Queer Chronicles entry ©2004

Queer Chronicles by Kenneth Allen, ©2004

August 17, 2004

The Worst Hurricane to Hit Florida Since Jeb and Kathleen
Next Up: George Set To Slam Manhattan

Charley’s ghost haunts the west coast of Florida. Price-gougers are to tremble in the wake of the other national disaster they’re facing: A Bush coming to ‘help.’ Yes, this is the worst hurricane to hit the dangling state since Kathleen, nay Jeb. Though Noelle is said to have been a Category Five, many times.

Yes, I lash out with venom toward the empire once more. Right now, I just seem really hung up on this scripture, “You’ll know them by their fruits.” No, I don’t blame the hurricane on the royal family. I blame them for fraud and death and violence and foreign agitators being more agitated, but not this particular storm.

I guess you could say that Charley’s trudge across the state of sunshine reminded me the difference one can make. I mean one. One person doing some little nice thing that causes exponential kindnesses being passed about. The other extreme, allow the questioning of your nemesis’ war record when you don’t have one. I know their bible says, “The truth shall set you free,” too.

I hear George is going to be watching almost the entire convention from somewhere miles away. How safe. Such a valiant warrior who leads us in battle saying, “Hey, go poke the lion and see if it’s awake … I’ll wait over here.”

It’s also been “leaked” that out of “respect” his royal-blamelessness will not be visiting Ground Zero. Good. I had to breathe enough foul air after the actual event to have to suck in the horrid odor of political masturbation atop burial grounds.

A quarter of a million people are expected to visit us just to say,”Hey George, we don’t like you.” How extreme. But the RNC was insane in the first place. Pick a place that could use a tourism boost, not a city still reeling from security costs and clean-up. We have enough tourists already. And the ones who would bring the city income aren’t coming that week.

Men in suits and pressed casual clothing, white earpieces protruding from their cropped hair, have been running amuck downtown this past month. They poke their heads into the Subway Sandwich Shop checking for terrorists. A new road block has appeared on my street, too. I take my smoke breaks and watch the vans get pulled over, some stupid enough to complain.

And there’s that odor again. What is it? Hot air? Bad fruit? Armageddon?