Canned Heat for breakfast:
‘I’m gonna leave this city, got to get away
All this fussin’ and fightin’ man, you know I sure can’t stay’
Blaska Policy Werkes has relocated its world headquarters from Stately Blaska Manor in stolen-car, woke-out-of-its-mind Madison WI to new digs, far outside the corrupting influence of the progressive Gomorrah. Besides, we’re fresh out of plywood.
Figured we’d ride out Election 2020 in the safety of the verdant Wisconsin countryside where our Second Amendment freedom is embossed on every stop sign. Also until our dispute with City of Madison zoning plays out. (Why would a deer tree stand be illegal in town?)
O.K., no pizza delivery but meat raffles every Saturday at the saloon down the road. Instead of 5G connectivity we settled for 1½ G (love the discount!) and a weekly column in the local Shopper Stopper (“Blaska Vents.”) No cable, but we can still get Miz Vicki on the wireless, so we got that going for us.
Our new site, at least, was not stolen from the Ho-Chunk people, unlike greater Madison. Although, as it turns out, it was stolen from some Norwegian (or so he claims in his property title dispute).
We want to thank Chip and Joanna Gaines for the amazing make-over. We spit beer out through our nose when the Fixer-Uppers pulled aside those panels for the big reveal. Shiplap made out of particle board! Who knew? Had been a Kodak photo kiosk at East Towne Mall.
Ol’ Sparky (our Eisenhower-era mainframe computer) is finally out of the garden shed and in the main building for easier access! It sits on wood pallets scrounged from Menards to protect it from the periodic flooding in the basement. (The mice out here in corn and soybean country must eat well. Gosh, they’re big!)
We’re renting to own from a guy in blue overalls and a white T-shirt — damned if he doesn’t look like Dick Cheney! The gray lab coats live upstairs when they’re on duty and, like the Ghostbusters, slide down the pole when a policy needs writing or a wrong needs righting. (Tanning booths while you wait.)
The indentured servants are roasting a pig with its head still on. (Shaddap, PETA, the damn thing is dead.) The unlettered field hands are fertilizing the creeping charlie for next Spring as they sing their simple folk songs from the Dead Kennedys song book.
For the head groundskeeper, the board of directors set up a cozy trailer out back, next to the stand-alone lavatory. At least until he recovers from the fevers, body aches, and general fatigue. (“I can’t taste my beer!”)
Let us know when it’s safe to return to the Peoples’ Republic. Until then, stop on out. We’re off the main highway, back of the gun range, downwind from the confined animal feeding operation. Drop off a used tire to show your support.
Blaska’s Bottom Line: ‘I’m goin’ to some place, I’ve never been before.’