Did I join MoveOn.org? Did my mouse click in the wrong spot? I’m a reporter. I don’t join things. What I do know is that if they charge dues, I didn’t join. I didn’t even pay my dues at the AMVETS this year, and they have a bar. I’m not trying to stiff the AMVETS, either. I just forgot to pay, and it’s only $35 a year.
Aside from ethics, the reason why I’m wondering if I accidentally joined MoveOn.org is they sent me an email inviting me to protest the recent actions of President Donald Trump. Maybe they sent it to me because I’m a reporter.
Here’s what they want me to do at this demonstration. They want me to bring pots. They said, “Bring pots.” “Bang pans,” they said. “Honk horns.”
The email press release continues.
“Today’s actions are a form of Cacerolazo, a protest that consists of a group of people banging pots, pans, and utensils that is popular in Latin American countries,” it says.
Which Latin American countries? Are we talking about the Latin American countries where things kinda work, and they have running water more than eight hours a day, or are we talking about Latin American countries where the army runs the government, they pull your toenails off for reading the wrong newspaper, and the money is the size of a horse blanket?
Anyway, who am I, Petey the Peasant? I’m supposed to stand out in the street hitting my wife’s lasagna pan with a stick? People ride inner tubes through the Gulf Stream to get to America just so they can get away from that kind of crap.
I’ve been a reporter long enough to know who is going to attend these events. They’re gonna be loaded with the gray ponytail crowd, and a bunch of kids whose lips can’t form the words, “construction crew.” There will also be a couple dozen people who are very militant about their sexuality, and six people (fahgawdssake) wearing T-shirts with a peace sign on the front.
My wife calls cats “kitties,” and she wears wardrobe items involving sequins, and she thinks these lefties look like weenies.
The sad thing is that I agree with the protesters. I’m a left-wing guy.
I don’t know who is in charge of the left wing in this country, but why is it that every event they organize has the distinct smell of wimpiness? I have a mortgage. I wear a tie to work. If I was ever “playing” at politics, I’m not playing now.
I know this makes me sound like Old Man Grump but, you know what? People like me have most of the jobs in this country; we own most of the houses in this country; we live our lives according to a schedule posted on a wall somewhere. We’re serious people. We have an image to keep up and the image is, “I pay the gas bill on time.”
That’s why Donald Trump won. You could go to one of his rallies without feeling like a complete and total wimp. You could wear a Smith & Wesson T-shirt to those rallies, and no one gave a damn. There were a lot of nice things said about the flag at those rallies, even if Trump didn’t believe anything he said, even if he intended to wrap the flag around a whore.
I want the old-time, 1930s left wing. I want a muscular left wing that’ll bust your head for crossing a pocket line.
That’s American leftism, and it comes from the loading dock and the factory floor, and the poorly paid bottom level of office work, and the bust-your-back roofing crews, and the grease-smeared fast-food kitchens.
Talk to us, because we make the country move, and we can stop it anytime we want. Let us know that, help us remember. Forget the bad hippie theater. Let every workingman and workingwoman in this country demand a union. Strike for higher pay and health care. Stop it all; bring it to a halt. No more motel maids, no more missiles, no more burger and fries at the drive-thru window. We gave peace a chance. Now, let’s fight.