Category: Uncategorized

“PBS, the propaganda wing of Bill and Melinda Gates.” – The Office

Okay, and what does anyone do with two new “tote bags” every year?  How many objects do you need to tote?

This is a repost . . . oddly enough, exactly the same time last year I had similar thoughts to the post I was working on, and at 2 AM it made more sense to repost this one than finish the new one.  

I used to listen to National Public Radio® (NPR™) on the way to work.  Sure, I like music, but the local radio stations are simply horrible.  NPR© had a good mix of news and information.  Of course it was left-leaning:  it’s in the name – “Public” radio – and at least 55% comes from reliably liberal sources like universities, foundations, the Corporation for Public Broadcasting™, and Fedgov.  But it was left-leaning in the “Kinda Feminist Grandma Who Just Didn’t Want To Be Called Sweetie At Work” way, and not in the “All Who Oppose Us Will Be Re-Educated or Shot for Comrade Sanders” way.

Listening to them wasn’t new for me – I’d done so during the latter part of the years when W was president, and during many of the Obama years.  There was a detectable liberal bias, which was understandable given that they have trouble with the capitalist system.  Why, one time when I was tending bar, an anthropologist, a philosopher, and a journalist walked in.  I said, “Hey, Brad.  Still no job?”

Arizona State University and Texas A&M recently did a study about bias in journalism and found that 4.4% of financial journalists described themselves as “somewhat or very” conservative.  The totals for those that identified as “somewhat or very” liberal?  58.5%.  If you wondered why the journalists were crying on election night back in November of 2016, this is it.

Journalists are lefties, and they’re surrounded by other lefties, and probably don’t even know anyone who would claim to be on the Right.  And those in the study were only financial journalists, who one would expect to be somewhat more “conservative” than journalists as a whole since they could probably do basic addition.

I guess I was fine listening to NPR© because I felt I was good at filtering out the bias that I heard.  A lot of news is just facts, and listening to NPR™ was good because I liked to get a second version of the news – and sometimes the stories that NPR® brought up were utterly different than I’d see on my regular run around the web.  It was nice having the variety.

The decision to stop listening to NPR© was gradual, but I certainly remember the first big day that led me down this path – it was August 2, 2016 when then-candidate Trump was giving a speech at a rally.  A woman had a baby at the rally, and the baby cried.  Trump said, “Don’t worry about it, you know?  It’s young and beautiful and healthy, and that’s what we want.”

Not too much later on in that same rally, the baby cried again.  If you watch the video, it’s hilarious – Trump says, “Actually, I was only kidding, you can get the baby out of here.”  You can clearly hear in his voice he’s kidding.  In reality, anyone who wasn’t looking for something, anything to smear Trump would have heard the joke.  You can watch the video – NPR© did put it up (LINK).  But when the story was read on air?  “Trump Hates Babies And Wants To Deport All Of Them, Probably to Mars.”

But, Unlikely Voice of Reason, Washington Post® (LINK) came to the rescue with this quote:  She [the mother – J.W.] said that she decided to leave the auditorium on her own because “it’s the considerate thing to do for others around, trying to listen or for those presenting,” adding that “it was blatantly obvious he was joking.”

Who would write and report a story like that?  A deranged person.  A person looking for something, anything to hang on Trump.  It was pure propaganda, but a clumsy sort of propaganda that only someone who had it in for Trump would report.

Rumor has it that if Bernie Sanders sees his shadow on Groundhog Day, he’ll avoid the Clintons for six more weeks.

That was the first strike – and several more went by, and I found that I simply could no longer stand listening to the distortions popping out of NPR™.  I doubt that NPR© is better now, but even if they were, why would I bother?  I have a better cell phone now and listen to podcasts on the drive to work.

In a one-dimensional world, I’d still have the choice of NPR® or the local rock DJ telling really stupid stories about their fart collection or I could spend the drive time listening to a CD.  But we now have access to a vast array of news, so if you go poking and prodding, you can debunk the propaganda if you smell it.  And, boy, there’s plenty left.  It’s gone beyond distortions to become propaganda.

That’s Biddle in the middle with the fiddle near the griddle while his puppy has a piddle.

The power in propaganda is in creating a common worldview.  It’s herding.  If everyone believes the same thing, then why argue about facts?  And that’s also the danger of propaganda.  One of the early propaganda theorists (besides, of course, Edward Bernays) was William Biddle, member of the Minbari Hair Club for Men© pictured above.  Biddle’s ideas on how to make propaganda work include:

• Rely on emotions, never argue.  Almost all decisions, no matter how rational we think we are, are based on emotion.  Every single actual transformative change in our lives is built on emotion.  The Mrs. recently emailed me pictures of our first date, but I couldn’t open them.  I guess I have trouble with emotional attachments.
• Cast propaganda into the pattern of “we” versus an “enemy”. This is derived, at least in part, from emotions.  Everyone has a fear of the other, of those that aren’t like them.  If the Left didn’t have an enemy, it would have to manufacture one to make propaganda work.  And if I am president, we will arm all our troops with acid to destroy the enemy base.
• Direct suggestion through using repetition in slogans or phrases. Simple phrases, repeated often, replace the truth.  “I like Ike.”  You may or may not like Eisenhower, but it’s easy to say, easy to remember, and easy to repeat.  If Biddle were lecturing in 2020, I’m sure he’d understand the power of memes in driving public viewpoint.  But if Biddle were speaking to you in 2020, you’d probably be horrified because a corpse dead for 47 years makes a terrible lecturer and often stutters.

Morgan Freeman:  Today Chester learned that chanting “U-S-A” at the illegal alien march was a mistake.

• Reach groups as well as individuals. Getting individuals to agree is easy, but why convert people retail when you get more going wholesale?  Thankfully, I can dress differently so I can look like everyone else.
• Indirectly appealing to emotion through cloaking propaganda as entertainment or news media coverage. I had a friend – I know, crazy, right? – who would never directly try to convince upper management of anything.  He’d leave clues – breadcrumbs – so that upper management would come to the right conclusion, his conclusion, without him stating his conclusion directly.  But there certainly isn’t a reason that Thor™ is going to be replaced by a woman, is there?
• Biddle emphasized the importance of the propagandist being hidden when conveying their messages. If the Left thought that Trump wanted them to eat vegetables, half the vegans in the United States would go on a full-carnivore diet and begin stalking cows.  If you’re trying to do propaganda, don’t mix the message with the messenger.

And after PETA armed the Cows, this happened.

What Biddle missed was herding.  As opinions change, people must be herded to follow the new opinion – outliers must be ruthlessly outcast.  The pleasant part for propagandists is that people will tend to self police.  You’ve probably heard that crabs stuck in a bucket trying to get out will pull any crab that gets out back into the bucket with them.  I have no idea if crabs do that, because my relationship with crabs involves steam, fancy vice grips, and a cup filled with liquid butter.

Kim Jong Un loves Stephen King books – he’s a fearless reader.

Stephen King only wishes that he was stuck with crabs.  Wait, that came out wrong.  Anyway, Mr. King made the epic error of arguing that with his votes for the Oscars®, that diversity didn’t matter, only quality.  In any universe where rational people discuss things, that’s an entirely reasonable statement.  But in Hollywood©?  Not a chance (LINK).   If Twitter™ could burn people at the stake, it would be very warm in Mr. King’s house tonight.

And if they only reported it on NPR®?  I’d never hear it.  Unless it was during pledge drive.  Why is it always pledge drive?

“These are my good clothes. You can’t go home smelling like a meth lab.” – Breaking Bad

Say what you want about Finland, but their flag is a big plus.

Finland had originally not wanted to be involved at all in war, but the Soviets had attacked them in 1940.  Joseph Stalin had come to the conclusion that he was tired of Finns living on land he wanted, and attacked.  You could say that Stalin was Russian to the Finnish line.

Stalin expected the Soviet juggernaut to wipe Finland off the map in 1940.  Thus began what is known as the “Winter War” to protect Finland.

Did anyone come to the aid of Finland?  No, not really.  Churchill and Roosevelt were certainly sympathetic in the newspapers, but just made sad clucking noises as the Red Army prepared to assimilate yet another country.

Finland was horribly outnumbered.  For instance, the Soviets invaded with 3,880 aircraft.   The Finns had 114 planes.  The Soviets had a maximum of 6,500 tanks, the Finns had 32.  Yes, 32 tanks.

This is the recipe for a huge loss, but the Finns had other ideas – they were fighting to save Finland.

They inflicted over 300,000 Soviet casualties with only 300,000 Finnish soldiers.  The Soviets agreed to a peace treaty, taking over several islands and provinces, far short of their actual war effort.  Rumor has it that the Soviets decided they wanted peace after Christopher Lee (yes, that Christopher Lee) arrived from England as a volunteer to fight for the Finns.

How could they tell Dracula had a sore throat?  The coffin.

At the outbreak of the German invasion of the Soviet Union two years later, the Finns jumped in:  they retook the provinces that the Soviets took, but stopped.  Finland basically relaxed until, in 1944, the Soviets had the Germans on the run.  Stalin looked at Finland and described a Scandinavian church song:  Finnish Hymn.

This brings us to Aimo Koivunen.  Aimo was a corporal in the Finnish Army, and was sent on a ski patrol in March of 1944.  He and his patrol were suddenly surrounded by Soviet troops.  They managed to escape, but Aimo was dead tired from the physical exertion of skiing away from the pursuing Soviet troops.

Sorry, I guess that skiing joke went downhill fast.

Aimo had Pervitin©.  Pervitin™ was issued to some troops to overcome exhaustion and remain awake on guard duty.  Since Pervitin® was essentially crystal meth, the instructions said to just take one.  It was cold.  Aimo was tired.  He couldn’t just grasp one of the pills, so he took the entire bottle.  All 30.

That’s when the fun started.

Aimo became delirious, and the next little bit is fuzzy.  All he knows is that when he woke up less than a day later, he’d skied 60 miles and lost all of his equipment.  He hit a landmine, but that was no impediment for a meth-crazed Finn.  He just spent time in a ditch eating pine nuts and a raw bird that he caught.

Aimo ended up skiing another 190 miles (not kilometers, miles) for a grand total of 250 miles.

In March.

In Finland.

On enough meth to kill a college football team.

Okay, Aimo had more adventure in two weeks than most people have in a lifetime.  He even remembered some of it.

When they finally managed to wrestle the still meth-addled Aimo into the hospital, he had a heart rate of 200 beats per minute (three times a non-meth-saturated-human heartrate).  He weighed 94 pounds, and in the one time I don’t make fun of communist units, that’s only 43 kilograms.

That’s one hell of a hangover.

Oh, sure, I could have told a funny story that describes why I don’t drink tequila, ever, but I thought that Aimo Kiovunen’s story was a better one than I’ll ever have.  So you get that instead.

But what does a meth-soaked soldier have to do with the economy?

In the last decade, our economy has just gulped down about 30 Pervitinâ„¢.

Part of the problem was that our economy was almost already exhausted before the Coronavirus hit.  The economic expansion since the Great Recession was already 128 months old in February 2020 – the longest in United States history.  How did it get that old?

Simulants.  The biggest stimulant was economic policy.  If you wanted to buy a house in 1990, you’d pay 10% interest rates.  Buying a house in 2010, the interest rates were around 4%.  Now?  Even lower.  The Federal Reserve’s® interest rate is zero, if you’re a big bank.  Free money.

Zero interest rate?  A stimulant.

In the last year, deficit spending of the United States has been in the trillions.  $3.8 trillion, to be exact.  In one year.  That’s three times the level of deficit spending in the Great Recession.

How is that for 30 capsules of Pervitinâ„¢ in 2020 after chugging two dozen pots of coffee since 2008?

Never has so much amazingly frightening debt ever looked so good.

You simply cannot put that level of stimulant into an economy and not expect to have an impact.  What’s the impact?

As commenters have noted, the stimulant effect of all of that money dumped into the economy has been muted somewhat because people just aren’t spending it.  There are a variety of reasons for this.  Unemployed people don’t go tossing all of their 401k money into fishing boats and rare PEZ® dispensers depicting Norwegian War Heroes.

The bigger pools, though, are rich people waiting to scoop up depressed assets.  Another pool consists of money that the banks borrowed from the Fed® at zero interest, and then deposited back with the Fed© to earn interest.  This is not a trick that you or I could do, but it props up the banks.

Not one of my more successful pickup lines.

The concern I have is that once the signs of inflation show up, those pools of money will begin to move.  At first with a trickle, and then with an avalanche.  The stimulant will take effect.  And the heartrate of the economy will go to 200 beats per minute (0.2 kilobeats per minute).

There is good news.  You can look for the signs that I’m right, say, gold going up in price.  Or bitcoin going through the roof.  That might be the sign the hangover from the Pervitin© is taking hold in the economy.

Oh, those things are happening?  Keep your eyes open, folks.

The good news is that, despite his adventures in creative pharmacology, Aimo Koivunen lived to be 71.  He survived the hangover.

Let’s hope we do, too.

“Since when can weathermen predict the weather, let alone the future?” – Back to the Future

It’s easy to buy clothes for psychics – they’re all mediums.

In the past I’ve done, once or twice, a humorous year in review post. 2020? Let’s let that year rot in the grave – in many ways, it was a year that was worse than having to spend the weekend after Christmas with the Kardashians.

How was that weekend I spent with the Kardashians?

It was hairy, smelly, oily, and just plain silly, no matter how much money got thrown around, it was still awful and made me want to take a month-long shower.

Instead, let’s look forward. Here I have a group of predictions made by the best psychics I could find on the Psychic Friends Network® who somehow decided working for $7.99 a minute was better than winning the lottery or buying Tesla© stock in 2010. These were confirmed by the time-traveling Stephen Hawking, who said, “Yeah, it all looks legit,” before beating me in a one-on-one game of basketball.

I really suck at basketball. Plus? Time-travelling Stephen Hawking is a robot with chainsaw arms.

Trust me, 2021 will be better.

January, 2021

Faced by a mounting crisis in Canada brought about by forgetting to pay the electric bill, Canadian armed forces launch an invasion of Detroit to check for spare change in the couches. The 82^nd Airborne is dispatched and quickly prevents invasion of the desirable parts of Michigan. The Canadian Army quickly surrenders, but insists on adding an extra “u” in words like labor, honor, and Wednesday. Within 72 hours the Treaty of Fargo is signed, whereby Canada is punished by being prohibited from withdrawing from Detroit, and also forced to take the Jacksonville Jaguars® and Amy Schumer.

German leader Angela Merkel is quick to condemn the United States, saying, “In the annals of humanity there has never been a bigger war crime than forcing the decent citizens of Canada to take a sub-par NFL® team. Never. You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

Angela Merkel arrives in Paris:
“Nationality?” asks the immigration officer.
“German,” Merkel replies.
“Occupation?”
“No, just here for a few days.”

February, 2021

Facebook® and Google™ announce a joint partnership to, “just know and predict everything about you so that we can manipulate you like a rancher manipulates cattle and extract every bit of value from you before we recycle you into Earth-friendly products.”

Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts rules that this is fine. Writing in his majority opinion, he says, “they (Facebook© and Google®) are private companies and are thus not covered by the First Amendment. Also, they have all of my Internet history, and the secret naughty chats I’ve been having with Justice Kagan, and I really don’t want my wife seeing those.”

March, 2021

According to the medical journal, The Lancet, the first COVID-19 vaccine recipients spontaneously renounce any Leftist policy and become staunch supporters of nationalism, Constitutional government and individual liberty. Congressman Alexandria Ocasio Cortez calls for the immediate recall of the vaccine.

Thankfully, nothing happens if she eats ice cream too fast.

April, 2021

George R.R. Martin announces he has written seven complete pages of his next book in the Game of Thrones® series titled, The Winds of Winter. “At this rate, I’ll be complete with the series by the year 4731. So, fans, there’s something to look forward to!”

Martin then laughed his jolly elfin laugh and jumped naked, except for his signature hat, into a swimming pool filled with $100 bills after a dinner of eating panda roasted over glowing Moon-rocks.

May, 2021

In a surprise session, the governments of 33 States serve notice to the United States that they are seceding from the Union. In the joint declaration to the Federal government via short phone call, the States note, “Listen, we tried to work this out. Don’t cry. Stop. It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve changed. I’m keeping the dog. And the nuclear weapons. And all the Tom Petty albums.”

Texas changes its Facebook™ profile to “single.” Canada is still required to keep Detroit and the Jacksonville Jaguars©, despite launching a surprise offensive on the Nordstrom™ outlet in St. Paul, Minnesota, which failed because they didn’t have actual money for parking meters. Who knew those meters would reject Canadian quarters?

I heard that Texas was voted “most likely to secede” in high school.

June, 2021

Elon Musk announces he has joined his consciousness with a machine, specifically a postal meter in the United States Post Office in Enid, Oklahoma (Zip Code 73701). Musk specifically chose this meter because he “want(ed) to not only dominate car production, and space flight, but also being able to know exactly what small objects weigh and calculate what the postage would cost to ship something far away. It’s not so easy to figure that out, you know.”

July, 2021

[REDACTED DUE TO NSC 1993-473-AB-01]

August, 2021

Practical immortality was announced jointly by the Bill Gates Foundation© and the World Economic Forum™. In a surprise, it involves subscribing to Microsoft™ Office© 365®, eating only food obtained from bugs, and living in a small pod as approved by the Facebook™/Google© Freedom For All™ coalition, and limiting stressors by avoiding unapproved news sources.

“With this new technology, most Americans can now expect to live meaningful, productive lives up to at least the age of 50, which is nearly immortal,” said Gates, while stroking a long-furred snow-white cat.

Bill Gates only wants one thing for giving us immortality, namely, to rename the Earth: “The Planet of the Apps.”

September, 2021

President-For-Life Kamala Harris indicated that rumors of her executing prisoners in her last remaining enclave of Beverly Hills were, “gross exaggerations. In most cases, they fought each other to the death for Chicken McNuggets®. We even gave some of the winners Hot Mustard™ sauce, which I believe is in line with the Geneva Convention.”

As troops loyal to the American United American States of America surrounded the Western White House, President-For-Life Harris said, “Guys, can’t you take a joke?”

October, 2021

The Federal Reserve® announced that the main Federal Reserve Bank™ headquarters in Washington, D.C. was robbed by George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and a long list of Hollywood B-list celebrities who were engaged in an overly complicated heist, with comic relief provided by Julia Roberts.

Fed© Chairman, Britney Spears, noted that, “We didn’t lose anything. We don’t have any actual money, silly, we just print it.”

November, 2021

Netflix® Health Advisor© and Minister Plenipotentiary Dr. “Fat Tony” Anthony Fauci stated flatly, “Listen, Harvard© has told us as early as 1968 that sugar is good for you. Eat all you can. And smoking isn’t that bad for you, especially if you smoke filtered cigarettes by a major manufacturer. Corn syrup? It should be called corn sugar! I bathe in it and rub it on my chest every day. So wholesome and healthy!”

When asked about why he said that masks against COVID firstly in February 2020, “wouldn’t help” and then later “should be mandatory,” Fauci said, “Oh my gosh, what is that over there? Look! A baby wolf!”

Dr. Fauci at a press conference: “Don’t worry. If I’m wrong, I’ll still have a job.”

December, 2021

Mopping up actions continue in the former “Socialist Republic of the West” and the collapsed “First New England Commune.” After determining that 93% of the residents couldn’t be poets, communist theorists, and crystal dolphin therapists due to the inability to feed themselves, the last snarky Twitter™ post went up on December 23, 2021, “Well, actually, not everyone celebrates Christmas, so by saying ‘Merry Christmas’ to me you aren’t being Christian at all, are you?”

As of December 25, 2021, peace and harmony prevail in the Reconstituted United States of America, though anyone with the word “studies” in their degree title is immediately sentenced to 7 years in the RUSA “Leisure Camps” where residents are “encouraged” to actually produce something.

See, I told you 2021 would be better!

“You’ll put your eye out.” – A Christmas Story

Nobody was too concerned with my eyes.  But do NOT make us have to pay for a neighbor’s window.

(This was first published in 2018, but I’ve made some slight edits.  Merry Christmas!)

I’m a believer in Christmas – it’s a time of redemption and rebirth that proves that miracles can happen.  People can escape their past, and become something more than they were before – they can become reborn.  We can become better.  The birth of Christ is an example that we can all be reborn and change our lives in a miraculous and meaningful way.

But, I’m not sure I can recall any particular Christmas miracles.

Oh, wait, here’s one.  It’s mostly true, as well as I can recall, and field-tested to read aloud to your family:

On Christmas Day when I was in second grade, the one thing I wanted more than anything else was . . . a BB-Gun.  No, this is not a remake of A Christmas Story, this is A Wilder Story.  And I was there for this one.

As I recall, this was the last Christmas when we opened Christmas presents on Christmas morning.  In all following years, my older brother John Wilder and I wheedled our parents into a Christmas Eve opening of everything but “Santa” gifts.  We were insufferable.  My brother (really) is also named John Wilder – my parents didn’t want to waste those extra birth announcements they had bought when they could just change the day and year, but that’s another story.

But that particular Christmas morning when I was in second grade I looked down on a real-life lever-action Daisy® BB gun.  It looked like a real rifle even though the wood parts were plastic.  I’d never shot a real rifle before, but I knew that all I wanted for Christmas was that BB gun.  And there it was, all mine, pristine in its oiled metal and plastic perfection.

It looked very real.  Mine was the one on the bottom.  It was actually mistaken for a real rifle several times.  Mainly by me, because everyone who was an adult could see it was just a BB gun.

“Take care of that, and it’ll last you a long time, Son,” Pop said as he handed me my first gun.  This was the first time he’d said that to me, and I nodded gravely, feeling the responsibility and pride deep inside me.  Pop would later repeat that phrase about boots I got in high school, a Buck© pocket knife I got in fifth grade, and my first car.

I still have the BB gun and the boots.  I lost the knife, probably at school.  It was expected when I was a kid that you had a knife with you if you were in fifth grade, because what if you had to gut a fish during English class?

But I was in second grade, and I had a BB gun.  My BB gun.

And I was ready to use it.  I was given a quick tutorial on how to load it, a list of all the things (mainly windows), people (mainly windows), places (our windows), and forbidden objects (neighbor’s windows) that I shouldn’t even think of aiming my BB gun at, let alone shoot.  I was trusted to take my new BB gun out on a Christmas morning expedition, because it was made clear to me in no uncertain terms that the worst punishment in the world would fall upon me if I shot something I shouldn’t.  I would lose (probably until I was 40) my BB gun, be grounded from TV until I had my own children and probably be branded as a BB abuser for the rest of my life in my Permanent Record.  (For kids:  Permanent Record is now called Snapchat©.)

With the earnestness only a second grader can muster, I put on my deep blue Sears™ parka (the ad said it was designed for pilots stationed in . . . the ARCTIC, you know, where we fought the Soviets to save Santa from becoming, I guess, more Red) with polyester fur trim, and a pocket for pens and pencils on the arm, because where else would you keep pens and pencils except your left arm?  I pulled on my black felt-lined snow boots and stiff green plastic gloves, and went outside.  It was cold, certainly below freezing, and probably hovering around zero in non-communist units.

Like a pocket knife, every boy had a parka like this.  Every boy. But does anyone know why pilots need parkas if they’re in heated jet airplanes??  Oh, yeah.  Soviets.  Image from E-Bay.

It had already snowed enough that the snow pile in our front yard was 10 feet (43 meters) deep, but we had a packed trail where our snowmobiles had gone onto the snow-packed country road and up into miles of forest roads that dated back to the old prospectors looking for gold.

My feet crunched in the snow as I walked due north onto the road, my breath puffing out as if from a small blue fake-fur-trimmed steam engine headed uphill.  I kept going.  What was I looking for?  I’m not sure – I don’t remember, exactly.  I guess, looking at stuff with a BB gun in my hand and shooting anything that wouldn’t get me in trouble with Ma Wilder at the rate of 6 BBs per step.  But I felt like a man, and what would a man with a rifle do?  Hunt.  Win World War II again.  Look for communists.  It’s hazy, but I know I had a purpose.

Snakes weren’t a possibility, since I knew snakes wintered in Florida with baseball players, Santa and Cubans.  Regardless, I wanted to shoot my BB gun, even if the opportunities to send Soviets back to Russia with a backside full of BBs was limited, at best.  I still don’t recall ever seeing a Soviet in the forest until I saw Red Dawn, and then my BB gun was at home.

I guess Europe decided to sit this one out.

I trundled up the road.  I think that’s probably the only time I’ve used the word “trundled” precisely since it implies I moved along slowly, noisily, and in a less than graceful manner.  All of those applied.  But I was ten feet tall with my BB gun, shooting aimed fire into snowbanks and sage brush alike.  About a half a mile from my house, more than three-quarters of the way to the Old Cemetery, I saw it.

The Bear.

Sitting motionless, huddled against the barbed wire fence, not 20’ away, was the bear.  It was a black bear.  I knew that grizzly bears had been killed nearby, but this was definitely a black bear, being black and all.  Ma Wilder had told me about them before going hiking and told me to never, ever get between a black bear cub and its mother – she said that was more dangerous than being between Beto O’Rourke and a microphone.

I didn’t know if this bear was cub-sized or mother-sized, but I already knew that this was something way out of my experience level – I mean I still wasn’t even coloring within the lines very well.  Communists?  Sure, I could take down a dozen of them since they were weak because they were Godless and fatherless and mainly starving when they weren’t swilling massive quantities of cheap Afghan vodka.

But bears?  Better call the reinforcements (spelled D-A-D) in.

Calling out an APB on a tiny blonde boy.  He looked tasty.

I backed away from the bear, keeping my eyes on it the whole time.  My BB gun was loaded, a precious brass sphere ready to explode outward on a column of pressurized air at the bear should it charge me.  I knew I was too slow to out-trundle the bear.  Even my candy-cane addled brain knew that the BB was scant protection against a bear, but if I was going to go down, I was going to go down fighting like a man, and not running away like a weak Soviet child would.  Even though it was nearly zero, I built up a sweat in my green turtle neck under my Air Force Pilot Parka®.

That green turtle-neck was really tight and made me look a lot like an actual turtle, so I only wore it three times.  Why?  A chubby kid covered in the smell of fear sweat and Nacho Cheese Doritos™ isn’t really a winner with the ladies despite whatever Bill Clinton might say.

An aside:  In the safe realm of 2018, I know that it seems insane to allow a second grader to hike up into the forested wilderness alone at temperatures near zero on Christmas morning armed with a weapon that’s patently illegal to arm a second grader with in New York City, and twenty other states that are, no doubt, now deeply under the influence of the Soviets.  Or, does it?   When I last had a second grader (Pugsley) he had a BB gun and trundled off into the backyard with a zillion BBs.  I can attest our backyard is now safely Soviet-free.  But back in the day?  We weren’t building weak Soviet children.  No!  We had backbones of steel and cheap Taiwanese Rambo® knives with compasses built into the handle.

So, yeah, not unusual.  I guess it was a crazy thing called freedom.  Anyway . . .

I got back to the house and threw open the door.  I stamped my snow-covered feet inside.  Yeah, I know, bad form.  But I was in a hurry, I had real news and information for the family.

My parents were lounging on the couch, enjoying a quiet coffee.

“A BEAR!”  I yelled.

“I swear, I saw it, a bear!  It was just right up the road, right where the hill starts.  A bear!  A black one!”

Ma looked at Pop, concerned.

Pop Wilder shook his head.  “Bears are hibernating.  None are up this time of year, not when it’s this cold.”

“No, it was there, right by the fence.”

Ma Wilder nudged him, seeing the absolute certainty on my face.  “We should take a look.”

There is a look a man gives a woman when he knows that he has lost the argument even before it started.  I know that look because I saw it then.  Pop sighed, got up, and got dressed.  Half an hour later, he and Ma and my brother were all dressed, and ready to go up the road.  I had my BB gun.  I hoped that the bear would still be there.

We walked.  I pointed, when the Bear came into sight, not 300 yards away.

“See, I told you.”

Ma Wilder looked concerned when she saw visual proof of my story.  I think she had put my bear story into the category of “addled ravings of an overly imaginative eight-year old that may or may not process reality like a normal human after he told me that he was worried that Grandma would turn into a zombie (Sleep Deprivation, Health, Zombies, and B-Movies).”

As for me, I was concerned that Pop hadn’t brought bazookas, howitzers, grenades, or maybe a battleship.  Nah, Pop Wilder could probably wrestle a dozen or so bears, if they came up to him one at a time, like in the Kung Fu movies.  We finally got up to the road where we were perpendicular to the black bear, still huddled up against the fence, not 30 feet (432 meters) away.  It hadn’t moved since I’d first seen it.  I felt . . .vindicated, even though I’d never heard the word.

“Hand me the BB gun,” said Pop Wilder.

I did.

Pop shot one BB into the bear, smoothly worked the lever like a cowboy in the Old West, and then shot another BB into the bear.

The bear was motionless.  It must be dead!  Pop Wilder killed it!  Pop handed the BB gun back to me.

He then walked back into the deep snow directly to the bear, reached out, and pulled up the black plastic sheeting that had blown into a ball up against the fence.

He handed me back the BB gun and handed my brother the black plastic sheet.  We walked home in silence.

So, there was that:  the Miracle of the Transubstantiation of the Bear – where a Christmas miracle transmuted a black bear into a sheet of black plastic.  Not sure of any other explanation.

But the real Christmas miracle, it’s below.  Merry Christmas to all.