Q Identified?

Saturday mornings I get up early to let the dog out, measure my fasting sugar, dump some special (expensive) medicinal chow in the dog’s bowl, plant a row of treats back to the dog’s bed, and crawl back under the covers to adjust my eye-shade and my bi-pap mask hoping to drift back into the previous juicy confusion of a semi-erotic and occasionally frightening dream state.

Note that although I sleep best in the deepest dark and always with a robust eye-shade, I insist on having a radio playing near my ear throughout the night. I think this started with the simple crystal radios you could buy in the ’50s, radios that required no batteries and tended to look like rocket ships or pastel Sputniks. I would tuck the radio under the edge of my mattress, leaving the tuning rod available for adjusting to my favorite channel. This was the time of XERB, Del Rio, Texas which blasted its strong signal out of towers across the border in Mexico. It was the time of Wolfman Jack and some of the grittiest, bluesiest, inspiring music this side of Tecate.

Nowadays I enjoy the wealth of choices Internet radios provides me but tend to restrict my listening menu to those stations broadcasting what is called Old-Time Radio but which I prefer to call the radio I grew up with.

Most mornings I switch over to the Sexy Liberal broadcast before returning to bed (or sleepily checking my mail while scarfing down a smoked herring or two). But on Saturday there is no Sexy Liberal and HSRPM doesn’t come on until noon so I switch to an uncensored comedy station which provides enough differentiated adult humor to keep me interested even though some repetition is inevitable. I also tend to fall back to sleep so many of the old jokes and naughty bits become the sugar plums of my weekend.

I know I’m probably late to the epiphany, but this morning I listened to a very famous Denis Leary rant and suddenly realized that Q, of QAnon, was not so anon as reported. In fact, Leary provides clear evidence of the chemical origin of the wildest, most unbelievable conspiracy theories embraced by QAnon.

I don’t do illegal drugs anymore. Now I just do the legal drugs. Tonight I’m on NyQuil and Sudafed. Let me tell you something, folks. Forget about cocaine and heroine. All you need is NyQuil and Sudafed. I’m telling you right now, I took the NyQuil five years ago. I just came out of the coma tonight before the fucking show! Claus Vanbulo was standing over my bed going, “Denis, get up! There’s something the matter with Sunny! Hurry up!” I love NyQuil. Man, I love it! I love it. I love it. I love it. It’s the best thing shit ever invented. Isn’t it, huh? I love the name alone. NyQuil – Capitol N, small Y, big fucking Q! I love that fucking Q, don’t you!? What a great advertising idea! Put a huge fucking Q on the box. They’ll get high and stare at it. “The Q is talking to me! The Q is talking to me!”
I love NyQuil, man. Because NyQuil has never changed, man. It’s never changed. All the other medicines are doing that inner-child thing. “we know that there’s a small child inside of you, so now we have grape and cherry and orange flavor.” Not NyQuil! They still have the original green death fucking flavor! You know why!? Because it doesn’t matter what it tastes like! It’s so strong you go, “wheeze Hey this stuff really tastes like..” Bang! Yer in the coma already! “What happened?” “He said tastes like and he went right into the coma, it was unbelievable!” We have reached the point where the over the counter drugs are actually stronger than anything you can buy on the street. It says on the back of the NyQuil box, on the back of the box it says, “May cause drowsiness.” It should say, “Don’t make any fucking plans! Kiss your family and friends goodbye. Say hello to Klaus!” NyQuil, NyQuil, NyQuil, we love you! You giant fucking Q!

I’d like to suggest a friendlier cult based on the much older myth of the soporific benefits of Postum. We could call it PAnon. There is already photographic evidence of nefarious seditious cells plotting to storm the Maxwell House.

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