John Boston | An Uncontrite & Shameless Local SCV Humorist

John Boston

Shame is a devilish word. Its foundation is built upon moral superiority, that the finger-pointer is of higher ethical fiber than the finger-pointee. While a noun, “shame” functions as an action verb, designed to inflict pain. It summons pervasive, nasty and ancient guilt, reminding the target they are failures, even subhuman and abhorrent monsters not deserving to be part of the tribe. 

Recently, I was confronted by a reader uttering a Spanish Inquisition damnation: “Shame on you, Mr. Boston. Shame on you.” I was called out for making fun of liberals. Granted. How hard is that? The victim noted there’s more Democrats than Republicans in our riparian climes. Line of reasoning being like Nazis, Mongol hordes and Michigan State fans, if you’ve got the numbers, you must be right. 

I’m 64 rungs below beggar and rascal. I’ve pointed out the emperor has no clothes. But, sometimes, I share with the addled czar the location of several fine local clothing outlets where said high holy poohbah may purchase clean undies, a handsome Mighty Hart High Indian hoodie and shower flip-flops. I get fists shaken at my face or the always terrifying: “The Ladies Auxiliary Shall Certainly Hear About THIS!!!!!” assurances, delivered with pursed lips and rapid self-air conditioning, paper fans courtesy of Palmdale Mortuary. Once, someone actually tried to crash their truck into my motorcycle (while I was on it) along former Spruce Street. I recognized the lout. He took umbrage about an article I had penned on AYSO soccer. 

I was, and am, against. 

Normally, I let the public and often anonymous “Damn thous!!” and “Hate you to pieces!!” slide. After all. I got my turn on the bully pulpit. It’s only fair to let the 9-inch-forehead crowd and teachers’ unions have their chance at public humiliation, hooray democracy, amen and there you go. But, there was something about that reader’s retort that rubbed me the wrong way. I can’t let it go. I see it across Santa Clarita, across America. Sane people are starting to wake. We’re beyond tired of being bullied, oppressed, pushed, lied to, threatened, silenced, mobbed up and — shamed

“Shame on you, Mr. Boston. Shame on you,” he wrote. Really? Because I’m the guy behind the movement to rank my neighbors along deity preference, skin color and naughty parts? 

Shame on me? Hmph. Yes. I remember now. I’m the one who wants to defund police and free murderers, rapists and window-smashers. Cripes. I almost forgot. I’m the guy in favor of rampant pooping on public sidewalks. After all. It’s Green. Damn me to H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks for criticizing a liberal education system that prides itself on turning little kids against one another, teaching that some kindergartners, like Orwell’s pigs, are more equal than others. How un-vogue am I? It’s my drooling segment of the culture that distributes gay porn in elementary schools. 

Darn me. I must have forgot. I’m the one in a lazy, despicable media who invents phantasmagorical stories about conservatives while hiding the uncountable sins and felonies infiltrating the body of liberalism. I’m the shameful one who created a two-tiered justice system where it’s freedom and medals for people who loot and burn, yet uses the law to torture people bending right. It was me who unleashed the limitless power of constipated government against its citizenry, using the IRS, EPA, FBI, DOJ and a litany of alphabet soup bureaucracies to crush innocents they deem as enemies.  

Sorry, parents, for putting you on The Terrorist List. 

Shame on me for shaking my fist against Critical Race Theory. Trillion-dollar boondoggles. Paying illegal aliens a half-million each for sneaking into the country. The lunacy of open borders. For inarguably the mondo stupidest, most-wasteful and immoral pullout of a war. That would be Afghanistan. Damn my hide for $5-a-gallon gasoline. For now. May curses rain down upon me for the economic literacy of a chimpanzee and  food prices that would make a banana-republic dictator shed tears of pride.  

Shame on me for turning America into “The Hunger Games.” Shame on me for posing as some grinning-out-of-context Friend Of The Planet molding policies that create natural disasters, from droughts to epic fires. Shame on me for the same, tedious lies that the world’s ending in 20 minutes — unless, of course, we hand everything from brains to wallets to an all-inept central government who couldn’t remove a stick of gum from a wrapper and place it in their mouth. 

Gosh. Was that me? The party that invented slavery and racism that calls everyone, even Black people — racists? Punch me in the face in contrite embarrassment for wasting years and hundreds of millions of taxpayer dollars in the most transparent, doltish case of government overthrow with the Russian Hoax debacle. Shame on me for the countless lies, for the ruination of innocent people, for Jussie Smollett, for Harvey Weinstein, for sending two dozen FBI agents to investigate a NASCAR noose that turns out to be a garage door opener. 

Forgetting a list that stretches to Uranus of Democratic operatives of liars, thieves, arsonists, mooncalves, perverts, weenie-waggers, finger-pointers, drug addicts, addled hair-sniffing undie-poopers, cross-dressers, ambulance chasers, self-righteous loudmouths, imbeciles, hypocrites and pearl-clutchers — that’s right.  

Shame. On. Me.  

America is plumb done with walking on eggshells around self-righteous blame artists, afraid that we’re going to offend the family emotional hypochondriac. Enough. We’re tired of biting our tongues. Of “…Let’s Not Bring That Up At The Dinner Table In Front Of So-&-So.” We’re finished being accused by mouth-breathing, self-righteous, “sensitive,” woke, snarky, steamrolling, PC nincompoops who have created a Gordian Knot of perversion, crises and idiocy and who don’t possess a single brain cell of self-reflection. 

Why is it the sentence: “Let me think about that…” is vacant from the liberal mindset? 

Shame on me for satirizing how ridiculous, insane and hurtful your behavior is? Here’s a crazy idea.  

Stop acting ridiculous, insane and hurtful because I guarantee you. 

The sky is about to become dark with cream pies.  

John Boston is a local writer. 

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