The U.S. Postal Service is running a covert operation called Internet Covert Operations Program (iCop,) which tracks and collects social media posts.

Using Clearview AI’s facial recognition database and Zignal Labs’ real-time keyword search software, investigators look for what documents describe as “inflammatory” postings. Then that information is shared with other government agencies.

“Analysts with the United States Postal Inspection Service Internet Covert Operations Program monitored significant activity regarding planned protests occurring internationally and domestically on March 20, 2021,” reads a March 16 government bulletin, marked as “law enforcement sensitive” and distributed through the Department of Homeland Security. “Locations and times have been identified for these protests, which are being distributed online across multiple social media platforms, to include right-wing leaning Parler and Telegram accounts.”

It begins with the USPS’ “Informed Delivery.” The app allows you to see what has been delivered to your mailbox by photographing the envelopes and packages, then sending them via text to your device.

By consenting to the use of this benign-looking app, it can, with an algorithm, alert inspectors to whatever “threat” they are searching.

Say you receive a mailer from the National Rifle Association (NRA.) You will be flagged and subjected to a warrantless search because you “consented” to using the “Informed Delivery” app.

The NRA is used here for demonstration purposes only because federal documents do not mention left-leaning organizations like Antifa or Black Lives Matter.

“NV Energy is urging its electric customers in both northern and southern Nevada to conserve electricity today and tomorrow between 6 and 9 p.m. in order to offset energy supply issues caused by record-breaking heat and wildfires affecting electric transmission lines throughout the western United States,” reads the press release.

It goes on to offer measures to conserve energy during this period include:

• Turn off lights.
• Turn off pool pumps.
• Unplug appliances, not in use.
• Avoid using large electrical appliances such as dishwashers, washing machines, and electric clothes dryers.
• Adjust the thermostat to 78 degrees or higher to reduce the use of air conditioning during this time, barring any medical issues, and use ceiling fans to cool people and pets. Pre-cool your home before 6 p.m.
• Keep the refrigerator and freezer closed as much as possible.
• Draw curtains, shades, or blinds to keep out the heat.
• Do not charge electric vehicles between 6 and 9 p.m.

Does anyone besides myself remember when the U.S. was considered the most prosperous nation in the world?

My Cousin Elmo says, “It’s July and over 100 degrees, so Walmart should be putting the Christmas stuff out any day now.”

A Washoe County, Nevada, School District counselor is in jail for possessing child pornography. Investigators found more than 250 suspected images and videos of child pornography in emails and electronic devices that Tyler Quinn Ball-Imdahl, 26, owned.

If guilty, he deserves everything that the justice system throws at him. However, I cannot tell which is scarier — a pedophile or the loss of liberty.

Buried in the same story is that Yahoo reported the man to authorities that he received emails with intimate images of juvenile males. Yahoo is searching his email, invading his privacy.

“Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety,” wrote Benjamin Franklin.

And claiming that the accused said yes to a user agreement is bogus because these so-called agreements are no agreement at all. After all, if you say no, you cannot use the platform. It is akin to saying you cannot use the road in front of your home because you disagree with paying taxes on that road.

We no longer live in a free nation. And it is only a matter of time before tech companies begin turning their algorithms on those critical of the U.S. Government, calling it “radical” and a danger to national security.

But then again, Facebook trolls are already online warning you not to think for yourself and how to identify and report people who are “radicalizing.”

In a better world, Jamison would not have been ‘off.’ But a traumatic brain injury received in Iraq had brought him to this point in his life if life is what one could call it.

When it began, he couldn’t remember. All Jamison knew was that hiding under the brilliant white sheet made him feel better.

And that’s how he moved around the house. He had cut-outs for his eyes and socks on his perpetually freezing feet, another oddity from the blast of the improvised explosive that discharged, killing nearly everyone in the Humvee.

Quietly he moved from room to room doing odds and ends. Other times he could be found standing at the window of his bedroom looking out at the rope swing he and his children once played on.

It was at the window where he first saw the other, a white sheet-clad person, like him, standing in their window some one-hundred feet away. The figure waved at him. Obligingly, Jamison returned the wave before turning away.

For the next two days, he didn’t see the person in the window. Then on the third, they were back.

Jamison smiled. He realized that it had been a long time since he’d last smiled or even had a reason to.

It was the fourth day when everything changed. He watched as the sheet-clad figure slowly slid the white cloth from themselves.

Horrified, Jamison jumped back from the window and quickly drew the blinds. Shaken by what he’d seen, he sat on the end of his bed, only to find himself awaking under the blankets the following day.

As he laid there, he thought. Soon, and without the security of his sheet, he walked into the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror, something he had not done in a long time.

Again, horror overcame him, but this time he stood his ground against shrinking away. He knew he had to face the truth, that, like the old lady across the yard in the other house, he too was dead.

The white-washed hallway stank of antiseptic. Despite the overpowering stench, Owen could also smell the metallic odor of blood beneath the facade of cleanliness.

Ahead of him was a double door, and Owen had an idea of the sort of horror he might find beyond it. When he reached the door and opened it, he was not surprised.

The trio gathered around a patient strapped to an operating table, a light illuminating their surgery. It took them a moment to realize Owen was there, and it took him less time to see the patient was a distorted version of himself.

Owen fired his revolver.

The doctor went spinning back, half his head missing as blood, brains, and bone sprayed on the nurse closest to him. She collapsed in a heap as a slug caught her in the throat, partially decapitated her.

The other nurse escaped through a side door.

Owen’s gun continued to bark, and within moments, he alone. He pulled the ring free of the old M34 white phosphorus grenade and stuffed it carefully in the mouth of his growling doppelganger.

The smell of burning flesh, mingled with the “willie pete,” filled the air, driving Owen from the room.

It was a simple three-story one-room walk-up with a small interior bathroom. Terry Sutherland had lived there for nearly a decade.

He was comfortable with his batting-stuffed bed, an oversized wingback chair, a few old books, and an antique clock. He did not have a kitchen in his room.

Terry’s life was simple. His clothes hung in a narrow closet built into the wall along the narrow hall to the “water closet,” which consisted of a small sink and toilet.

He kept his life uncluttered out of necessity, as his obsessive-compulsive disorder could get out of hand. And he no longer had access to the medication he once used to control his condition.

As of late, however, the old mechanical clock was giving him fits. Five times since mid-June, it had fallen behind by a minute and no longer synched up with his pocket watch.

He recalibrated the two to match, only to wake up and find it had slipped back by that minute.

“What in the hell?” Terry said after getting up.

Once again, the clock was a minute off. After resetting it, Terry showered, dressed, ate the biscuit he purchased the day before, before leaving for the factory.

There he was considered an enterprising, clever, and hard-working man. Recently, Terry had earned a small raise after showing his inventiveness in repairing a faulty light switch in his boss’ private office.

Down the three flights of stairs, he walked to the front door. The knob rattled noisily in his hand as he twisted it and opened the door.

Beyond the threshold, it was still 1921, and still, he found himself trapped in the time loop. He had hated his life before, but other than the problem of the wind-up clock, his new life was perfect.

My Cousin Elmo says, “If I had a dollar bill for every woman who found me unattractive, I’d have enough money that every woman would find me attractive.”

Not once have I posted a story to this blog about an unknown person, save for a historical figure. However, while researching a news article for Dayton, Nev., I found this obituary from Fort Dodge, Iowa, newspaper, “The Messenger.”

I decided to only post a snippet of the obituary before I quickly don’t explain why I find it fascinating…

“Edith Ruth Bloomquist, 98, of Nevada, and formerly of Dayton, went home to be with her Savior on June 30, 2021. This is also the date, June 30, she married Paul Bloomquist in 1945.

Edith was born on her family farm south of Fort Dodge on April 16, 1923, to Anna (Jondle) and Laddie Fiala. Edith graduated from Otho High School in 1941, attended Iowa State Teacher’s College, in Cedar Falls, and then taught country school at Elkhorn #5 for three years.”

My dad was born in Fort Dodge, Iowa, like Mrs. Bloomquist, and Dayton, Nev. is part of my primary beat as a news reporter. These two facts simply moved me demonstrating how the world has become such a small place nowadays, and I have to wonder if perchance they knew one another.

Many condolences to Mrs. Bloomquist’s loved ones.

“You’re the rudest motherfucker ever,” Mr. Black said to Mr. Pink.

“Why?” Pink asked, “Because I said what everyone was think, but didn’t have the guts to say?”

They were sitting outside, talking, enjoying beers, the night filled with glittering stars and a waning half-moon. It was Mr. Green that started the conversation.

“Have any of you seen the movie ‘Inglorious Bastards,’ by Quentin Tarantino?” he asked.

Some of us had, some had not. Black hadn’t.

“That movie gets me,” Green added, “After all, I’m the son of Polish-Jews who survived the Nazi death camps. Makes me wonder where he gets his ideas.”

“I can tell you,” Pink said.

“No you can’t,” Green said. “He doesn’t even know where he comes up with some the shit, himself.”

“What was the story you were telling us before you changed the subject?” Black asked.

“You mean about exterminating ground squirrels?” he said.

“Yeah,” Pink said.

“What about it?” Green said.

“You have a six-million dollar contract to kill them,” Pink said, adding, “How do you kill them again?”

“Dude,” Black said, “You ain’t going there, are you?”

Pink ignored him.

“We capture them in cages,” Green responded. “Then we empty the cages into what amounts to a garbage can, put the lid on it, and hook the can up to the exhaust pipe on one of our service trucks and gas them.”

“There you go,” Pink said.

“There I go what?” he asked.

“You’re a Polish-Jew that uses the same friggin’ method of killing squirrels that the Nazis used on your people,” Pink said. “Where do you think you got your idea?”

“Man, that’s some heavy shit,” Green said.

“Your jus’ like Quentin Tarantino  and you don’t even effing know it,” Mr. Pink said.

“Wow, thanks for the compliment,” Mr. Green said.

That’s when Mr. Black chimed in, “You’re the rudest motherfucker ever.”