Friday, May 11, 2012

They're Gonna Find Me By GPS

Friends, you all know I have kept my location a secret.

Except for the earliest days of the blog, when I said precisely where I was, putting my address on the hard copy newsletter I sent out to followers, then even having a few of you over for real life visits, I have refused to share details of my location.

I have done this for a couple of reasons: 1) Because I found it's best to maintain a buffer zone between myself and those perverts (like Garrett Al) who would do me harm. And, 2) To keep a certain air of mystery and fascination. The average reader likes that sense of the unknown, thereby more easily allowing fantasies of castles, mountain top chalets, foggy moors, etc., to be the setting for blogs they revere.

Number 1 is my biggest reason, of course, because we actually did have some trouble in the earlier days. And now, with our traffic skyrocketing -- I had over a thousand verified users from Bulgaria just the other day -- the threat is multiplied. If it's true what they say, that Bulgarians are 9 foot tall and mean as hell, it wouldn't take very many of them to overrun me, steal my passwords, etc., and completely obliterate what we share here. Can you imagine how hard this would be to read in Bulgarian?

OK, then, let's get to my other fears. It's not just amateurs I'm worried about, but the authorities. Up till now I haven't worried too much about the authorities. My cousin Roto, being a Republican, assured me that government can't do anything right, and I believed him. But since then I've heard of this thing called "GPS," which government must have worked on with the help of private enterprise, because it does work.

A friend took me for a ride in his car, and in the course of our ride, he showed me how GPS works. And it was frightful. He typed in a few words -- "Red garage on Klinger St. -- and up popped an address and directions. I said, "No way" So I tried it myself, using keywords unique to my address: "Find the willow tree with a hand pump 18 feet to the northeast and from there a maple tree 13 feet to the northwest." Guess what! There was only one GPS result, my place!

Next, I said to leave out the hand pump. "Find the willow tree with a maple tree to its immediate north, between 10 and 30 feet." This time there were three addresses along with mine! Meaning, I'm three times as safe if I get rid of the pump. But not as safe as I'd be if I just cut down the willow tree, the main source of my troubles.

OK, we typed in the business about the willow tree again, the first option, and the car put itself in gear and, solely under its own control, at 80 mph, zipped us straight to my address. It couldn't have taken a more direct path it'd been powered by Flubber! I was aghast! At this point, the sons of bitches -- my readers and the authorities -- would be here in 5 minutes! And all hope lost!

GPS is a terrible thing, mark my words. Men weren't meant to be found, at least I wasn't. I need my privacy. I can't be expected to thrive with my house surrounded by crooked Bulgarians. Nor can I thrive under the incompetent watch of government, those watching me lest I do or say something untoward, offensive, or even criminal. Private enterprise might come to their aid, and, next thing I'd know, they'd arrest me.

Here's what I truly think: GPS is bad!

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