I am unsure if it is still true, but at one point, Tucson had the more nukes aimed at it than any other place on Earth. The number was something like 32 MIRV buses with 5 bombs on each, for a staggering total of 160 city busters. The reason for this absurd number of bombs is, of course, Davis-Monthan AFB, which is the mothball yard for the Air Force.



There are more serviceable aircraft parked there than there are combat aircraft in any of the worlds Air Forces, including the remainder of the US Air Force so the Russians had it on the Make Damn Good and Sure That These Fuckers Are Dead list.



But it wouldnt really work out that way.



No, what would happen today, should we go at it with the Russians, is that they would ALL miss, land on the wrong side of the Santa Ritas, and blow Sonora all to hell and gone. Why? Because this is Tucson.



Yes, this is Tucson, and even if the world went kaboom, Tucson would survive, because God just isnt kind enough to let us die. You would see Lord Humongous being cuffed up against his souped-up front end loader on the highway, and Wes would be getting a ticket in 3 Points.



And I would still have to go to work. The only difference would be that it would be harder to get parts. Id just leave the survey meter (radiation detector) in my office window, and when it started clicking, Id know that the UPS truck had arrived.



Work has, in fact, kept me so busy for the last few weeks that I simply havent had time for anything else other than getting together with Maria, and seeing my people. For a week, I literally lived in my office. Dont ever do that. Trust The Good Reverend: Even if you have your own bathroom w/shower, it just isnt worth it. You forget whats important, and you never get to tend to your people.



And they are my people. You can tell by the way they all flee at my approach, as if I had the mange. Sure, you COULD say they are simply worried that Id do that Horrible Thing to one of them again, right in public, but the fact is they are clearing the street out of respect for their Rain God. For better or worse, they are my people, and I am their king.



Did Elvis ever have to deal with this crap? With a hideous excuse for a landlord stealing his cactus, and then nailing doors shut, trapping random tenants in their apartments? Did Johnny Cash ever have to deal with a freak like Sister Gothique getting inspiration from all the wrong things, and beating the mortal shit out of her ex-boyfriend in fact, beating him so badly that he moved to California, got fat, and went emo? I am also pretty damn sure that Porter Waggoner never had cops harassing him over trivial complaints from obviously deranged neighbors.



Its like the wheels are falling off. Everything is breaking down, and nobody seems to notice. Even the Mormons are surly (Apparently, they arent receiving the admiration they expected from their efforts in Propositions 8 (CA) and 102 (AZ). Go figure.), and the dirty boys on Grant Road cant be bothered to curb random passers-by. 4th Avenue is a graveyard, and the owners of the sex shops say they may have to close down and find straight jobs. Good luck with that Tucson lost 50,000 jobs in the last 60 days.



Its all spiraling out of control you can sense the desperation in the streets, in the bodegas, and in the alleys where the Snowbirds used to get all weird with the stranger locals. There is no joy in Mudville, and in fact, Mighty Casey has left town (Literally. The Diamondbacks are moving to Reno, the scum-sucking stadium whores that they are.)



So The Good Reverend is quitting Cactus. There. I said it. There is simply too much bad weirdness and depravity to allow your head to go South, even on vacation. You cant turn your back on anyone, these days, and people believe in all the wrong things. Hell, I saw a twenty-something girl the other day with Obama 08 tattooed on her lower back. Oh, Goddammit.



But have no fear The Good Reverend will tell all, as the horrible days grind on in this horrible summer that will never end (Its still in the 80s at noon), so that you may read these strange tidings, and feel really goddamn glad you dont live in the high desert.



Or Kill Me.

