I think we all agree that a scary percentage of the 320 million people in the United States are what may charitably be called “one quack short of a duck.” Uncharitable bastards, however, still insist on labeling them “one duck short of a quack.”

How many of the 320 million people pacing back and forth between Canada and Mexico are we talking about? One out of five? One out of three? One out of you and little old me? How many of them live on your street, attend your family reunions or have friended you on Facebook?

To clarify, we’re not talking about people reeling from basic emotional upsets like feeling unloved or being certifiably unlovable–which only adds to feelings of being unloved, as does news that they are universally despised (even by relatives, especially M-O-M).

These relatively minor wounds are simply the price you pay for the joy of being alive and wishing you were dead. What we’re talking about here is what you get when you combine ignorance with flammables, i.e., whackos, loons and nutjobs.

There are people working for The U.S. Senseless Bureau whose job is to count nothing but nutjobs. And by nutjobs, I don’t mean harmless whack-a-doodles like Uncle Louie who is always ready to play the entire 1812 Overture on his fold-up, travel tuba, completely unprovoked.

For future reference, then, The Senseless Bureau defines a nutjob as anyone who:

• Enters politics.

• Enters politics to solve problems.

• Enters politics with only one hand out.

• Belongs to the TNT-of-the-month-club.

• Has resigned from the human race.

• Has been fired from the human race.

• Hasn’t showered or bathed since learning that God doesn’t care who wins any given football game.

• Looks over their shoulder every five minutes in fear of being followed by a Catholic, a Protestant, a Jew, a Muslim, John Travolta, a Democrat, a Whig, a white mime, a red mime, a black mime, a green mime, a blabbermime, a birdman, a dogman (possibly just a man in fringe), Hodor of Winterfell, a bearded man in a sleeveless sweater and no pants, an LGBT* married to another LGBT, as in L to L, G to G, B and/or T to B and/or T and vice-versa, but not exclusive of L or G and sometimes Y and W—and certainly not in the eyes of God, Yahweh, Apollo, Zeus, Mars, Snickers, Romulus, Remus, Uncle Remus, Aunt Remus, the Velveteen Rabbit or Mr. Big. But don’t quote me.

• Thinks everybody on the planet but them is a nutjob.

• Has a forehead tattoo that says “Do Not Lobotomize.”

• The Not is tattooed in boldface italics and underscored.

• Talks about when he was nearly killed in a helicopter crash in Iraq. Or maybe that was someone else in a different helicopter. (You been in one, you been in them all.)

• Has the markings and personality of a feral eggplant.

• Has written a dark manifesto, a raving screed and a cute limerick about a man from Nantucket.

• Says things like “My right to give a free speech is pre-paid, so I don’t have to worry about the bill of rights or leaving a tip.”

• Triggers a burglar alarm when breaking into song and dance.

• Marches to the beat of his own drummer, a scrawny guy working his way through embalming school who has never been formally trained on the drum but lied about it on his resume.

• Pulls the wings off of airplanes.

• Is often mistaken for Mr. Peanut.

• Is Mr. Peanut.

*Larry’s Got Basketball Tickets

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2015, all rights reserved.