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COMMENTARY BY WILLIAM CARTER: Rise of the Lizard People

“There is a secret cabal of lizard people – allied with high-ranking, U.S. government officials – who are setting the agenda regarding the direction of this country,” the very sincere man on the radio declares as I drive my regular, meandering route to work well before the sun comes up while most people sleep.

The host, practiced at stroking and evoking the best from his guests, murmurs words of encouragement followed by a question and the sincere man explains that while the lizard people defi nitely do not look like the rest of us – they are, after all, lizard people - they are true masters of disguise and could very well be masquerading as our neighbors and our preachers and our Mapco attendants and, yes, even our spouses.

A scoff escapes the back of my throat but not before, I admit, I pause ever so briefl y to consider whether or not I’d ever heard Love-Weasel express a hankering for a handful of crickets or witnessed her hungry eye linger on any fly that ever flew by.

Late night/early morning conspiracy theory AM radio – sprinkled with a little Glenn Beck every now and then for the flavor of true lunacy – is part of my routine and I don’t know why except to surmise I’m addicted to the self-satisfaction I feel hearing proof spilling from the speakers that I – just as I always suspected – am really and truly much more sane than a whole lot of other people in the world. I turn left on to a long stretch of new road on the north side of town and see my buddy the skunk – as I do every morning at this time – grazing for grubs in the middle of the median and I slow to a crawl and the window goes down.

“Heeey, buddy!” I call out and the skunk lifts his chin in greeting.

“S’up,” he replies and I think about how much cooler it would be if he was wearing a hat.

Further down the road the radio show host takes calls from listeners and a reedy voice insists there is proof in the Bible – if you account for 2,000 years of sloppy translation – that three of the Apostles were lizard people.

I scoff some more and while I’m scoffing – it’s a long scoff – I approach the I-65 overpass and begin to sing the secret song inside my head that must be sung whenever I traverse bridges or overpasses to prevent the Earth from reversing its rotation.

“My Mama’s cousin was married to a lizard person” another caller claims, “and she said she didn’t care who knew it because you couldn’t ask for a better husband.” I laugh outright.

“Where do these lunatics come from?” I mutter as I add up the numbers on the license plate on the car in front of me because – wouldn’t you know it? –the plate also contains the letter “H.” The total is more than seven but less than 13, alleviating the need to sing the secret bridge song backwards and at double the speed.

“There is a very, I repeat, a very real difference between lizard people and the Reptilians and you mistake one for the other at your peril”, the man on the radio warns.

I am alarmed but it doesn’t last because I pass Kroger’s on my left and am reminded to begin a letter writing campaign regarding the use of the word “milk” on cartons of almond milk when the proper term should, obviously, be “juice” and the same applies to soy milk, too, and using the word “milk” is just an outright lie and kind of gross and, also, I bought a bag of Cracker Jack in the there the other day and the “prize” was a little book all about the history of the No. 2 pencil and that made me spend the rest of the day wondering about the history of other things with numbers on them which was probably the intention of the Cracker Jack people all along to divert my attention away from the fact I didn’t get a temporary tattoo.

“Join us tomorrow night for an update and a discussion on the on-going search for Sasquatch,” the radio host teases seconds before I switch the truck off and enter the shop, wondering what it’s like to be as crazy as the folks on the radio.

I miscount the steps leading up to my office and have to go back down and start all over again because, if I don’t, somebody might die.

Thank God it’s up to sane people like me to keep the rest of y’all safe. William Carter is a longtime Franklin city employee and published author. He may be contacted at wcaterfranklin@aol.com.
 

Posted on: 4/19/2013

 
 

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