Mass Hysteria: Part 0

In a recent post I used the phrase “mass hysteria” in reference to current politics. I was serious.

Everyone (both sides) loses their goddamn mind when politics of the current era come into play so lets step back and look at it from a distance. I aim to quit looking at trees and see the forest.

Ask yourself “if I had a time machine and used it to travel through time and space to a situation of mass hysteria…what would it look like?” Lucky for you that I, a humble blogger and mad scientist, invited you (hypothetically) into my home. “I’ve got a time machine”, I’d say. (You already know this from the saga of Garageneering: Time Travel.)

After a careful inspection by Curmudgeon’s dog you are let in the compound. The Curmudgeon hands you a beer, a pistol, and a first aid kit. (It’s an adventure y’all!) “Lets go.” He says.

“Where are we going?” You might ask excitedly. “A Jimmi Hendrix concert in 1969? A chariot race around 200 AD? Mastodon hunt in 9000 BC?” (The latter said while eyeing some of the larger rifles hanging on the wall.)

“We’re going to midwinter, 1693. Salem.”

“Why?”

“I’ve a mind to experience mass hysteria… for research purposes.” The Curmudgeon notices you scoping out the copious supplies stacked against the walls and waves his hand dismissively. “Forget that crap. You’ve got band aids and a .357. You’ll be fine. This is just a short outing anyway. If anything gets sketchy we’ll just blink out and return here. And for God’s sake leave your smartphone behind… I don’t need any more trouble with the inter-dimensional Illuminati that monitors them.”

“The inter…”

“Forget I said that!” The Curmudgeon interrupts. “That’s classified! Never speak of it again. OK hold still now.”

ZOT!

A sound method for historical research.

Curmudgeon: “OK, here we are.”

It looks less like an idyllic New England town than a Dickens novel. But it doesn’t smell too much like cholera so that’s good news. Everyone looks more pissed off than downtrodden.

Locals: “We’re surrounded by witches. Burn their ass!”

Curmudgeon: “Anyone care to elaborate?”

Locals: “Witches. There are witches everywhere. They’re seriously screwing up our lives!”

Curmudgeon: (Looking around nervously.) “I don’t see any witches. I see a horse, a cow, three dudes with pitchfork, is that a pig in the street?”

Locals: “He denies the witches! He’s in league with Satan. Kill him before he leads us into perdition!”

Poof… With that, the Curmudgeon is back in his basement. “Whew, that escalated quickly.”

Ten minutes later; you appear.

Curmudgeon: “Sorry, I forgot to mention the lag time on the second transponder. Is that tar in your hair?”

Guest: “They were starting to tar and feather me! In just ten minutes I was shouted at, kicked, punched, they started a petition to have me imprisoned, they stole my hat, and one dude farted in my face. What a bunch of maniacs!”

Curmudgeon: “Oops. Well, at least you had a great experience.”

Guest: “You are such a….”

Curmudgeon: (Interrupting.) “Tell ya’ what, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy a nice latte.”

Without waiting for your response he slaps a button on the time machine. ZOT!

Things look much more familiar… though it smells somewhat worse than colonial Salem.

Guest: “Where the hell are we now?”

Curmudgeon: “Early winter. 2018. Portland.” (Glancing around.) “I see a Starbucks right here, a Starbucks over there, a Starbucks across the street, and another Starbucks inside that book store that no longer sells books. Where would you like to get coffee? I’ll pay.”

Guest: “Gee that’s nice. Thanks.” (It’s raining and chilly out. The Curmudgeon hands you a warm hat. You enter the Starbucks. It smells like hemp… and feet. They’re playing Joni Mitchel on a loop tape that’s been run continuously since 1999. A large coffee costs $7. Straws are not yet outlawed but there’s an anti-straw sign over the cream and sugar station.)

Locals: “We’re surrounded by racists. Protest their ass!”

Curmudgeon: “Anyone care to elaborate?”

Locals: “Trump. Trump is everywhere. He’s seriously screwing up our lives! Any minute now he’s going to herd us onto cattle cars and ship us somewhere terrible!”

Curmudgeon: (Looking around nervously.) “Somewhere terrible? A concentration camp?”

Locals: “Worse! Kansas!”

Curmudgeon: “Is that a pig in the street?”

Locals: “MAGA! Unclean. Other him before he leads us into wrongthink!”

You suddenly realize that Curmudgeon has given you a MAGA hat. That jerk! You’re probably not going to die (the mob which forms couldn’t outfight a puppy, much less anyone tough enough to hang out with Curmudgeon) but you’re definitely not getting your latte. You shake your fist at the Curmudgeon but he vanishes.

Ten minutes later you appear in Curmudgeon’s basement. In the tiny gap of just ten minutes you’ve endured a lifetime of schoolyard taunts. It’s still ringing in your ear. You’re a sexist, racists, oppressive, heternormative, white supremacist, rich 1%-er, Nazi, scumbag. You’ve been maced, they’ve thrown coffee in your face, someone trashed the hat, and they posted 63 angry rants on Facebook en masse (all with a Hitler mustache superimposed on your face). Some homeless chick peed on your shoe!

You remember why you never hang out with the Curmudgeon.

The Curmudgeon hands you a glass of bourbon and steeples his hands. “So, what have we learned from this exercise?”