What to Worry About Next?

What to worry about next?

It would seem that the coronavirus, the usual stupidity in Washington, and the hijinks occurring in Baton Rouge (and several state capitals near you!), there would be enough on the fearmongers' plates. Well, you could toss in the two major political parties to serve as sources of amusement and network television. 

But no: there's more!

It seems that Orleanians Hilda Walspurgis and Anna Pacquin are stormily indignant over another peril to threaten the peace of proper New Orleans* citizens.

It seems that we now have to worry about 5G!

Okay. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?!

It seems that 5G is the latest development in cellular microwave transmissions. Clearly the next level over 4G, and light years better than 3G.

(Our state of finances could always use a few G's in the ole bank account.)

Anyway, this 5G allegedly causes cancer, autism, even possibly hemorrhoids. Well, I'm exaggerating; but only a little.

Some people always have to have something to fear. I suppose the boogerman looks under the bed each night to see if Chuck Norris is there!, 

Anyway, they went around St. Cletus's Parish neighborhood with a petition to stop 5G. 
Their technique to obtain names was two-pronged, using both the carrot and the stick approach. Anna wore some serious décollété (the carrot, maybe?), and Hilda served up the stick with her doomsday threats.

But, mostly, they got a lot of signatures against 5G so that people would get off their backs. Damned nuisance petition-mongers!

*Pronunciation note: Most natives call it 'New Orlins' in most of the city. Pretentious Uptowners and lousy songwriters say 'New Or-leenz.' Only idiots and sarcastic Yankees call it 'Nawlins.' For true! Darlin, it gets further complicated. New Orlins is in 'Orleenz Parish. So much for consistency being the hobgoblin for small minds.

The Prophetess and Crazy Chester Meet the Fifth Horseman

Well, peeps, you've heard of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: they are commonly reckoned as War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death. Now it happened that Madeline the Prophetess and Crazy Chester ran into a fifth one: Rude Mannered Turistas.

Running into strange sorts is commonplace if you're down in New Orleans's French Quarter in the wee hours of the morning, especially away from the Tourists. New Orleans has always been tolerant of weirdness. Drunks, mischievous youths, and Turistas sporting berets for the duration we can deal with. However, Madeline and Chester ran into a new twist.

It happened innocently enough. Chester and Madeline were talking; just commenting on trivia (both were good at wasting-time talk. And they were talking in the language of Descartes and Pascal.

Oops! Maybe Justin Wilson and Dave Robichaux. Yes, they were using a dialect of French and Louisiana Creole mixture. To be candid, the French as spoken in New Orleans's French Quarter would cause the hoity-toity Parisian to shudder! (They're linguistic purists there.)

And, without any preamble, this loud and brassy middle-aged women approached them and bawled them out:

"This is the United States. Talk English!"

So Crazy Chester goes to Madeline, "The United States? When did this happen?"

"And Madeline replies, "I dunno. Missed that item now that the Picyaune is no longer around." She was alluding to the fact that the T-P was bought out by a Baton Rouge paper (Good Lord!). And everyone knows that there be monsters upriver, on the other side of the Bonnet Carre Spillway, and no one should risk his immortal soul by venturing there.

The rude-mannered visitor decided that those two were psycho.

Thanking the Saints in the Times-Picyaune

The old Times-Picyaune had a delightful quirk that definitely made it part of the scene in Old and Present-Day New Orleans: thanking the saints in the personals section of the classified ads in the T-P. 

No, not the New Orleans Saints football team; the heavenly saintly numbers like in "When the Saints Come Marching In!"

Yes, in the personals you can see the usual:

I am applying for clemency.

I am responsible for no other debts than my own.

I am applying for a license as notary public.

In other words, the usual sort of business that personals ads carry.

But, for many years, the  old Times-Picyaune would also have these peculiar saints ads:

Thanks to the Little Flower for hearing my prayers.

Thanks to St. Jude for favor granted.

Thanks to St. Aloysius for the Saints winning.

Thanks to St. Anthony for answering my prayers.

St. Expedité answered my prayers. Thank you!

Apparently, whatever be the questionable merits of the New York Times or the Washington Post, apparently the Times-Picyaune was celestially home-delivered and had a saintly following.