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Written By: F. John Surells

I’m thinking there’s no justification to begin this second installment of “Backyard Nothingness” as I’m now about to. Nonetheless, the fact that I’ll do it in this fashion, most likely in opposition to all standards of worthy prose, probably shouldn’t surprise anyone; and especially not those who’ve read F. John Surells before. And right now, in what I suppose is a sort of outline to this piece (and I hate outlines), I’m visualizing two scenarios; the first is imaginative and never happened (at least to my knowledge), and the second did in fact occur – it happened a few miles outside our city.
When the word consumers first entered the supposedly large room, they had no possibility of knowing what would await or befall them. Oh, they’d heard rumors of course. Behind an ungifted pen (some souvenir pens had recently been given out by the empress of America at a boondoggle taxpayer money wasting ceremony) hid a communicator of diverse personalities. Yes, and sometimes he envisioned lords and commoners undertaking both new and previously enacted roles out on his back lawn. Yet, should he have ever failed to disclose all that those behind the house said and did in conjunction with subjects of importance, then he’d likely have failed those whose lives might have proffered from such disclosure.
But then suddenly an explainer entered that large room from a presumably smaller one and explained that this time the writer had perhaps gone too far. “I fear he’s off the deep end, and I, and perhaps even he himself can’t really deduce now which of these anecdotes are true, or which were merely influenced by the truth. Nevertheless, I’ll now allow the writer to attempt an explanation of these chaotic words. I wonder if he’ll be able to provide it.”
And I answered that explainer by stating I was absolutely sure I’d provide all that needed to be provided. Yet, you know, sometimes these days I find myself worrying that the onset of the 2020’s may feature me as middle-aged, and not necessarily young anymore. And I’m very concerned about the future of the United States of America. Way too many people here can’t realize what’s really happening today. They can’t foresee what life will be like in this land when people whose roots lie south of it become its majority population.
And here’s a quick word for all those who live inward from the two coasts of the U.S.A.: You’d better never allow the electoral college to be abolished, because your basic rights as Americans will most likely disappear with it. You’ll experience a situation then in which the coasts will elect the president (and no matter his or her political party), and that president, along with his or her supporters on the coasts will then “stick it” to all other areas of this nation. And those living with political clout and favor along the two coasts will then enjoy their lives in the California sunshine or New York winter, whilst those living in the inward east, mid-west, inward west, southwest, and south will work to support them.
But meanwhile, now while it’s still legal for us to do so, let’s get to the story portion of the second installment of Backyard Nothingness. I’m assuming the people Rashon Leyf and I came upon that day only a short distance outside our city’s limits should be labelled as protestors or attention–seekers, but maybe both simultaneously. Rashon and I were attempting that day to complete a task for our city’s new mayor George Jennifer. He’d sent us on an automobile journey to a neighboring city (a number of miles from our own) to purchase a certain item (its identity need not be disclosed) for him. And he didn’t tell us why he couldn’t or wouldn’t buy that item in our own city, which led Rashon and I to surmise that either it simply wasn’t sold there, or else was something he didn’t wish to be seen buying there.
Nevertheless, we were on our way to obtain that item when, I’m guessing at a spot somewhere between two and three miles outside our city, we came upon a group of seven people who seemed to be digging a h*** in the ground in the area most adjacent to the roadway. And Rashon, who like myself found this to be somewhat strange, pulled his car off the highway then, and the two of us disembarked, went over by the diggers, and asked why they were engaged in the process of ground removal.
“We’ve heard that the head, and possibly other body parts of Oliver Cromwell, dictator of England during its Interregnum Period, whose corpse was exhumed upon the restoration of the monarchy in 1660, may have, many years later, been transported to this area of the U.S. for disposal of in a foreign land” answered one of the diggers.
“Or who knows,” said another “if we can’t find part or all of Cromwell, maybe we’ll at least unearth some piece of another notable who may have gone missing over the years”!
“But why would you wish to bring back part or all of Cromwell?” asked Rashon.
“Because in these days of phony forthrightness, when all mistakes from the past apparently need to be revisited, and when presidential candidates (even though most of them have been quite successful in wealth accumulation themselves) deride successful Americans because though successful, those types supposedly didn’t care enough about all such other types of mortals who in one way or another either abused, or continue to abuse the freedoms procured by America’s capitalist way of life, we thought that if we prayed really hard to some sort of otherworldly deity, and could prove to that deity that we possessed at least a small part of Cromwell, that deity might then bring Cromwell back to us in a living form; and he could then lead a Puritan movement here in the U.S. just as he had done in England long ago.”
“I wasn’t aware of a new movement toward Puritanism in the U.S.” said Rashon.
“Don’t you keep up with both the real and the fake news broadcasts?” asked one of the diggers.
“Well, I know that every few days it seems another phony investigation surfaces which eventually costs enormous amounts of taxpayer dollars,” answered Rashon.
“Well, see, you are up with the times after all,” said the digger then.
“I guess I am, actually,” said Rashon. “But you know, I think it’s time for us to drive on now. Good luck with your possible exhumations.”
So the diggers bade us a fond farewell then, and Rashon and I drove off to the neighboring city and completed the purchase of the item our mayor had sent us out to secure. Yet, at that time I felt somewhat uneasy about the exchange Rashon had had with the diggers. And I feared what the U.S. would be like should Oliver Cromwell actually be brought back to life, and assume control of the states in America, because I knew he’d no doubt attempt to fashion our land as a Puritan dictatorship then, and under such a type of governmental setting, I feared for the well-being of all liberals and leftists. And as we drove back to the city that day, I informed Rashon of those fears.
“Oh, you know how liberals are” said Rashon. “If they do find themselves ‘found out’ as the orchestrators of disastrous plans, they usually lie their way through or out of any subsequent deleterious effects or investigations caused by anything they may have said or done. And, as we saw in some of their recent campaigns for president, sometimes they throw millions of their own dollars at unobtainable goals, yet then criticize us because we’re not doing enough to end poverty; or, in other cases, their comrades then publicly threaten the highest judicial officials of our land.”

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