Edgar Allen Poe: The Perfect Author For Our Times

... particularly his masterpiece, The Masque of the Red Death where a collection of wealthy revelers party like it's 1899 while outside their mansion a horrible plague sweeps the countryside.

I know I've used this metaphor before, many times, but it just keeps coming back to me in so many ways. Dig this interchange about who's got the right skin color.

Then there's this rant about how baseball is racist. Or something like that. I didn't have the energy to watch or read the thing. I skimmed it and then needed to lie down for a while.

In the meantime, the debt is over $60,000 per citizen, heroin use has gone crazy, little girls from "alternative" families are being sexually abused at a 20-1 clip over traditional families and cities like Chicago are experiencing huge increases in crime, just to pick a few things at random.

Notice that, like a plague, these pathologies are unaffected by the color of your skin. Nor do they care about your sexual orientation or how you self-identify your gender.

So party on, Prince Prospero. Let's order another round of drinks and toast race, sexual orientation and, perhaps, global warming climate change.