I know you’re not supposed to talk politics while consuming beverages at your local redneck pub. This is doubly so when beveragizing during happy-hour. Yet. Being the politically accute person I am, there are times when I can’t help myself and I do that which I shouldn’t. (Does that contradict being acute?)
Scene: extremely windy late afternoon, the sun is shinning, the hour of happy at local pub just started. I walked from my parents ageing beach house down wind–the whole time conscious of how many beers I would consume to make the same trip upwind. Put another way, even sober, if my long coat got caught in the downwind I’d be blown off the sidewalk. Nomatter. The day was less weather hectic compared to previous days and the winter storm had passed us by to the north. The temperature was just below freezing.
When I reached the bar I entered through a door that looked as though it had been broken into recently. The rim of the door was reinforced with steel platting and heavy rivets. The bar was not yet steamy from bodies and drink but a few fellow rednecks occupied the seats that got the most sun through the large front window that was mostly covered in neon ad lights. I sat on the corner of the bar next to an older lady that had bouffant hair. She wore too many pieces of jewellery and when she reached for her tall, pink drink the rings on her fingers clanked and clicked. I ordered my first draft and thanked the easy-on-the-eyes bartendress.
By the time I got my drink a group of four entered and sat at the shadowy end of the bar. The bartendress obviously knew the group. While she filled their drinks and also added drinks to the few people next to the bouffant lady, a commercial flashed on one of the many TVs hanging from the wall behind the bar. It was an add for the army. When the commercial was over the bouffant lady yelled: make America great again. The people next to her said here here here. Astonished at what I just witnessed I turned to the bouffant lady and asked:
“Mam, I’m curious. Were you not offended by Trump’s vulgarities during the campaign?”
“Hell no,” she said. “I know for a fact that men have said worse things about me. And besides. That damn Bill Clinton raped five women…”
And so. Dear worst-reader. That is how it begins. That is how one opens a can of worst-worms in the redneck happy-hour bar that is (my beloved) #Americant.
Which brings me to the following question: Why do shredded Brussel sprouts (pic above) remind me of how an entire country can sink so deeply into a cesspool of the obscene where intellect is the enemy, where rational thought a rarity, where life itself cannot find a way out of the psychotic. Oh my.