Sometimes I imagine the staff of the History Channel engaged in a desperate battle against the conspiracy theorists until, exhausted and surrounded, they barricade themselves in and abandon all hope. I expect one day we’ll find a notebook reading something like, “They have taken the internet. We have barred the front door but cannot hold them for long. The air shakes, static…static on the monitors. We cannot get out. Tin foil rustles in the dark. We cannot get out…they are coming.”
I don’t think my parents realize I can hear their conversations. Earlier my mother did a rude impression of me, but her voice dropped so low that I was tempted to shout back that I’m an alto, not a damned baritone.