Yesterday I got to subject DC rush hour traffic radio listeners to my political musings for the first time, and had a great experience. Less than an hour later I was in a mall in McLean, Virginia and found out that if you’re having a conversation that just so happens to be overheard by one of President Obama’s cultists, you might find yourself on the precipice of a physical altercation.
As I stood outside a Mexican restaurant waiting for my friend to park his car and join me, I received a phone call from my mother. After asking her how she was doing and how my dad’s workout regime was going (The 64-years-old West Pointer is still running 5ks at 7:30 per/mile race pace), she said she was worried about Mitt Romney’s chances — a sentiment echoed by my friend, who voted for Obama in 2008, but who has undergone an ideological transformation since then. I told my mom that I think if Romney can keep it close, then he has a chance. I told her that when people are alone in the voting booth, I think a large percentage of them who are honest with themselves will realize what an abject failure Mr. Obama has been. It is at this point that a man on the other side of the glass became livid, exited the bookstore, and started screaming at me to get a life and leave the mall.
Being the kind of guy who isn’t going to back down in the face of insane, obese bully-ambushes, I returned fire. Apparently, he wanted to read magazines for hours on end (that he wasn’t going to buy), without having to hear someone question his Dear Leader, which brings me to the following question: Why do liberals believe they own the bookstore?
Years ago I was flipping through a book by Ann Coulter, and I found pages filled with someone’s snot. Yes, they had actually taken the time to pick their nose and wipe it in the pages. I’ve had numerous instances where I tried to find a newly-released book by a conservative author, only to have to go on a manhunt for it because someone had obviously hidden it. Most recently, I had this problem with Mark Owen’s ‘No Easy Day’ and Paul Kengor’s ‘The Communist’.
During George W. Bush’s eight years in office, I can recall two instances where a complete stranger lectured a conservative patron in a book store about their choice of reading material. It’s a bizarre experience to be confronted by a True Believer, but it happened to me. And the weird thing is, I wasn’t even inside the store at the time; I was on the other side of a window pane that has a small opening in it.
I’ve been at bus stops and had people ridicule my worldview. I’ve been in subway systems and had people rant and rave about BushNazi (one word). I’ve been in bookstores and coffee shops and overheard many political conversations, and not once did I ever feel the need to put my two cents into a complete stranger’s conversation. Maybe that’s because I don’t buy into campaign slogans seemingly pulled from Chairman Mao’s playbook, I would never pledge allegiance to a politician, and I would never purchase a bastardized American flag inspired by the empty rhetoric of a pied piper.
As the altercation with cult-boy heated up, he asked my why my hand started shaking. I told him: “I’m trying to prevent myself from killing you right now,” and asked him to put his hands on me. The expression on my face and the tone in my voice must have telegraphed that there was a reserve of Hulk-green rage on ready reserve — the same one that surprised the DC green line metro thug who accosted me — and he walked away. The man sat back down and resumed reading … People magazine.
Someone remind me again: Is it election season?