uneducated peons should pay off your bloated loan for your worthless degree. You drive an electric car, but can’t go far, so you spend most of your time with your like-minded friends at a coffee shop staring at your phones. Woke-ism is what drives your worthless narcissistic life. You believe Jesus is a plaster statue in your grandmother’s garden. The focal point decor of your crappy apartment is a Hillary Clinton bobblehead, a signed photo of AOC, and a framed picture of Ruth B. Ginsberg.

How’s this Biden thing working out for you?

Deep Thoughts From The Cactus Patch; Things That Make You Say WTH? Updated 5/25/22


Most of my posts are comedy, poking fun at the ineptness of our government and our off-the-rails society; as both are so deserving of ridicule.

I didn’t watch television or listen to the radio yesterday until around 6 pm, and that is when my wife and I saw the tragedy unfold in Uvalde, Texas. 18 elementary school children and 2 or 3 of their teachers, and a grandmother, all killed by an 18-year-old deranged psychopath. The reports indicate the death toll may rise, let us pray it will not.

As a nation, in unison, we must mourn these innocents, but we also must find the reason why these mass killings are growing. What as a whole, are our society and our leaders missing? Is it gun control? likely not, any fool can buy an illegal gun from an individual or from someone in the wrong part of town. Is it the mental health of our nation? Partly, yes. Violence comes at us from everywhere. Video games on X Boxes or on our phones, music and music videos, movies, and television. An already unstable person could see this behavior as normal and acceptable, with no repercussions. It’s part of our society that now seems to be a surreal video game playing out 24-7. The final piece is social media. Facebook, Tik-Tok, Instagram, Twitter, and more are quick to fact-check and ban what they feel is misinformation, religious views, or the questioning of vaccines, yet they leave the crazed recorded rantings of killers to be shared with others, which in turn emboldens their actions. For the moment, they are the star of their own demented reality show. Millions will view the post, and some will agree, but most will cringe in disgust and question why is this allowed to be there for viewing.

The killer in Ulvade had a presence on social media; it’s not known at this time how much, but it was there and known, yet no one came forward with a warning. Friends and the authorities did nothing. The school was left unprotected because of budget restraints within the district. Everyone gets that reality until it’s too late. There will be hearings, firings, and lawsuits, and the state of Texas will likely introduce new laws and protocols for schools. But, it’s too late and has been for decades. Every administration has dealt with mass killings on their watch, only to kick that can on down the congressional road. Unfortunately for our resident president, there have been numerous attacks, and still nothing except speeches, rantings, and blaming the other political party and conservative Americans. There is no unity in this nation, and until there is this type of evil will fester and grow.

Biden praises ballooning gasoline prices and says, “Americans have to go through a transition to learn their lesson.” Well, Joe, the electric so-called car experts, believe we are approximately 20 years away from having a minimal infrastructure to support electric vehicles. So what does Joe do? The minute he gets his Mont Blanc fountain pen in his shaky hand, he attempts to kill the oil and gas industry, the main lifeblood that drives the country and our economy. America doesn’t run on Las Vegas magic, Unicorn Pee or Fairy Dust. I hear that Jill ( not a doctor ) and AOC are working on a children’s book that claims it does.

“Mommy, you don’t need gas for our car anymore; just fill it up with Unicorn pee-pee.” It will be a New York Times bestseller.

Signing one after another freshly printed order, Joe remarks,

“I’ll show those gas-guzzling, Trump-loving deplorable racist how it’s done; Oh, Nancy dear, is there anything else I can sign that will turn our country into a third-world nation by tomorrow morning?” Nancy brings another stack of executive orders and leans in close so Joe can sniff her freshly washed hair. The American public doesn’t know, or will ever know, what the dementia-wracked old man signed. He thought he was approving checks to pay the utility bills.

Is the White House green? Do they have solar panels and windmills in the backyard? Nope, I believe they still use good old coal-fired electricity transmitted through a building-mounted meter. Makes one wonder about that monthly charge.

The Catholic Archbishop banned Pelosi from taking communion, causing the green-haired fishing- tackle-faced Wokies to organize and go after the church. Now he may have to reverse his order. He may want to phone God or perhaps the Popester on his magic red phone for this one. The problem is, Sir Archbishop, the Wokies don’t attend church and are not Christians, so does it matter what they think or do?

How about sticking to your holy-six- guns and having some big gonads like you possessed back in the good old inquisition days when the church didn’t take kindly to Heretics (a 14th-century term for Wokies) and burned them alive tied to a nicely carved wooden stake, threw them over cliffs, and, while still alive and protesting, tore their limbs off and fed them to the hounds. It worked wonders back then.

Since Pelosi’s religious practices are in the news, did anyone notice how during Lent that she and Biden wore their forehead ash blessing for days so the easily impressed public would believe they were “real Christians?” There will be a unique dinner table in Hell for them, right next to Hillary and Bill Clinton’s table. Jeffry Epstein will be their Maitre-d’ and everything will be burned to a crisp.

Trying to pull a fast one on the local school mothers of the country, State Farm Insurance backed a “secret squirrel” program to put LGBQRSTUVWXYZ-themed books into our elementary school classrooms. Unfortunately, some sensible employees at the “Farm” spilled the beans, and they were forced to end the program before the company imploded. Too bad for Flo, I’ve Seen a Thing Or Two, and the lizard; they missed out.

The greatest scandal hit Washington since Watergate; Hillary Clinton has been outed for orchestrating and paying for the Trump Russia BS smear. Where are Bernstein and Woodward? Where is Forest Gump? Old NBC Lester hasn’t said a word about it. Old Joe is filling his diaper, knowing he and Hunter are likely next.

That cute little press secretary is such a moron that she can’t answer a question without sounding like a 4-year-old caught telling a lie. Her stock, circle back answer is; I’m a proud black immigrant lesbian woman; I don’t need to answer anything, just marvel at my perfectness. She checked all of Biden’s boxes except the one for IQ. Bring back, Peppermint Pattie.

Did I say too much? Probably so.

Pick The Hill You’re Going To Die On


Our democracy is under siege from the most radical movements since the Weathermen, The KKK, SDS, and The Black Panthers; they are called the Democratic Party, and by crook, hook, and techno-magic, they own the top of the hill with their handmade banners flapping in the wind and weapons trained on us conservative Americans that gather at the bottom of the slope, scanning the horizon and turning every stone, searching for our General Washington to lead us into victory.

We want to think of them as a ragtag bunch of college-educated losers with green hair and piercings that march on with minimal leadership and with no purpose but to disrupt our lives and further their warped agendas.

The unspoken and ignored truth is that they are well organized, backed, and wholly protected by Biden’s minions and our corrupt media.

These are people that want conservatives and Christians dead. That means you, your family, and your dog.

If a priest on the steps of St. John’s Cathedral was set on fire, they wouldn’t piss on him to extinguish the flames, so don’t expect sympathy, logic, or reasoning from them. They are Godless people with no remorse or accountability. They are a tribal mass of evil that will be wailing the loudest when the gates of Hell welcome them home.

Roe vs. Wade is their holy grail, another divine distraction from the disaster that is our president and his declining government.

The blackest and most evil part of this news week is the leak from within our nation’s Supreme Court; the judges appointed to uphold our constitution and laws. The bedrock of our country. Not a word from the liberal judges condemning this breach of trust, so it appears the martyr is most likely a clerk for one of them.

Faint whispers in the tidal wind say a birdie from Sotomayor, the wise Latina. Unfortunately, Roberts doesn’t possess the balls to see the investigation through, so America may never know the truth unless the ignorant fool exposes herself on social media, which will likely happen soon. It’s just too damn good to keep it a secret. Perhaps a Nobel Prize awaits or a cabinet position in the Whitehouse.

Threats against the conservative judges have been made, and some are in hiding, afraid for their family’s safety, and still, the DOJ and the demented man in the nation’s nursing home say nothing. Instead, they condone the anarchy of their people.

Our laws of the land and the sacred paper they are written on have become no more than toilet paper. The radicals have assumed rule, and the nation is on the verge of ruin.

The Republicans are useless. Emasculated wandering gypsies searching for their next country club meal and drinks at the 19th hole. They have their full pay retirement, so the rest of their voters can fuck-off and eat dog food or shit sandwiches. Storming the castle with pitchforks and torches comes to mind.

Don’t speak of the second coming of Christ set for next Tuesday at 3 PM or lofty sermons and fiery speeches calling for divine intervention to save our nation. God will not lift a finger to stop this insidious destruction. Instead, it will play out as the Bible intended it to be. There will be no victor and the land will lay in ruin. We will reap what was planted.

The Revolutionary War, The Civil War, World War II, and Vietnam all had hills to be defended or taken. The good guys won some, and the enemy took a few. There was no divine or government intervention to determine the outcome. The battles were bloody and murderous affairs, killing fields that knew no mercy or remorse. The result was won by the side that killed the most men of the enemy. It was often futile with nothing gained.

The radical Democrats, Antifa, Black Lives Matter, Ruth Sent Us, and more fringe anarchists have chosen their hill and are well equipped to hold it at all costs. The ruin of America is but a by-product of the slaughter.

Conservatives and Christians now know the hill they must choose to die on, but, do we have the guts to take it back?

Swimming With Jesus In A Cement Pond


With the world in hellish turmoil, with no credible end of the torture in sight, a Christian person would think that this would be a perfect time for the Lord God to make an appearance, or at the least, throw us a bone. I would be satisfied with a fireworks display or something on television, but God doesn’t work that way; it appears he likes to keep us on the hook. Again, it’s a biblical thing.

My first remembered experience with religion was in my sixth year. A Fort Worth boy, dragged to the Poly Baptist Church to witness the near-drowning of my young father while being Baptized by a zealous preacher named Reverand Toby.

Someone in my family, an aunt or a cousin or all members thereof, thought that father’s soul needed saving, or at the least, a near-drowning to ensure his path to Heaven would be an honest one. I suspect it was his mother. She was a championship sinner with no way to redemption, so sacrificing her only son to Baptism might also gain her entry to God’s domain as a parental guest. Quite inventive she was. I also suspect that the bottles of hooch and the 38 special in her traveling suitcase would also be overlooked as she accompanied him through the pearly gates.

The Sunday of the Baptism was as hot as I can remember. The small church, a wooden frame affair, was surrounded by trees, so no breeze entered. Religion and suffering are one and the same. July in Texas is considered the perfect month for all the above. It’s a preview of Hell to come. Something to remember the next time one thinks about committing many deadly sins.

There I sat next to my mother, my less than a year old sister on her lap. My clothing was sweat-soaked, and I could have wet myself and not have known it. The summer heat radiated from the floor to the bottom of the wooden pew. Hell was just below us, just in case we wained from the word being preached, and for a moment lost our grip on believing; Satan could reach up and drag us down. It was all very convenient. I had no concept of sin or what it took to reach the depths of Hell. Of course, kids don’t bother with such nonsense.

An hour of Preacher Toby pacing the floor from wall to wall. The chorus of big-haired women behind him, punctuating his performance with Amen’s and Haliluahs at the appropriate times. The pulpit held the preachers’ Bible; it rested there, of no use to him. He didn’t need no leather-bound Bible; he knew everything required to scare the liver out of everyone in that church.

The sermon concluded, and the Baptismal commenced. Father was the last on the list.

Mother had dressed him in a new white shirt and black tie. He resembled the television star Steve Allen. The shirt was starched to the point of cardboard, allowing him minimal movement. One would think if a person was to be dunked in a tank of water, a swimming suit or at the least, a robe would be appropriate wear. But, nope, Baptist like it real; fully dressed in your best clothes, shoes, watch, and wallet included.

Father’s name was called. Entering the pulpit from behind a velvet curtain, he climbed into the Baptising tank. I found it odd that a church would have a small swimming pool at the alter. A waist-deep concrete tub full of unpurified water. How would one know that the occupants didn’t release a stream of pee into the sacred water in their moment of personal repentance? It’s a natural response akin to pissing in a swimming pool or a lake. Father stood in the holy waters awaiting his deliverance. He carried the look of a trapped man; no escape route was available, so his fate was sealed.

Preacher Toby wasted no time. He asked Father if he was ready to accept Jesus and be bathed in the Holy waters. Father mumbled a few words, and the preacher pushed him back into the waters of the sacred Jordan. Minuets passed along with lovely words and passages, and still, Father was immersed in the Holy waters. A hand, then an arm, then two reached up, flailing about. Finally, a leg broke the surface, and a shoe flew off. Still, Preacher Toby continued his blessing.

Looking back, it was common knowledge that father was a country musician and made his living playing in the beer joints along Jacksboro Highway. Preacher Toby figured since my father was a fully certified sinner, an extra dose of saving was needed.

With no assistance from Preacher Toby, my father made it to the surface with seconds to spare. Sputtering and coughing, on the verge of death, he rolled over the side of the cement pond and lurched toward the side door of the church. Holding my baby sister, my mother grabbed me by my bony arm, and we made a hasty beeline to the car. Father was there waiting. Dripping wet and defeated, he looked like death on a china plate. Mother drove us home.

I’m not sure what this recount has to do with the current state of our world, but I felt the need to share it.

Religion is a slippery slope for most folks. You either believe, or you don’t; there is no maybe or middle ground. But, the forces of good are believed to be greater than those of evil; it’s written in the book. So, we need an intervention or a sign from God that one evil man will not dictate the end. But, if that is the plan, let it be quickly done and with a gracious smile.

Committing Myself To New Years Resolutions


As a child growing up in 1950s Texas, I never understood the need to put myself behind an eight-ball with proclamation’s I had no way of keeping. New Year resolutions were the worst of them all.

My parents made them by the dozens and broke them without batting an eye.

My mother was the worst of the family bunch. Every year, on the eve of midnight, she would make a grandiose announcement to the family, usually after a few glasses of sparkling Cold Duck wine or too many Old Crow eggnogs. She made many resolutions in her day, but her yearly favorite was “kicking the ciggies.” She smoked like Bogart, one in each hand with a third, lit and waiting in the ashtray. My father, a lesser smoker, was a rank beginner compared to his bride. As a result, our household had more ashtrays than dishes. My sister and I also enjoyed the mild smoke from the ever-present Chesterfield cloud that hung in every room. Mother finally kept her favorite resolution at the age of 74, with some help from emphysema.

So, here I am at 72, and for the first time, I am considering making a New Year resolution or two.

I’ve been kicking around the less painful ones, easy things like giving up red meat or sugar. But then, Ovaltine contains sugar, and there is no way I can sleep without my hot Ovaltine, usually taken between 1 and 2 am, which is also my writing hours so that one is out. But, on the other hand, red meat can give me gastronomical grief, and I like fish more so that one is still doable.

Abstaining from distilled spirits? Now that’s tough, but it seems to be the national favorite.

It’s immensely satisfying to hold a crystal snifter of Jamesons or Tullamore Dew while sitting on my patio admiring the beauty of our local mountain, Comanche Peak. Good Irish whiskey settles my nerves and fuels my literary creativity. Jack Kerouac and Truman Capote will attest to that. Reaching old age without dying is hard work, and suitable rewards are in order. So unless I plan to stop writing and live out my final days as a nervous wreck, that one is kaput.

Attending a non-denominational house of worship with my bride. I can do this one with a few exceptions. Firstly, how does the word “none” go with denominational? There are hundreds of organized religions out there, just pick one and go with it.

Secondly, I’m old school church. I need to hear “the word of God,” not some big-haired pastor with an expensive haircut using the bible as a Cliff Notes report. I don’t dance hip hop in the isles, or clap, or sing songs projected on a screen, or enjoy hearing a choir of off-key screeching women whining about their personal tradgadys to the accompaniment of a Led Zepplin tribute band. I need that old-time religion to soothe my soul. The bubble-haired lady playing that Hammond B3 organ; that old rugged cross hanging on the wall next to the velvet Last Supper painting. A yelling red-faced slobbering preacher that points to me and says I’m going to Hell in a used Honda if I don’t change my sinful ways, and then expects money for admonishing me in front of strangers. Uncomfortable seating is a must. I can’t be a Baptist again, that would require me to give up my Irish whiskey, so it’s best to move on to another resolution or consider becoming a Catholic.

Improving my health. Maybe the easiest one of all, except for the sugar Ovaltine thing and the Irish whiskey thing. I possibly can do this one and make it stick. I beat the snot out of Cancer, so what’s left that could get me?

My doctor is young and hip. He wears one of those Apple watches that keep you alive and listens to TED talks in his wireless earbuds and drives a Tesla. He recommends, walking, hiking, biking, going to the gym, meditating, using fewer medications, and eating less of everything that tastes like food.

I reminded him that I need a knee replacement and major back surgery, so the walking, biking, hiking, and gym are out. Using fewer meds? He’s the idiot that put me on them. Sorry doc, I am not eating bagged weeds, Kale, plant-based meats, or gluten-free anything. Lactose-free milk is as woke as I get. I could only achieve a meditated state after a pipe full of Maui Wowie and Cat Stevens on the stereo.

By writing my resolutions down, I realize that nothing has changed since I was a kid. I’m not standing behind that eight-ball at this age.

“RESPECTIVUS” “For the Rest of Us” A New Holiday Coming Soon


In 1966, Maulana Kereuga, a member of the Black Panther Party (the one that Forest Gump messed with), invented a holiday to celebrate African culture in the United States, but not Africa. “Kwanzaa” became the alternate secular Christmas for some black Americans, but not all bought into it. The citizens of Africa think Kwanzaa is a made-up hot-mess of a holiday and had never heard of it until the late 60s. They celebrate Christmas, like most of the world. I’m betting Forest and Jenny didn’t know about Kwanzaa.

“Festivus.” A Sienfield made-up holiday to bring attention to the over-commercialism of Christmas. Held on December 23rd, it celebrates no giving of gifts, feats of strength, airing of grievances, and questionable miracles, as well as a fine meal of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. In place of a traditional tree, there is an aluminum pole carried by the family elder. Frank and George Castanza convinced Jerry, Elaine, and Kramer that Festivus is a viable and authentic holiday. It makes more sense than Kwanzaa, and at times, Christmas.

Festivus

So if anyone can make up a holiday, get it printed on a calendar and plastered on television, why can’t I? Well, just hide and watch.

I propose a new holiday that celebrates the elders of our families, the old and almost forgotten, except when birthdays and Christmas roll around and their children expect them to dish out wads of cash on useless gifts for their grand kids.

Poor old used-up Parents.

I’m talking about the senior parents and grandparents. They have toiled in the corporate salt mines, served in the military, died in wars, slaved in the factories and retail stores, walked those miles of isles in Walmart, changed those thousands of bedpans, paved the roadways, built the buildings and houses, and worked the land that provides the food that all our children and grandchildren enjoy. If it wasn’t for Grandma working in that computer chip factory for thirty years, little Johnny and Chelsea wouldn’t have that expensive video game or smart-ass phone that cost a cool grand.

As of today, December 28th, 2021, I proclaim the period between Christmas and New Year’s Eve the holiday of “Respectivus.”

Six humbling days of showing respect and gratefulness to parents and grandparents for all they have made possible for their loving family. Shower them with expensive gifts and fine wines. Send them on all-inclusive cruises to warm climates, and maybe pay off the mortgage that they borrowed against to pay for their children’s college education.

Sure, there will be a few million or more that will send their parents a gift card from Walgreens or maybe a jelly of the month membership or a new sleeve of tennis balls for their walker. Those would be the cheapskate brats that threw a conniption fit when they didn’t get a trophy and a pizza after they lost every game, and now their kids do the same when they don’t get the latest techno-gadget under the.. good God, it’s hard to even write it… “Holiday Tree.”

Implementing this hew holiday won’t be easy. It will take a banding together of old folks to make it happen. Marching in the streets carrying signs, some saying hooray for our side, protesting at the post office and in front of city hall, burning our driver’s license at the polling prescient, riding our personal mobility scooters like a biker gang on the freeway’s, and chaining ourselves to the columns of the White House. The old guy in there should get it; he’s older than we are. Us’un old ones have to stick together like we did in the 60s. So put Steppenwolf on the 8 track, and let’s roll.

I am excited about the tennis balls I might be receiving.

What Is Christmas Without Charlie Brown?


Since I don’t subscribe to expensive cable television anymore, and my wimpy HD antenna receives only when it feels like it, I missed the annual telecast of Charlie Browns Christmas show.

Actually, there are only two parts I like; when they are dancing to ” Linus and Lucy” by Vince Guaraldi and when Linus recites his Christmas speech under the spotlight. The rest is also fun, but those two scenes make the show. Now I’m bummed because I missed it, and the networks along with Disney, who owns the rights, so they show it once a year and don’t let anyone know when, until the last minute. Sort of like Cong-television. Pop-up entertainment.

“What In The Hell Is Going On with The Salvation Army?”


Photo by Santa Claus

The Salvation Army, the one outfit I have relied on for the past 50 years to do the right thing, is now going full-blown BLM, Biden-loving butt-kissing wokie bullcrap. Those red kettle bell ringers outside of Walmart and Hobby Lobby can count on nothing from me and most likely a few hundred million other Americans. I regret that this Christmas season, I have already given around fifty dollars to these beggars, and there is no way to get it back. The holidays tend to bring the soured cream to the top of the milk fat. It’s a sad day.

The news is that the Salvation Army hates white people. Well, guess what Salvation Army, it’s the middle-class white folks that give to the organization that allows you to exist and to help others.

Have a Merry Christmas and kiss my non-donating rear.

Maybe Santa can fill your red kettle. Well, maybe the Dallas Cowboys can send a few wokie bucks your way. Morons.

Did I say too much?

Singers From ABBA Join Nuns For Repentance


The two lead singers from the Swedish pop group ABBA have joined the Order of The Norwiegen Viking Sisterhood.

Maya Sharona, the Europen field reporter for NPR, spoke with the two singers in a Trollandia coffee shop recently.

Agatha Faltskog and Anni Frid Lyngstad, now in their 70s, said they couldn’t deal with the shame any longer because their band alone, was responsible for extending Disco music another 10 years when it should have died a natural death in 1975. They plan to stay at the nunnery for 3 years serving repentance for their sin. The two male members remarked that their former wives looked very hot in their new outfits.

Things That Keep Me Awake At Night That I Can’t Do A Damn Thing About And Neither Can You


It would seem that after 72 years on this doomed and dying planet, I would have learned the lesson of letting crap go. It’s impossible for me to do. My wife tells me, ” chill out, let it go, calm down, you are too serious, too hateful.” Yep, all that and more.

Just today, I honked at a lady blocking the driving lane in front of my local HEB Grocery store. She drove a lavish Black SUV and was talking on a jewel-encrusted Apple iPhone but could have cared less that she was holding up a line of cars full of starving people, so she could snag the closest parking spot to the store. God forbid she had to walk ten extra feet. So I honked to reprimand and remind her that there is accountability in this world. Then my wife tells me that she was waiting for a handicap spot. Sum-bitch, now I will worry about that tonight.

If global, planetary or even local events are going to mentally cripple somebody, that dumb ass will be me. I take on the worries of the weary, the worries of the ones too stupid to worry, or those who don’t know their ass from fat meat. As the Bible says, “bring me your unwashed, your worried and the habitually stupid and I will heal them,” or something along those lines. Unfortunately, Bible verses tend to get mixed in with modern lingo. Sometimes it helps them make sense.

Gas prices, now that’s a great one to start with. To fill up my Honda CRV today cost $48.00. Last December, when the world was sane and bordering on rock damn solid, it took around $18.00, and I had enough change left over for a Whataburger and a Dr. Pepper.

Now President “Brian Fart” wants to launch an investigation into our oil boys, saying they are gigging us, while he is shutting down our energy production, and giving 12th-century child marrying oil zealots in the middle east an early Christmas present and free rein to charge us whatever they see fit. At the same time, their citizens roam the streets chanting ” Death To America” while burning effigies of Trump, and he’s been out of office for a year. That’s the useless stuff that you or I can do nothing about, and that’s what keeps my eyes focusing on my bedroom ceiling and taking copious amounts of physician-prescribed drugs in an attempt to capture sleep. Please tell me that God did not purposely make folks as stupid as we have in Washington. But, I know the answer before it is asked. Yes, he did. And he is in on the big joke.

Sleep tight and don’t let the Covid bugs bite.

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