In 1968, my family was living outside of the U.S., in a little place no one has heard of since, namely Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. I was nine years old and only beginning to become aware of the world outside family, neighborhood, and school.
I was the kind of kid who was outside from morning ’til the street lights came on, so television — especially the news — was way down my list of interesting things to do. Dad turned on the six o’clock news every night, and I began to realize that the world (the U.S., my world) was burning — literally.
By the time we left Gitmo, I was going on eleven years old, and I knew two things for sure:
War is bloody and horrible and fucked up, and we need to find a better way to deal with our disagreements.
People need to be able to stand up for themselves and their rights — civil or otherwise — and speak their minds, without being beaten, fire hosed, or killed.
I was a naive child who thought we’d have these things figured out by the time I had children. Ha! Said children are 28 and 33 years old, and just look at what we’ve done to this country…hell, the world.
I admit it: I can’t get enough of Drumpf getting the shit startled out of him when a protester made it past the security gates (although not on stage). I wish I were more of a computer geek, so I could make a loop of the initial panicked grabbing of the podium, through the “I just want to go home” look when the secret service guys let him go back to inciting the crowd.
Drumpf was probably hoping they’d just rush him back onto the Drumpf Aeroplane, so he could he could have a bit of a crying jag — and then have his manservant bring him fresh drawers. He talks tough, but I think he actually pissed himself in Dayton, OH.
You reap what you sow, you bombastic blibbering baboon.