Thoughts from the ammo line

Ammo Grrrll puts the adage about STICKS AND STONES to good use. She writes:

As the old childhood adage went: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but you better make the first stick count, cuz I carry a gun.”

No wait, that’s not quite it. Let me Google that. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” There ya go! Dang memory…

Psychiatrists’ couches are filled every hour of every day with people for whom mere “words” crippled them for life. So the adage is mostly crap, but even if the words Hillary and Barack Hussein have chosen to denigrate us do not wound like sticks and stones, they do get awfully annoying after 40 or 50 years of having them vomited our way. Admittedly, “basket of deplorables” is a new wrinkle. As a semi-professional writer, I just gotta ask: why a “basket”? It’s kind of an odd image; it’s not roomy enough to contain half of Trump’s supporters, and it conjures up cuddly kitties or puppies, not actual Deplorables.

Nevertheless, being called deplorable and all the tedious “ists” and “phobes” Hillary could string together with her concussed brain is not a totally pleasant experience. It’s not as bad as being called “lazy” and “racist” by the most inert, divisive, Other-hating, golfing and vacationing President in the history of the Republic. But it isn’t pleasant to imagine that a greedy grasping harridan who has a sporting chance to wield enormous power over me feels comfortable calling me such vile names. So let me return the favor and see how she likes it. Let’s see if I can do it without swearing per my new resolve to abstain from it.

Hillary, you basket case of incompetence, lies, and incompetent lying; you burping Tupperware container of influence peddling, fee gouging and charity fraud; you rasping, coughing, plus-size pantssuit of prevarication; you muffin-top of mendacity; you boring bin of dingbatterry who sold a quarter of our uranium to Putin; you cringing, caving, can of cowardice who can’t even assert that “All Lives Matter”; you pathetic, insecure woman whose major claim to historic import is being born with female genitalia: Shut up.

Oh, we Trump supporters won’t shout you down. Only your side does that. We won’t need to be thrown out of your tiny rallies should you manage to stay vertical with both shoes on through another appearance before election day. Unlike your attendees, Soros couldn’t pay us Deplorables enough to listen to your awful, humorless rhetoric, the highlight of which was the 4-minute coughing fit. Hilarious improvised quip about being “allergic” to a guy nowhere in sight, by the way! Comedy gold!

Many years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, with a little help from William Safire, the late Spiro Agnew called me a “nattering nabob of negativism,” which sent many professional natterers scurrying for their dictionaries. If there was one thing you could say about the lot of us “community activists” of the era, we were definitely as “nattering” as only political geniuses in their early 20s can be. But that was a far cry from the hateful level of invective hurled by Hillary and Barack Hussein at a huge swath of their fellow Americans whose sole crime is choosing to support the only viable non-Democrat candidate on offer.

Whatever newly-revised percentage of Trump supporters Hillary has decreed are Deplorable: count me in. We’re deplorable; we’re unignorable: get used to it. And – please, God – we just might win. The First and Second Amendments, religious freedom, fighting Islamic terrorism, border control and Israel are all very important to me, and, whatever his deficiencies, Trump is better than Hillary on every last one of them.

But, frankly, just watching the media twits’ heads explode at having to rise for President Trump’s first press conference would be a peak life experience. Followed by the mass exodus of all the brain-dead, self-important artistes and gazillionaire athletes cum shoe-salesmen who have promised to leave the country if Trump wins. Bye-bye, Babs and ciao, Leonardo! I’ll contribute to the one-way tickets. Take a knee to “O, Canada,” Colin. Or take your millions to start an NFL affiliate in Venezuela. See who misses you. Don’t forget to pack a lifetime supply of MREs. Several vets I know especially recommend the lasagne.