The Sermon From The Swing.

October 12th, 2026

The autumn bite feels like theater. Phony, to put it in Caulfield terms. Half-assed; very Dallas.

I can’t help but feel like it’s stealthily eyeballing me from around the corner, just dying to throw another triple digit day at us. Gen X: remember when your grandparents always gifted you some type of jacket at Christmas? I’m talking to the north Texans here; mostly. They’d get you a new one every year because you’d worn the damned thing out by then. Wasn’t it consistently colder for longer periods of time, or am I just nostalgic for New England winters?

After a while, the jackets filled the closet, never worn, and donated; which is valiant by proxy for your most definitely deceased grandparents.

Now, we live in a scorching wasteland, painted to look progressive, across the face of the planet, roasting alive and arguing over gas. It’s Mad Max minus the bomb, so far. Like, imagine those fake old west towns along Interstate’s 10 and 40 that hide awesome gift shops? For intergalactic tourists cruising by on the space highway, that’s what we look like. I wouldn’t speak to us either.

But what if…

What if the penalty for detonating a nuclear-powered weapon by intergalactic rules is that the aggressor slow-cooks over decades? The caller is in the house! This is why aliens won’t speak to us. We’re probably food for a future interplanetary banquet; we’re just not quite done yet. I mean, do you talk to the turkey as it roasts on human-Thanksgiving? Of course you don’t, unless you’re twisted. I need friends like you.

Regardless of the weather, I suggested to my family that I wanted to celebrate a traditional Christmas this year. Nothing religious themed, but the whole Rockwell thing. I have a strong feeling that 2027 is going to be what my coat-wielding grandparents would say was a humdinger.

A massive change in life on this planet. A farewell to what we knew. It’s not a prediction; just a hunch. The tyrants have painted themselves into a corner. They’re in drastic mode. What else are they going to do? I could probably name 100 movies, or moments in history, to remind us of what happens next.

We’ve been living in World War III since the Ukrainian invasion; it just won’t be referred to as such until it’s taught in history classes.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. The covfefe cup runneth dry and the neighbors are beginning to speak to me. Ack!

The Reverend has left the bubble…

Also, the kid has installed AI into one of his old robot toys via a raspberry pi thingy and some sh*t he learned on his home planet. It’s now rolling around the house while solving complex mathematical equations out loud. It’s like living on the set of Big Bang Theory, only I’m the butler. If I were a sitcom writer, and I’m not, this would be a spinoff where Elliott and ET grew up and went to college.

I love it. Just don’t tell him. The kid, I mean. ET already knows everything.

My continuing therapy is leading me back to a more pre-stroke era of writing. A thing I enjoyed rather than something sharp or weaponized. Something I did for love of the craft rather than agents and signings and podcasts and conferences. I’m not saying those were bad things, I just don’t believe they were meant for me. My words weren’t destined for fantastical flings of fiction. They were/are witty pokes and personal references to help the masses think outside the box. I got caught up in the chase for all that other bullsh*t…and here we are.

I’ll go ahead and take the blame for our current predicament. Guilt swallowed. Now, let’s roll. Taking a decade to see how the other half of the writing community wallows in filth and riches may only strengthen my resolve. Kind of like how Palpatine blamed his face disfiguration on the Jedi attack. He wasn’t all that cute to begin with.