To the One out of Ten

Go ahead and call me a feminazi to your friends.

If it helps you puff up in front of the losers your run with, call me a fag.

Or a n*gger-lover.

Or a tree hugger.

Fine. Knock yourself out.

You don’t have to be brave right out loud. You don’t have to face down your knuckledragging pals at the bar.

Go ahead and call me a traitor out loud and in public, not because it has anything to do with me or mine, but because you think you have to.

Because down in the Heart of Dixie, or in the Pit of Man’s Fears, or in your lily-white gated exurban bunker, or emptying clips into woodland creatures, as ruggedly individualistic as you pretend to be – however much mandibular juttiness you vogue – you are a coward.

On the deep-down, where it counts, you know you’re a weak little man.

It takes no guts at all to bleat and stomp and follow the herd.

Sure, if you come up with another clever word to insult some out-group – some sly “macaca” you can use to piss on someone weaker or browner or poorer or just weirder than you – it’s high fives all around. If you come up with a new and novel way to demonstrate your “Me too!!” conformist obedience to the Party Line, you’re peers will rub your tummy and call you a badass.

Except, of course, we both know you’re not, because running with the lemmings is not running with the bulls.

We both know that you don’t dare open your mouth and think for yourself.

We both know you don’t fucking dare opine even one degree off from True Fucktard North.

You know that you dare not look to closely at crippled Liberty, for fear you might notice that the bruises on her throat are from your hands, and the welts on her back are from your belt.

You want to talk curb-stomping tough with your running buddies, but when faced with the consequence of your own ideology, you do the Tucker Carlson Squirm:

Tucker Carlson speaking today to Missouri Senate candidate Claire McCaskill about the Michael J. Fox stem cell research ad she is running in her effort to unseat Republican Jim Talent:

It's a form of moral blackmail. No matter where you stand on stem cell research, I look at this ad and say I can't disagree with Michael J. Fox. Because his illness is so sad it pulls on me emotionally so much that it feels immoral to me to disagree with him. And I think its unfair of you to run this ad for that reason…

…This is not a conversation about Michael J. Fox, his celebrity or his disease. It's a question about stem cell research and whether its moral or immoral.

So Tucker is a bit uncomfortable with the video because he feels like it makes his views appear immoral. But, since that cannot be the case, it must be McCaskill's fault for putting him in the awkward position in the first place. How dare she play on his emotions by showing a real person being ravished by a horrible disease. Really, what does any of it have to do with the stem cell debate?

We both know you don’t dare admit that the collection of liars and loser and war criminals and thugs who run this country is your Party. Not the exception.

We both know that drowned cities, blasted countries, looted treasuries and War Forever are not the accidental side effects of your ideology.

They ARE your ideology.

They are what 12 years of Conservativism Ascendant looks like.

You did this. Not Fat Ted Kennedy or Crazy Nancy Pelosi or some little Liberal blog full of big words.

You did it and you damned well know it, and by my estimation about one in ten of you are softly sickened by what you have done.

But being a Conservative, you’re weak: standing deep within the mob and screaming slogans for twenty years isn’t exactly an Iron Man training regimen for the courage muscle.

And courage is a muscle. One you have let atrophy almost beyond recognition by letting it loaf on the sofa, lazily suckling the Received Wisdom of Rush and mocking the poor and the weak and the different. Because we both know damned well that if your good good friends ever heard the slightest note of doubt or introspection in your voice, you’d be out.

You would suddenly become the fag. The freak. The Liberal. You would be exiled from you local Kool Kids Klub so fucking quick your head would spin fast enough to split atoms.

So fine, go ahead and call people me feminazi to your friends, but know the days of people like me tolerantly turning the other cheek are over (Letting the pig people get away with taking pride in being ignorant hateful assholes is sooo 20th century)

If it helps you puff up in front of the losers your run with, call me a fag.

Or a n*gger lover.

Or a tree hugger.

In public, make all the noisy protestations of Wingnut Faith you feel you have to make to keep your bigot street cred up inside your Rovian daisy chain.

In public.

But in private, Jesus, have a little pride. Salvage some small portion of your God Given dignity before it suffocates completely under two decades of knee-jerk dumbass flab.

Even though you can no longer bench press more than a kitten’s-worth of honor with it, at least take your courage muscle out for a short walk.

Just a brisk stroll down to the polling place on November 7th.

Because while you may feel you have to go along with the Archie Bunkers of the world in public, remember that in private you are still free to act like a man and take a a man’s responsibility for the mess your public self has made.

And privacy is why they put curtains on voting booths.