The Lurid Book Scene of the fifties and sixties both had to do with soft porn and titillation. Lurid books earned publishers a ton of money in the fifties and the sixties. Dirty, filthy books read by dirty, filthy Homo sapiens. It’s all breeding behavior. Just do whatever the fucking advertising tells you to do. Your doctor tells you to smoke Camels and so you do, you idiot. I fall unto my sword. It was the only moral thing to do.

Our moral selves. The vaccine resistance mongers set jaws, spit, and dare you to do anything about what masks. Our immoral selves win. We are immoral people who created an immoral culture, an immoral government, immoral religions, immoral, racist educational institutions.

We are the White People Town Folks. People here, in the Blue Ridge Mountains, never masked up anyway. We are Appalachia. The people who do not exist. We have so many people who live in cars with children, and often enough, grandma, who has dementia. I am not drawing immoral maps of where the homeless are. They are living in their homes. Most people around here live in shacks. My house is a shack. A whole subset live in shacks where the only way to keep any warmth in the house is by stuffing newspapers and magazines into the cracks and holes. We have gardens. Not Walmart.

My house has huge holes in the floor. Don’t fall in in there. Snakes. I cannot celebrate like David Brooks. The baseball team is mainly dead. Ex-store employees are mainly dead. Our one EMT is dead. The woman who was SNAP (food stamps) is dead. It’s all boarded up with plywood. Tourists are arriving in their loud fat clothes tight against obesity. To see the poor mountain people in their banjo habitat.

Cameras. Bears. The animals fled. Deer fled. The foxes fled. The possums disappeared. Don’t worry. You do not need wildlife. Celebration. Moral integrity. You do not want the vaccine. Or masks. Celebrate. Celebrate. You do not need us. Celebrate. Naked women on motorcycles getting free tattos. Looking for adventure. In whatever comes our way.