My garage has been invaded by wasps.

No, not White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. I’m talking about the yellow, nasty, angry, stinging flying, scare-the-pants-off-of-you mean arsed bugs.

At first, there was just one or two of the stray little buggers that I swatted away and basically applied the maxim of “you live your life and I’ll live mine, buddy” to.

Then I noticed that one or two became a swarm. An angry, attacking, make-you-run-like-heck-to-get-to-the-truck-before-you-get-stung mob.

Seems the one or two that I ignored decided that I was no threat and they put out an invitation to their bug buddies to come on over and build a nest in an out of the way place on an eave that I never paid much attention to. Because running for my life in spike heels is generally not a successful venture, I was left with two options:

1). Move.

2). Invest in some wasp killer spray.

(Author’s note: if we were talking spiders here, the only option would be “carefully grab a tissue and burn the entire house down”).

I chose option 2 and, because I’m a woman and I actually read the freaking instructions, I learned the most effective method to rid my haven of the buzzing interlopers.

First: Stand a safe distance from the nest and keep the wind at your back.

Second: Spray until nest is thoroughly saturated to get rid of the entire nest population.

Three: Exit area immediately.

Four: Wait at least 24 hours before removing the nest because the poison that was sprayed will also destroy any other late arriving wasps who decide to show up to the nest area.

And, oh heck yes, this is going to be one of my famous analogies.

We heard some buzzing. We ignored it. The angry mob of stinging buzzers grew and grew.

It would be one thing if this was just a group of honeybees that had been pushed too far. This is a swarm of some of the most virulent racist haters in the country.

They had nothing to do with conservatism – they only wanted to burn the party down. The Comboverlord is merely their chosen vehicle to achieve that goal.

And that angry mob is hell bent on making us move from our “home”. They’ve set up their nests and they will swarm and attack us in a heartbeat when all we want to do is get in the damned truck and drive.

Hopefully, those of us who are rock solid conservatives are standing together at a safe distance, and we will realize that we do indeed have the wind at our backs.

As someone tweeted the other day, they threw us off the ship and set us adrift in lifeboats thinking they were punishing us. We just have a good vantage point to watch their boat capsize.

If we’re not going to move and start a new party, then what we need to do now is to find something (anything) to get rid of the entire nest – AND to poison the nest so that any future interloper doesn’t try to attach themselves to our garage ever again.

It would seem to me that the only way to get rid of tyrants and buzzing stinging pests is to destroy them thoroughly.

The fascist dreams of Italy and Germany were only thwarted after being soundly trounced in war. The Asian-Pacific domination plans of Japan were stopped by a noisy atomic delivery to two cities.

Defeat is a mighty potent inducement.

I don’t know exactly what it’s going to take, but in my mind, the only way to stop this virulent swarm is to make sure they lose.

Soundly.

Ignominiously.

Decisively.

And we must tar those who enabled him in politics as well as in the once-conservative media with the stain of supporting a fraud and make damned sure that they are never allowed back in our garage.

The wind’s at our back, peeps.

Oh, and I’ve already called the tar-and-feather concession, so don’t step on my turf. Pitchforks and torches are still up for grabs, though.

I began drafting this while sitting in the critical care ICU waiting room as my husband is valiantly battling to stay alive.

Back at the hacienda, I have a few moments between hospital races to put this in some semblance of order, so please excuse any sloppy editing.

The problem facing my husband of 22 years (23 next month, God willing), is that all of his major organs are trying to shut down. The emergency trip to the hospital was the result of the effects of peritonitis (an accumulation of toxic fluid in his abdomen). A team of incredible specialists are throwing everything at it except the kitchen sink (and that may be next), and they are working in tandem to halt the symptoms and battle the root cause(s).

First line of defense: Antibiotics to kill the poison.

Second line: Drain the toxic fluid.

Third line: cleanse the bloodstream and try to improve the blood flow from a weakened heart that’s been under attack for years.

The poison that is attempting to murder my spouse has been festering for a while. It started innocuously – a bit of discomfort, a pain or two, but nothing that screamed out with fury or intensity until Wednesday evening. Unbeknownst to him (and to us, really), it was also systematically attacking his immune system, his heart, his kidneys and his liver. All are in acute failure at this moment.

(You all know I’m going to get political here because these allegories pretty much write themselves.)

Like the anger that has infected our country over, really, the last decade – this insidious poison crept in – a bit at a time. One small outrage on top of another finally hit a boiling point.

Unfortunately, there is no antibiotic to kill the corrupting, festering substance that is feeding off of the ire of hardworking people in this country. I’m watching race pitted against race, class against class, and a once proud nation being ripped asunder by charlatans who are only stoking the rage for their own political gain. The toxic fluid will not be drained from our society as long as the hate peddlers stand to make a profit off it. And I fear that the weakened heart of America, much like my husband’s, could possibly stop beating.

Before you say “But, Judianna – we have a right to be angry!” – yes, you do. Yes you have every right to let the anger turn into hatred and poison your relationships. It’s your life. For the time being, at least, you can still decide what’s most important to you.

In fact, H-E-Double-Toothpicks, I’m angry too.

I’m angry at the scumbags who are planning to kill our freedom as surely as this illness is trying to kill my husband.

I’m angry at the professional liars in the media and in government who have figured out that they can manipulate your emotions and cause you to lose your sense of self while joining the pitchforks and torches crowd. (On both sides). They know that no matter the outcome, they’ll still have their cushy jobs, their ratings, their paychecks – and meanwhile your lives won’t be one whit better.

I’m angry at those who’ve compromised their values and integrity and demand or assume that I will compromise mine.

But you know what I’m most angry at?

The poison and the still undefined disease process that’s threatening to take my husband from me.

Every four or eight years, we’re warned that “this will be the most important election in our lifetime”. The winner of this election will, according to the fear mongers, either take away all of our God given rights or, I don’t know – lower the oceans or something. Their predecessor (per the rumor mills) is always a nefarious step away from declaring martial law and stopping the elections

And yet, every four or eight years, there’s an orderly change of power. For all the new regulations imposed by whatever party is in charge, there’s an Uber, there are congressional and senatorial elections, there are people calling their congress critters. It will ever be thus.

Yes, I’ll still jump on Twitter and criticize the Emperor Hiro Cheeto – it’s good therapy for me, actually. And yes, I’ll use social media to roundly pan any politician that I deem hypocritical.

But, what’s NOT on my top worry list:

The elections.

The government.

The media’s chosen candidates.

The latest salacious gossip about who is having a vanity fight with whom.

What is important:

My husband

My family

My friends

My two dachshunds that kissed away my tears when I finally allowed myself to break down last night.

What I’m grateful for:

The heroes that have emerged in the new media to speak truth to power

One of the top hospitals in the nation who is taking tender loving care of my man

The best medical system in the known world

The freedom I have to write and share my thoughts with you gentle readers.

And especially, all of you who have rallied to support me with your good wishes and your prayers.

From my heart to yours, thank you.