I promised myself I would no longer talk about 2024, but I want to return to another nightmare year: 2016. (You were likely thinking I would go back to 2021 to talk about the Jan. 6 insurrection.)
Trump was front and center rallying his supporters, waving his childlike hands, and spewing the usual B.S. and vitriol. I began to move my mouth and gesticulate (in a mocking fashion), and some old Army vet, who had not yet said a word to me, started grunting disapprovingly from two seats down. (His wife was sitting between us.) If he had realized he was dealing with a mad man, he would have probably let it go.
It’s not easy to recall the ensuing conversation verbatim, but it went something like this:
“What’s your problem?”
“You ever served, son?”
“Served? I was a goddam teacher.”
“Served in the mil—”
“What difference does it make?” I barked.
“You’re disrespectful,” he growled.
His wife intervened with light attempts to redirect his aggression, but I got a sense he had done this before and that her scolding was more of an attempt to get her objection on the record—that way if I beat his ass or if he beat mine and got arrested, she could say, I told you so. I had more contempt for her than I did for him, in a way.
“You should mind your business,” I said. “My father served in Vietnam.”
“But you didn’t. You didn’t serve,” he said.
“Trump didn’t either,” I said. “I’m having a nice drink with my neighbor, and this chicken-shit is right in my face.” I pointed to the screen and repeated my earlier point: “You should mind your goddam business, old man.”
The bartender must have noticed the commotion because he suddenly appeared in front of us, even though I hadn’t seen him since he brought us the pitcher. Before he could ask what was wrong, I said there was no problem and that I was just watching CNN and talking to myself—nothing to see here. I tried not to look at the old man or his wife. I told the bartender I was a first-time patron but made it clear I wasn’t there to start any trouble. In fact, I regretted leaving the house at all.
“You said you were a teacher? I should take you out back and teach you a lesson,” the old man said after the bartender stepped away. Clever man, I thought.
“Have you ever read a book?” I asked.
“No!” he exclaimed, and I almost died laughing. He didn’t seem to understand the relevance of the question. Dunning and Kruger came to mind.
How was he going to “teach me a lesson” if he had never read a book?
In case Mr. Tough Old Army Man is still alive and reading this, here’s the relevance: I don’t like to call anyone “stupid,” but stupid is as stupid does (to quote Forrest Gump). If you want stupid speeches, stupid presidents, and stupid policies, then by all means continue not to read but, nonetheless, vote. (I love how even the dumbest of the dumb find a way to do that every four years.) Keep on “owning the libs” at your own expense. Trump has already betrayed you, and he hasn’t even retaken office yet.
But if you ever decide that stupidity and ignorance are no longer serving you—or the country—the first step is to read a f*cking book. I’d be happy to recommend several. I just hope you know how.
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Previously Published on substack and is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: istock
