My fellow Americans ...

 

(Note: This was written under the presumption of a Biden victory. If the reverse happens, well, never mind)

(781 words)

You know, what kind of gets to me?

It kind of gets to me that calling me an idiot — libtard — over policy disagreements just isn’t mean enough.

No, my earnest belief that the top ome percent should pay their fair share in taxes means I belong to a secret cabal that preys on children by drinking their virgin blood all for the glory of my Satanic masters.

Oh, yeah, me and Tom Hanks.

It’s just utter nonsense.

I mean, it’s been years since I bumped into Hanks at one of the meetings.

It was late last night and Val and I were watching the mind-numbing razor-thin vote counts in rural Georgian counties where neither of us will ever set foot when we both blurted out the same sentiment at the same time.

“Can you imagine how much he’d have won by if he’d have just even once been a decent human being?”

Imagine …

“My fellow Americans — and I mean every one of you, red and blue — I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for some of the tweets, the mockery, the incivility and for all those misguided times I seemed to go all buddy-buddy with the white supremacy boys.

“If you give me another chance, I promise I’ll try harder to be a little less divisive. I’ll try to be everyone’s president. I’ll try to be your president. Pinkie promise!”

He wouldn’t have even had to be sincere. Just say something like that and we now know it wouldn’t have been even close.

Trump would be victorious and would be entitled to honestly brag about receiving the most votes in electoral history. He’d have held onto the Senate and expanded GOP seats in the House.

And, you, you Trump supporter you, how would you feel?

You’d be feeling euphoric. You’d feel like dancing a happy jig. And you’d feel like gloating about how guys like me were morbidly morose over the prospect of four more years.

In short, you’d feel like I feel.

And I’m feelin’ pretty good!

See, I don’t really care about the GOP holding onto the Senate, gaining seats in the House or gubernatorial victories in square states out West where they bury all the toxic waste (although I do admit to feeling a little charge anytime I get to type the word “gubernatorial”).

To me it was all about Trump.

You, too, I suspect.

I hate him, hate him for all the reasons you may revel in him. Hated him ever since he mocked that disabled reporter — of course me being a (somewhat) disabled (somewhat) reporter I’m (somewhat) biased.

But know this, my brothers and sisters, I do not hate you — at least not those among you who do not hate women, browns, blacks, Ls, Bs, Gs, Qs, etcs.

Yes, I’m one of those liberals who only hates people who hate. I call it “The Hatred Paradox.”

But as we’ve careened through this most godawful year, one riven with tumult and you mocking me for wearing even a stylish mask, I’ve tried to slice through the bitter din and understand you.

On this mission I have failed. I cannot understand what makes anyone from the party of my proud father support Trump.

The notion gave rise to the nifty line, “The revulsion true Republicans feel at the idea of supporting a man like Trump must be akin to what dying vegetarians feel when they realize they’re about to turn zombie.”

So four years of Trump have bot been without some silver linings.

I may not understand you, but I truly understand we at some point are going to need to understand one another.

I’m friends with and admirers of too many of you to simple dismiss you as a bunch of kooks and bigots. Take for example this one very bright woman who said while there was much she detested about Trump, she was so ardently pro-life her “Catholic guilt” meant she felt compelled to vote for him.

“Besides,” she said, “I can tell Joe Biden has dementia.”

What makes her such a mental health know-it-all?

She’s my neurologist. 

She’s a brain doctor!

It might sound like crazy talk, but I believe we can somehow reconcile our differences. We must.

Because of just at this moment there are 71.6 million Americans like me who are mostly ecstatic that Trump lost. But there are 68 million Americans who are mostly furious that Biden won.

And we’re stuck ‘cause we’re all in this together.

And I don’t mean that in a rah-rah USA! USA! all-in-this-together way.

I mean it like we’re cellmates.

Cellmates in an insane asylum.

Related …

Trump’ in Latrobe & Aunt Milley goes nuts

The giant Trump who ate Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood

Farewell, Sarah, America’s flirt

Trump’s no jackass; he’s under-qualified

Who can help me quit caring so much?

Forget vaccine. America needs giant roofie

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In these times of tumult and vitriol, it’s worth considering the problem-solving traditions of the bonobo monkey, the closest animal relation to me and, yes, you.

In light of that kinship, I request you join me in reading the rest of today’s blog with your clothes shucked and tossed in the corner.

Not wearing clothes — or one would assume condoms — is an evolutionary efficiency for animals that couldn’t keep their pants on even if pants made sense — and pants don’t make sense until until you start needing pockets, which the bonobo won’t need until it begins to vape.

Researchers say the monkeys, which are ruled by old females, are too busy having polygamist group sex to seek the stress-release of a toke.

They have sex to celebrate. They have sex to console. They have sex to reconcile, to heal, to exercise. I figure they must have sex to kill time until it’s time to have sex again.

So where’s all this monkey sex taking place?

The central west African nation called the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Bonobos for Biden!

Actually, it’s unlikely these most contented primates give a hoot about politics.

What would it take to get you to not give hoot? To monkey see, monkey don’t. To go bonobo.

I’m thinking 5 mg of Flunitrazepam ought to do it.

Never heard of it? It’s aka rohypnol with the street names Forget-Me-Drug, Pingus, Lunch Money Drug, Mind-Eraser and …

Roofie!

It has a dark reputation for its use in date rape, which is a shame because it’s beneficial in treating the scourge of insomnia.

But that a few miscreants can use pharmaceuticals for illicit purposes outside prescription instructions is a lament for another day.

This is about how America could use one great big roofie.

See, I was a reporter in the early ’90’s when roofie’s first hit the street. Back then they were known as “hug drugs.”

We could all use a lot less hate and a few more hugs (side effects include heavy petting and could lead to metaphorical monkey sex).

Our curse is to live at a time when many people aren’t truly happy unless they’re truly angry.

We’re so fixated on finding a cure for Covid-19 — at least those of us who believe it’s an actual thing — that no one’s paying any mind to the deadlier as-yet unnamed disease that’s tearing us in two.

One is killing Americans. 

The other is killing America.

Many of us have allowed serious policy differences to usurp our common humanity. We say things on social media that on the playground would earn a punch.

Even if it were deserving, could one half of the nation kill the other half? Some seem intent on finding out.

When even the mundane are deemed worthy of demonization, Hell itself becomes pedestrian.

I’m loathe to be out of (goose) step with so many of my fellow Americans, but I declare myself a conscientious objector.

I object to so much unconscionable behavior.

You can find me strolling through the woods and climbing all the highest trees in search of the perfect banana.

My fear is if more of you don’t join me in this monkey business, we’re all screwed.

Related …

Monkeying around with bananas

Men with tail making monkey out of me

Trump in Latrobe! Aunt Millie goes nuts …

The giant Trump who ate Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

Who can help me quit caring so much?

The true facts on Ukraine

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• The capital of Ukraine is Kyiv.

• The Ukrainian gross national product in 2017 was $112.2 billion (U.S.). It is known as the bread basket of Europe with its chief exports being sunflower and wheat.

• Borsch is the Ukrainian national dish.

• Actress Mila Kunis from “That ‘70s Show” was born in Ukraine and with her family emigrated to the U.S. in 1991 when she was 7.

These are certifiable facts. And certifiable is not to be confused with indisputable; we live in an age when everything’s in dispute. I post them in case you’re ever confronted by an obnoxious partisan and are eager to achieve a sanity preserving dodge to an argument.

This happened to me Friday in Flappers, the second floor Tin Lizzy bar I cherish precisely because of the unlikelihood anyone there will broach current events.

I stopped arguing about President Trump when it dawned on me how it’s impossible to change the minds of the mindless — and I include myself as being among the mindless. Nothing anyone can say will change my opinion from 2011 when I wrote, “Trump’s no jackass; he’s underqualified.”

You, I’m sure understand this.

The guy in Flappers clearly did not. He must have thought if he talked loudly and forcefully enough he’d change every mind in the bar. He’d make preposterous claims then punctuate the dubious statements with, “And that’s a fact,” as if that settled the matter.

And as he went on and on I was surprised to find I didn’t feel contempt, disdain or an unruly urge to smash a potted plant over his head.

I felt pity.

He’s allowed himself to be poisoned by politics. 

More facts:

• Ukraine is home to the world’s second deepest subway station. The Arsenalna station at the Kyiv Metro is 346 feet below ground.

• Ukraine is the world’s second most literate nation on earth. Who’s first? North Korea.

• The second verse in the Ukraine national anthem is:

We will give our souls and bodies for our freedom

And will show that we are, brothers, in the Cossack breed born!

I don’t know if Ukrainian women sing along with all the “brothers” or simply glare at them for the sexist exclusion.

I have friends who are disappointed I don’t take more of a lead role in bashing Trump, hinting that I choose to not do so because “Republicans buy books, too,” a notion attributed to Michael Jordan and his eagerness to sell Nike shoes to anyone with feet. 

I think I’m being more practical than crass. See, I’m good friends with many ardent Trump supporters and see zero benefit to insulting the people who worship where I worship, who fix the brakes on my car or who work within spittin’ distance of my take-out food.

Most of them seem to tolerate me and find my company agreeable enough to continue to sit next to me and enjoy some refreshingly pointless conversation. 

It adds peace to my existence, something the blowhard does not understand. He’s a very unhappy human being whose argumentative priorities ensure contentment will forever elude. 

I’d try to tell him this, but he’s clearly spoiling for a fight — about anything — and I fear he’ll unholster a weapon and ventilate my torso if I were to impart a lesson on the values of homespun hippie happiness.

Still more facts:

• Ukrainian Independence Day is August 24.

• The World Health Organization lists Ukraine as the 6th most bibulous nation on the planet, bibulous being fond of or addicted to alcoholic beverages.

• Ukraine is home to Chernobyl, site of the worst release of manmade toxicity …

Until now.

I see so many people who are so poisoned by partisan politics they’ve made themselves incapable of simple human happiness. 

As it so says in the Book of Proverbs 26:21, “As charcoal to hot embers as wood to fire, so is a quarrelsome man to kindling strife”

Biblical grilling tips!

Not me. I remain hopeful we’ll get through this tumult, that fairness and reason will prevail.

And if I'm wrong I'll still be right.

Because the pessimist, like the optimist, is wrong about 50 percent of the time. The difference? An optimist is cheerful 100 percent of the time.

And that’s a fact.

Well, not really, but you get the point.

Related …

Real trees, fake news & Donald Trump. Really

The giant Trump that ate Mr, Rogers’ Neighborhood

America’s last undecided voter … Me!

The day Trump flew me to LA

Who’ll take on Trump?

Go ahead & build your wall; Americans will still love drugs

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I think one of the most surprising aspects of my life to many of my friends is that I never became what the propaganda films used to call a “dope fiend.”

I don’t do drugs. Never snorted coke, tried LSD or was tempted to stick a needle in a vein.

And I rarely smoke pot. I’ve never even gotten high.

I’ve tried many, many times, but my efforts usually come to an inglorious end when I break down into a coughing fit — red eyes watering, nose running, errant spit sailing from my lips — a literal buzz kill to gaze upon.

I’ve never understood it. I smoke and enjoy robust cigars, but marijuana smoke has always made me gag.

I think maybe it’s God’s way of telling me I don’t need to add to my already ample roster of self-indulgent vices. Or maybe He needs at least one living, breathing example of what I audaciously believe I am becoming:

The last happy drug-free man in America.

I’m thinking of all this because I’ve been invited to do a brief commencement address June 6 for an area high school for troubled youth. And let’s be honest: all youth today — at least the aware ones — are in some way troubled. These are very troubling times.

I laughed when I heard Kentucky Gov. Matt Bevin declare based on an increasing number of snow days our kids are getting soft. 

Soft? I wish it wasn’t so but we’re raising a generation of battle-hardened warriors. Since Sandy Hook in 2012, 438 innocents have been shot in American schools.

We give our graduates diplomas. Hell, we ought to give ‘em combat medals.

Stopping drugs from coming over the border, we’re told, is one of the key reasons we need to build the wall. Because drugs are deadly. Drugs are bad. 

To me, the argument means wall-advocating capitalists have forgotten a key element of basic capitalism and that is …

Americans love drugs!

Trump wants to keep drugs out of the country while many of us, including those who support him, want to keep drugs in a convenient place in case the day needs a little pharmaceutical softening.

You could build a great, big beautiful wall clear up to the jet stream and, guaranteed, people will still crave drugs and die for the high.

Because, yes, drugs are bad, but so is disappointment, loneliness and the death of hope.

I can only guess there’s no real money to be made in finding ways to make people not need drugs, as opposed to depriving them of drugs.

So who’s to blame?

High school commencement speakers!

They urge graduates to strive, to achieve, to succeed.

A test: Ask any nearby youth what he or she wants to be when they grow up. They want to grow up to be doctors, attorneys, engineers, etc. 

Guaranteed, not one of them will say when they grow up they want to be happy.

Author/philosopher Robert Louis Stevenson said, “There is no duty we so underrate as our duty to be happy.”

Being happy is just not part of our national mindset, certainly not the priority that  becoming affluent (good) or obscenely rich (better) is. 

Striving to be Type A is in our DNA. It sets our children up for disappointment, feelings of failure and for some a narcotic escape.

I intend to share my bedrock belief that being happy isn’t as important as always trying to be happy. Happiness can be snatched away. Always trying makes happy a habit.

And, yes, that line is No. 516 in my “Crayons!” deluxe book which I’ll be so heavily referencing many of the graduates will confuse my commencement address for an authorial infomercial. 

What can I say? Selling my books to a captive audience makes me very happy.

I’m sure many of you think I’m hoping my talk will go so well I’ll be besieged with offers to speak at other schools.

No, my hope is that a prestigious school district hears about my message and by unanimous acclaim makes me their 9-to-5 superintendent. 

I’ll promote a program that teaches our children that you don’t have to pursue some Type A occupation to be happy.

You can be like me, an, oh, about a Type M person — that is Type M when he’s between afternoon naps. 

We don’t need yet another generation of youth aspiring to grow up to be attorneys, doctors, politicians, etc.

We need young men and women to aspire to be happy, and to understand that being happy shouldn’t be considered an occupational fluke.

It should be considered an obligation.

Related …

The new “Crayons!” deluxe edition

Greatest American speeches & why mine’s better

“Use All The Crayons!” A 10-star review

Mourning the death of the world’s most cheerful man

Random observations on 'Annie,' book orders, Uber deaths & who we should kill first if we're serious about killing drug dealers

• President Trump’s vow to mete out the death penalty to drug dealers has me thinking of applying to medical school. I sense we’ll soon be in critical need of fresh doctors.

Because this opioid crisis wasn’t instigated by shady dealers in urban allies.

No, this crisis was spearheaded by esteemed doctors and pharmaceutical executives who correctly sensed enormous profit in anesthetizing people who suffered from depression, sleeplessness, lethargy and other side effects of being human.

• I thoroughly enjoyed watching our daughter Josie and her Greater Latrobe High School cast mates perform “Annie” this weekend. I’m grateful to all the performing arts teachers who put in so many long hours helping bestow discipline and poise in our children. It’s acting, yeah, but the skills and confidence these kids earn will help them succeed in many professions. Bravo!

• I feel default terrible about the woman who was run over by driverless Uber and reserve the right to feel less so if it's revealed she was distracted walking when struck.

As a friend of mine pointed out, this robo-car had a designated safety driver on board. It’ll be another sad irony if it is revealed that as the car struck the doomed pedestrian, the safety driver was updating his/her Facebook status to, “I'm riding shotgun in a driverless car!”

• Frontrunner for @8Days2Amish tweet of the month: “The pious nudist will always feel conflicted about becoming a man of the cloth.” 

• Thrilled by all the friends who’ve pre-ordered “Arnold Palmer: Homespun Stories of The King.” This book is already doing so well I’m thinking of including the name “Arnold Palmer” in the title of each subsequent book. 

If this book succeeds the way I hope it will, my career is set. I just have to move in next door to another beloved American icon and spend the next 25 years ingratiating myself. 

• One quibble about “Annie” performance: The starring dog got way too much attention. Apparently the dog, “Sandy,” is a big deal and has performed the role on Broadway. La-de-dah. It’s one of those canines that behaves as if all the real dog has been trained right out of it. It acts like a dog would act if it were controlled by Uber.

Bad example. 

It’s maybe the one time I’d have rather had my stupid dog Snickers instead of a well-behaved dog. Oh, what fun it would have been to see these bright students improvising around the noisy mayhem of Snickers loose on stage.

The only thing more entertaining would be a monkey on roller skates, but that goes without saying. Put a monkey on roller skates in the mix and I’m even subscribing to the ballet.

• I wonder if the Uber car honked the horn before it ran over the woman. Think of all the things self-driving cars won’t need when they ditch human drivers. You won’t need mirrors, headlights, seat belts, fancy dashboards or even steering wheels. The car of the future will be like a rolling living room where we all sit around talking about how cool it used to be when cars were cars.

• I’m grateful to all who’ve shown interest in the “Homespun” book. Special thanks to friends Bob and Diane in Lake Wales, Florida, for ordering 12 books; 6 “Homespun” and 6 a combo of “Crayons” and “Last Baby Boomer.” I’m particularly pleased whenever anyone buys or says something nice about “Boomer.” It gets precisely the kind of reaction writers dream of when they’re working on their first novel. It hasn’t earned a wide readership, but I’m convinced it one day will. It’s my most proud professional achievement. 

• From what I hear from heartless friends, one of the more controversial parts of Trump’s opioid plan is the part that involves saving lives of dying addicts. I know many people who are adamant that we should let overdosing addicts expire rather than bless them with a nasal dose of life-saving Narcan.

One friend said they should get three strikes. “And they should tattoo a big ’N’ on their forehead so the EMTs know when they’ve had their share.”

What if it’s his son? What if it’s me? I don’t care if I wind up with a face full of “Ns” I want you to keep squirting that juice up my nose until I get my life straight or the Pirates endure another two consecutive decades of losing records, whichever comes first.

I advise these people to grow a heart, gain some compassion, to cool it.

I’d say take a chill pill, but I worry chill pills might be gateway drugs to addictions they’re ill-prepared to handle.