Some may point a bony, quivering finger and warn that dire things approach. Fistfights nationwide erupt over open borders, the proper amount of melanin in our epidermal levels, gun control, speech control, mind control and conspiracies up our psychic wazoo. Latte-slurping Chicken Littles run sobbing in circles, giving Earth 12 years before it spins screaming off course into the cosmos, like a wounded breast implant.
Here, in the Santa Clarita, it’s worse.
I’m giving our beige and riparian community three weeks, four tops, before we implode.
Now would be the time to go buy stuff on credit or enjoy unsafe sex.
What went wrong?
The button on this Doomsday Scenario was innocently pushed last week by Scott Wilk, our 21st District state senator. Normally, Scott’s a suspect of stellar character, a hard-working, can-do chap and tireless public servant. But, because of Mr. Wilk’s unspeakable actions, we Santa Claritia-o-nites will have to seek higher ground. Empty our bank accounts. Invest in ammo, fresh water, iodine, more ammo, attack dogs and ammo for the attack dogs.
Dire times await. The end is near. Soon, we’ll have no atmosphere and will have to breathe ginger ale.
It seems last week, Mr. Wilk — which rhymes with “Bilk” — made a presentation to my dear friend and colleague, Signal Editor Tim Whyte. It was an Official Certificate from the Senate of California.
Was this official state declaration for Tim risking life and limb to pluck a boo-boo kitty from a tree?
No. (In fact, I’ve personally witnessed Tim walk past shivering treed kittens, wave a dismissive hand and snarkily yell: “Figure it out, moron!”)
Did Tim invent the next level of male anti-impotence medicine, without the common side effect of hysterical blindness?
Did Mr. Whyte end racism, sexism, cannibalism, obelism, uranism or unwanted tourism in California?
Nope. Tim didn’t.
Scott Wilk gave Tim Whyte — A CANADIAN — an Official State Senate Certificate for being NOT ONLY the “Best Darn Columnist In The Santa Clarita Valley Itself, But In The Entire 21st Senatorial District As Jolly Well.”
I’m standing here.
I should take some comfort that state prisoners on death row crank out these Senate atta-boys/atta-girls/atta-sex-to-be-determined in volumes greater than the Venezuelan monetary unit, the bolivar. These certificates carry about as much value as a leaky 64-ounce jar of birth control at a lesbian convention.
Tim Whyte? Best Columnist in Not Just the SCV, But Parts Beyond? I laugh. First, if you talk to ANY Catholic cardinal, there IS no place beyond the Santa Clarita Valley. A few feet beyond the “Welcome To Santa Clarita!” signs, our borders plunge off great waterfalls and into a Black Yawning Abyss, which is a great band name. This award came as quite a shock to me. Tim Whyte? Best writer? I had no idea Rudyard Kipling died.
Tim’s not the only guy to get one of those fancypants certificates. I once received an award for Best Newspaper Columnist in America, presented to me by Elizabeth Warren. Granted. Liz bequeathed it to me on behalf of the Alliklik Indian Nation. That still counts, doesn’t it?
What’s with Wilk, the only Republican in any elected office in California? You hate to think someone responsible for a $19.6 trillion budget is bad at math.
I can picture Scott sitting in his palatial living room (he lives in the Hart Castle) hand-drawing Tim’s certificate. In crayon.
“Let’s see. Boston’s got 119 major writing awards. Tim’s got 3 (and those were for editing Boston’s columns)…” Like a German shepherd trying to figure out algebra, Wilk’s forehead scrunches up in deep thought. Then he yells into the kitchen: “HONEY!! VANESSA!! HELP ME OUT HERE!! WHICH IS MORE? A HUNNERD-NINETEEN OR THREE!!?? — VANNY-BOODLES??? HONEY? SUGAR PLUM? You there…?”
And I took off a few decades.
It’s not like I’m going to hold this against Scott Wilk.
Maybe I’ll call that cute little Ilhan Omar congresswoman from Minnesota. You know. The one who (allegedly) married her brother? Maybe I can convince Omar to move to Canyon Country and run against Wilk in the 2020 elections.
Best Columnist in the SCV.
I’ll get my revenge.
I could ask my B.F.F., Donald Trump, if he could ask any of his Russian friends to crank out a certificate naming me Best Columnist in the Urals. That’d look dandy, framed, hanging over my desk.
Or, better, I could ask The President if he could ask the Russians to crank out 144.5 million Official Certificates naming every Russian citizen as “Best Columnist In The Santa Clarita Valley,” just so Tim won’t be lonely.
John Boston has been named both best serious and best humorous columnist in North America, the U.S., California and Los Angeles at least a few million times. With more than 1 billion columns, blogs, essays and think pieces, Boston is the most prolific humorist in the history of Earth. Special shout-out goes to Tim (here illegally) for graciously editing this column and not high-sticking anyone.