When my girl was little, she was worried to the beeheebies about attending third grade the next day. I’m blessed. Indy got/gets into as much trouble as a nun in confession. But, this one evening, she was worried and wanted my advice.
Dear and fellow parents. Remember those halcyon days? When our kids were small enough to ask for things, like advice, direction and bedtime stories?
I spoke of polar bears.
As we sat in the living room, fireplace blazing, I told her to close her eyes and imagine sitting at her desk. Then, I told her to picture the classroom door opening and a huge polar bear padding in to stand a foot away from her. She squirmed. And smiled. I suggested she add details, like the fishy smell of the beast, the huffing sound of its breathing, the wetness of its nose, the yellow teeth, black dots on the tongue, the disinterested death stare. Then, wearily, it laid down, right next to her. She could feel part of its weight on her pink Converse tennis shoes. A moment later, the door opened. Another bear entered. Then another. Then another. Soon, the class was wall-to-wall with polar bears.
“And all those white, Arctic bruins, filling your classroom, are 100% as real as the fear that you’re feeling, are welcoming into your heart,” I told my girl. “You, and you alone, have the power to add polar bears. Or, remove them. Which will it be?”
And drat. That lesson shared with my sweet baby girl (who is now a junior in college) returns. Now, it’s me who must herd polar bears.
My head is awash with denizens of the Arctic Circle. Urus maritimus dutifully trots between ear and ear, except the hypercarnivorous species is in the form of Democrats. First one. Then two. Then dozens. My problem in these waking sidesteps into insanity is that I have no intention of running from the predator. No. I want to fight. I’m going to take a shovel — and not a healthy, Made In America steel trench digger but one of those sissy Walmart folding “outdoors” shovels that weigh 4 ounces and are made of tinfoil. With a mighty swing-for-the-fences blow, in my dreams, I’m going to whack the polar bear/Democrat on the nose.
The problem with fear and fantasy? They tend to reproduce. Logarithmically.
I cannot watch a White House press briefing anymore. Reason? Karine Jean-Pierre, the press secretary. She is smug. Self-righteous. A liar on the quarter-minute. A bully. An imbecile of Homeric proportions. Pompous. Patronizing. A booger-eating moron. I’d pay HBO-Premium rates to see KJP unceremoniously stuffed into a plastic doggie-park-presents baggie, add one of those little wire twist-ties attached to the end, classify the package as “Space Debris” then launch it toward Pluto via one of those Wile E. Coyote rockets, except the good kind that actually works.
The California Reparations Task Force? The advisory board whose pouting demeanor precedes them by a quarter of an hour and recently recommended that the state’s Black population — each — be paid up to $1.2 million? While I ask myself how many stupid sandwiches has the panel of useless liberals been eating, I’m actually in favor of the proposal. I have many friends of that ethnicity from whom, during the giddy moment, I could borrow a wheelbarrow full of money.
I mean, I’ve always disagreed with the opposing political camp. But Joe Biden? The international organized crime figure? The hair-sniffing, child-rubbing, race-baiting, American dictator? The one who is outlawing gas stoves, air conditioning, cars, elections, Mr. Pro-Poop-On-The-Streets? Open Borders Joe? Pal of the Taliban? Mr. Destroy One Perfectly Good Civilization? The one who really deserves to be brought up on charges that are not just impeachable, but possible, overtly treasonous?
I can’t even say I get mad at the guy. For 50-plus years, Joe’s been D.C.’s Village Idiot. Washingtonians have gone on record, noting if there’s a path to screw something up, Joe’s the one to blaze it. He’s been wrong on everything except which side of the ice cream cone to eat first.
I’m more upset with the media. I can’t fathom why they protect Joe’s daily clownish, boorish, crooked behavior. I’m more upset with conservative media cheering that Joe has historic low approval ratings, down to about 37%. Do you have any blankety-blank idea what that means? More than a third of America — tens of millions of people — STILL THINK Jackass Joe is doing a great job.
Democrats. Liberals. Socialists. Communists. Endless bureaucrats. And all the Braindead Fawners. (Good band name.) Is there some forgotten defect of character that the sweaty underground gods forgot to stuff in past the Democratic ear wax? While I slept, did we add 51st and 52nd states called Storelootville and Zombieland?
But, really. Who’s the crazy one?
Is that grinning fop of an L.A. County District Attorney George Gascón going to call me tomorrow, to sheepishly apologize: “Uh, sorry for being such a complete tool and rusty marital aid…” Will Veep Kamala Harris text, offering amends for nonstop hyena giggling? Is an email en route from that neighboring dolt from Glendale, Adam Schiff, saying he’s sorry for all the lies, criminal behavior and for looking like Mental Patient Beanie Baby?
I looked at my own behavior, my own sanity. Do I need to find a higher path, that road less taken? Do I need to be kind? Patient? Do I need to forgive liberals for torching everything they touch, turning America and California into countless miles of homeless, poop-lined burning highway?
Then, drat. My answer came. A friend last night sent me a meme, sending my spiritual journey back a thousand years.
The meme was a black-&-white close-up of a grizzled old cowboy. The text read:
“Sometimes you have to get rid of a fly with a sledgehammer. And it’s not about that fly. It’s all about the other flies watching…”
Flies. Polar bears. Democrats.
At long last. Method and Direction.
The SCV’s John Boston has been named, several times, both best humorous and serious columnist in America.
