Smokers have a higher rate of death from covid, and in some areas simply breathing the air was like smoking dozens of packs a day.

Its been 80 years, and we still speak ill of the Nazi party, so TB has a few decades to go.

At least it wasn’t 104 degrees out like it had been at the beginning of the week… TB reflected on how every year seems to be hotter than the last- and turned his thermostat down to 65 as he slipped on his threadbare sweater.

With a heavy sigh of resignation he turned on the pale unsatisfying light of his government mandated LED light bulb. The socialist photons brought the uncontrolled chaos of his lair into stark relief- print outs from right-wing blogs littered the table, to the side of the keyboard a well-worn copy of ‘Atlas Shrugged’ laid open, its spine broken, its pages covered with yellow and blue highlighter marks, notes scribbled in the margins. The LED lightbulb represented a victory for the socialist elite against the individualist capitalists that TB worshiped- and despite its radiance, the worn book remained in shadow- as if the collectivist photons recoiled from its worn and stained surface.

With a groan and grunt he reached down to flick the switch to turn on his computer.

As he waits for his weapon to boot up he recites his mantra:

This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.

Without me, my rifle is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true…

He waited a full 2 minutes for his computer to boot up – all the while cursing the fact that he had never gotten around to getting the solid state drive he had always coveted.

Finally, TB clicked the Internet Explorer icon on his Windows 95 desktop and soon was blogging about the fiction of global warming, how it was a liberal hoax to get all of humanity back to an agrarian society under the thumb of the socialists. Occasionally he caught glimpses of the flames encroaching on the distant hills through brief gaps in the orange smoke.

Every day it is the same routine, but he is a man on a mission- he is a lonely keyboard warrior for glorious capitalism. He knows he is the best man for the job- who else can defend so eloquently the necessity of reducing the taxes on the 0.1% that he will never join?

Who else could so easily defend the destruction of the world for future generations- who else could nibble on cookies at the keyboard while slitting the throats of his grandchildren?

With a chuckle he grinned coldly to himself as he called another forum sparring partner a “Buttmonkey asshat” for the 4th time that day. Yes, it is a tough job… but if not me, then who?

Pausing, he took a deep breath of smoky air, and let out a heavy sigh – followed by a minute of deep wracking coughs… and then, his trembling hands dabbing his phlegmy lips with his kerchief, he logged into the comments section of yet another right-wing blog to spend an hour preaching to yet another satanic choir. He had a duty to keep the morale of the troops up, to fan the flames of their outrage, to reinforce the prejudices that fuel them.

Were it not for his volunteer efforts, who would protect and defend the billionaires?

Meanwhile, The flames grew hotter and closer…

TB or not TB, THAT is the question…