Rancho Tarzanadu: "Miss Linda Confers with Her Online Witch's Group"

   Miss Linda decided to write to her online Witch’s Facebook group to ask for advice in dealing with the spirit inside her house. She wrote: “Just curious…let’s say you turned around in your house (with ‘good vibes’) and inadvertently stuck your hand inside some plasmic goo, mid-air, about chest level. What then?”

     Their answers were varied.

     The first response was a GIF of a well-built man pointing and gesticulating, wearing a snugly-fitting white T-shirt, and covered in dripping green slime – obviously meant as a joke.

     Another replied: “You should probably take it easy on the drugs for a few days.” (Miss Linda hit the “thumbs-down” button in response to this.)

     And there was just: “Gross!”

     Another answered: “Say Gesundheit, and offer a tissue?”

     “Wait and see what happens…just because weird sh*t is happening doesn’t mean it’s bad. You don’t know until you know.” (Miss Linda hit the “thumbs-up” button for this one.)

     “Request Z-Pak from the doctor.” (Thumbs-down.)

     And: “I guess say hello and introduce yourself politely, just in case.” (Thumbs-up.)

     “I’m gellin’, you gellin’?”

     “I’d shield, ground, quiet myself, and reach out for communication.” (Thumbs-up.)

     Lastly: “Rotate ninety degrees.” Miss Linda was frankly still trying to wrap her head around that one. If she rotated plasmic goo ninety degrees, wouldn’t she be spreading it, or amplifying it? That could get messy.

     Miss Linda obviously liked some of the answers more than others, but decided to contemplate them all, just to cover her bases. As it was her first time in dealing with a spirit up close and personal, she wanted to make sure she did not act too rashly.

Overlord L’Orange: Observations of an Average Citizen, Installment #109; “Alabama”

     

     Overlord L’Orange has been placing ultra-conservative judges in the Supreme Court and various other judges in various other courts in order to further the Republican party’s attempt at controlling the masses of out-of-control women and people of color.

     These old white geezers like to stick together. It makes them feel safe, in an out-of-control world. Everyone knows it’s a ‘Man’s World’, and men need to rein in their fillies!

     Yesterday a female governor (ironically, and by no means accidentally chosen for this task because of her femaleness) in Alabama decreed that all abortions will be illegal, even in the case of rape and incest. 

     Why do the Republicans hate women so much?! My theory is that it’s because they’re terrified of them. They sense women’s inherent power, and feel the need to squelch it, to make themselves feel bigger and better.

     It’s interesting that at this point in time, when women have more power than they’ve ever had before, ‘The Man’ wants to take women’s right to control their own bodies away. ‘In the name of God.’ Bullsh*t! In the name of servitude to ‘The man’.

     As more and more children are going to be born now, with inbred defects and serial-killer tendencies inherited from their rapist ‘fathers’, the Overlord has decided to set up special internment camps to raise them.

     Since women are apparently naturally cut out to be breeders and raisers-of-children, the Overlord has appointed his own daughter, Ivanka, his female Press Secretary Sarah, his female ‘Counselor’, Kellyanne, and his wife/beard, Melania to co-run these internment camps for all the children whose mothers were forced to bear them against their own will, because if they didn’t they would be jailed or executed. These internment camps will be overseen by his ‘Personal Pastor’, Paula (whose last name is White…you can’t make this sh*t up).

     “But Daddy!” complains Ivanka, “I have my own children to raise!”

     “So, do I,” says Sarah, sullenly.

     “Me, too!” Kellyanne quips.

     “As do I.” Melania drones.

     “And I’m running a multi-million dollar scam organization!” yelps the ‘Pastor’. “Plus Kids!”

     Ivanka rolls her eyes. “We’re all running multi-million dollar scam organizations, plus kids!”

     “It’s the only way!” the Overlord booms. “It’s ‘The Lord's Way'!

     “L’Orange, you don’t actually believe in ‘Ze Lord’s Vay’!” his wife exclaims, hands on hips, frown on lips.

     “I do now! And women need to know their ‘place!’ Thanks to you ladies, we’re going to show the country, the good ‘ole US of A who’s in charge here! Now start packing! Your nannies can raise your children; if it was good enough for me, it’s good enough for them. God Bless America!”

     The women stare at each other in disbelief, not realizing until this moment that they have brought this on themselves, just like their menstrual cycles, instigated by Eve’s weakness in the Garden of Eden. After all, everyone knows that men are far superior, and Baby Jesus wants it this way.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Miss Linda Inadvertently Sticks Her Hand Inside a Spirit"

     Miss Linda hosted a 4th of July party every year; not because she was particularly patriotic, but because the El Caballero Country Club shot off fireworks every year for their members and the fireworks just happened to explode right over Miss Linda’s backyard, as her house overlooked the tee-off hole. This was also her parents’ wedding anniversary, and they, too, had hosted many 4th of July parties here in their younger days. 

     Each year that Overlord L’Orange was in office, it was getting harder and harder to muster up the energy to celebrate the birth of our country, and it seemed ironic now that it was called “Independence Day”, as the Overlord was chipping away at everyone’s freedom and independence on a daily basis. Miss Linda loved to dress up for any occasion, but donning the ‘ole Red, White, and Blue attire was getting less inspiring with each passing year of his administration. Miss Linda tried to focus instead on her friends who showed up to celebrate, and the delicious potluck spread that they brought with them. There was usually enough food and alcohol left over to last for a couple of weeks or more. Except for the beer, which Manuel polished off post-haste. 

     On this particular evening, Miss Linda was cleaning up in the wee hours of the night after a very successful party (she had a reputation for throwing successful parties), and was downstairs alone in the dining room putting away stars-and-stripes serving platters inside the party pantry, when she turned away from the cupboard door to reach for another platter on the sideboard and stuck her hand directly inside some plasmic goo, hovering mid-air, about chest level. It was invisible, but tangible. Miss Linda gasped, but was not altogether taken aback, as she was somewhat used to unusual things happening. She took a deep breath and waited. Nothing. She reached her hand out again, but the plasmic goo was gone, leaving only a slight residue on the floor at her feet, and a pervasive scent of Night-Blooming Jasmine.

     This happened to be the room that her father had died in, several years before. “Poppa?” she asked. There was no answer.

     Just then a very late-night (or very early-morning) firework randomly exploded over the house, showering down golden-white trails of expansive dancing light.

     Miss Linda was a strong believer in “signs”, delivered in various forms.

Overlord L'Orange: Observations of an Average Citizen, Installment #108; "Putin's Bitch"

     It was time for Overlord L’Orange to report to his overseer, Vladimir Putin, or “Vladdy” (as he liked L’Orange to call him). It was a “term of affection”, and also seemed fitting to L’Orange, as Putin was kind of like his long-lost Daddy. It was a double entendre, even though L’Orange did not know what that meant.

     L’Orange was feeling giddy as a schoolgirl this morning, like he was going to his first Prom, as he sat at his desk nervously, preparing to make his phone call. This was definitely different than Tweeting! More hair-raising. On-the-spot. He ran his fingers through the Silkie sleeping on his scalp, and straightened out his signature red tie. He was a fraud and phony, a treasonous traitor, a ghoulish shape-shifter, depending on who he was with, similar to the demons living inside Regan from The Exorcist who declare: “I am nothing! I am no one!” Ironically, today at the White House L’Orange’s “personal pastor” spoke and trumpeted that “We declare every demonic network to be scattered right now!” Of course there were jokes all over the internet afterward that obviously her exorcism didn’t work, because L’Orange is still there, fidgeting uncomfortably at his desk and being broadly inept. This “personal pastor” is a television evangelist with bleached blonde hair and what appears to be plastic surgery gone awry, and is married to a former rock star from the 1970’s. She wore a string of pearls as she performed her “exorcism”, dainty and powerful at the same time; the women in the L’Orange administration love to wear pearls! It makes them appear more ladylike, instead of Snake-Oil salesmen-like, or sell-your-soul-to-the-Devil-for-a-dollar-like. It helps the racist old geezers trust these women even more, these nice young gals with spunk, wearing good old-fashioned pearl necklaces, fighting the Good Fight! The Lord’s fight.

     Speaking of lords and ladies, L’Orange’s phone call was going through to his Master, Putin.

     Putin spoke first: “Talk to me!” he said, picking up the phone in the middle of the first ring.

     L’Orange cleared his throat, nervously. “No collusion! No puppet!” he croaked.

     “L’Orange…save it for your followers…it’s me, Vladdy!”

     “It was all a big hoax! A Witch hunt!” L’Orange went on.

     “Yes, that’s right, a big hoax, a big Witch hunt. You know just what to say, don’t you, L’Orange? You have the best words. You are a stable genius,” Putin satiated.

     L’Orange blushed, a deep crimson red. Whenever he blushed it was a deep crimson red color, for obvious reasons.

     “You vill tell people that it vas mouse, not mountain?”

     The Silkie stirred sleepily on L’Orange’s head. “Yes, yes, it was a mouse, not a mountain!”

     “Very good, very good! We don’t vant you to end up in prison, or vorse, do ve?”

     “Or worse?” L’Orange pondered.

     “Vell, you know…sometimes things happen to people who don’t follow the rules or instructions, and sometimes things happen to people who break the rules and then don’t cover them up effectively, no?”

     “No! No, no, no, no, no!” blurted L’Orange.

     “So, we have an ‘understanding’? Our ‘understanding’ still holds?”

     “Yes, of course, it still holds!”

     “Very good, very good…you are smart man, L’Orange. Such a smart, smart man. You know vat is good for you, yes?”

     “I…yes. I know what is good for me!” L’Orange felt confused.

     “And who is your Vladdy?” Putin asked, with a slight smile, and a gleam in his eyes.

     “You are,” responded L’Orange.

     “Let me hear you say it!”

     “You are my Vladdy, Putin. You are my Vladdy!”

     “That’s right! And don’t you forget it!”

     “Never,” vowed L’Orange.

     “But, if you do forget, Kim Jong-un has a present or two for you, as a reminder! Big, strong, powerful presents!”

     L’Orange remained silent. He knew that Putin liked to have the last word. After they terminated their call, L’Orange sat at his desk for a few minutes, stroking his Silkie with one hand, while gnawing on the thumb of his free hand. These moments of contemplation were rare, far-between, and extremely uncomfortable for him. He much preferred not having to think or feel at all.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Miss Linda, the (Secret) Author of 'Overlord L'Orange: Observations of an Average Citizen'"

     Miss Linda was feeling nervous lately, like someone or something was watching her. It could be anyone or anything, really, at any time. But she would not be dissuaded from expressing her convictions! She appreciated a challenge. Maybe it was just her very strong marijuana gummies that were making her a little more jumpy and jittery than usual? Maybe she should switch to an Indica strain for a while? But, man! She was a productive stoner! F*ck “The Man”, if he was watching, with his (or her, or their) singular fixated eyeball. She had bigger fish to fry, without worrying about such nonsense. What would “The Man” do with her anyway, even if he were watching her every move? Capture her? Interrogate then dismember her like the Overlord L’Orange approved murder of Jamal Khashoggi, the Saudi Arabian journalist who sought exile in the United States and ended up dead instead? Miss Linda suddenly glanced over her shoulder, then went downstairs to mix a strong vodka-and-lemonade, or what she liked to call her “health tonic”. She (knock on wood) had not suffered from a cold or flu virus in years.

     She must move on to the task of interviewing boarders to keep Rancho Tarzanadu (her inherited family home) afloat, which was no small feat. Living with other people was tricky, at best. Especially for a natural introvert like Miss Linda. But having fun and enjoying her time in this plane of existence was important, too. She definitely knew what she didn’t want: first and foremost, NO REPULLICANS. No explanations or excuses. Her motto was: Don’t say it, do it. The prospective boarders must have jobs, of course, or an income from some source (she was not opposed to all things deemed “illegal” by “The Man”). She knew she did not want to live with someone boring, especially considering that most people wanted to drone on and on about what they do. So their profession would have to be something Miss Linda wanted to know more about, like Mysticism or Esoterica. Psychology was interesting. Maybe an Anthropologist? Or an Astronomer? An astronaut would be really fun and interesting to have around, especially for cocktail parties, which Miss Linda was really fond of. She also loved dressing up as an Astronaut’s Wife, although she had zero interest in being an actual wife, even of an astronaut. A magician or puppet master might be fun to live with. Although a personal chef would be the best thing. Maybe the closet underneath the stairwell could be cleared out and rented as a room? Oops! She forgot that room was to be occupied by Little Johnny, the Child Savant. It might be worth renting a personal chef an actual room in exchange for all meals prepared. She would have to contemplate that. If Manuel moved into the main house with her, she could rent out the guest house he’d been living in for double what she could get for a single room in the main house. A gardener would come in handy, also, especially since Manuel did absolutely nothing but wander aimlessly around in his satin maroon smoking jacket, with a beer in one hand, seemingly attempting to escape his inner demons in a perpetually meandering fashion. Always so much to do at Rancho Tarzanadu! Maybe she could find a husband and wife (or husband and husband, or wife and wife) team to garden and cook, and they could share a room? Brilliant! She had always wanted an organic vegetable garden, but so far hadn’t the time or inclination to get out there and make it happen herself. She would much prefer that someone else did that, and then she could just enjoy the delicious goodness of their gardening and culinary talents, and get on with her other important projects, which were more ethereal in nature.

     Before she did one more thing, however, she must sit her ass down and write another installment of “Overlord L’Orange: Observations of an Average Citizen”, her weekly political diatribe on the current ruler of this beautiful f*cked-up country of ours. Miss Linda was appalled by the state of her nation, and felt compelled to share her views and opinions with the world at large. Apparently though, not many had seen her posts, if her algorhythms on blogspot were accurate. But no matter! She would carry on. It would be her contribution to society, in lieu of tossing her jury summons notices in the trash bin, claiming she had never received them in the first place. This would be her way of giving back. For posterity’s sake. As one of her college English professors had said about his own work: “I’m writing for one hundred years from now, not for the people of my time in history; my work will live on, and in so doing, will make me immortal!” Miss Linda thought about a story she had just read, “The Last Question” by Isaac Asimov, which stated that “forever” probably didn’t exist. The entropy would eat everything in its path, gobbling it down its black, bottomless hole. So her work may not live on forever; she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. The new Chaos Magick group she just joined on the Discord app may have a solution to entropy and the lack of forever, anyway. She was wild-guessing they might.

     After running through all of the things she had to get done in her mind, she had forgotten all about “The Man” watching her (even though he was), and just got on with what she needed to get on about: interviewing boarders (income she did not report on her tax forms on April 15^th) and working on her political diatribe, come what may. Miss Linda was much more inclined to risk than to complacency. Little did she know that “The Man” (or “The Wo-man”) would be interviewing as a potential boarder soon, right in her own backyard while enjoying tea and finger sandwiches, having seen her public ad posted in her Facebook “Notes” section.