The other day I got into an ugly fight which, alas, I’m fighting still. Words these days are my only arms. Never a pugilist, past a certain age, throwing a punch is both repugnant and imprudent. Throw a punch and I throw my back out, crumple pathetically, and that’s that. I dislike fighting with words too, except from my timid turret, honing my missives into missiles and letting fly. If I score a hit my antagonist can’t locate me to retaliate. When it comes to debating, I’m a wimp. Debates, in my experience, invariably injure and never persuade. “You can disagree without being disagreeable,” I’ve heard say. Good luck with that.
You’ve guessed the subject of this ugly dust-up. What else? The orange blob has shanghaied our national mind. He’s the elephant in the room, only no elephant but a deadly viper. “Depend upon it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully,” harrumphed wise Doctor Johnson. Or, to put the same sentiment differently, “Apart from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?”
This Trumpist, call him Hans, differed from his tribe in three respects. First, in his professional life, he’s smart. Second, he’s willing, even eager, to dispute our differences. Third, except in his misconceptions, he’s an OK guy. We could be friends were we not at war. War precludes friendship. If your aim in life is to murder all I hold dear, I can’t make nice, sorry. Maybe after the conclusion of hostilities, if we’re both still breathing.
Hans wanted to explain to me why Trump was not so bad. Yes, he was a rapist, liar, bigot, creep, sadist, you wouldn’t hire him to babysit, but hey, who’s perfect, he was “strong in other ways.” From that opening tumbled his cornucopia of contempt – immigrants, Obama, Kamala, Afghanistan, Hunter Biden’s laptop, our screwed-up economy, government regulation, AOC, perverts, Michelle, Ukraine, Gaza, gaga, Hillary – in an undigested stew, prepared for Hans by the chefs at Fox News.
My instinct, hearing gunfire, is to hurry back to my timid turret, scramble up my winding stair steps at a time and, panting, slam the door. Who can combat such a torrent of nonsense! Far be it for me to point out the racist, misogynist, cruel tone of his critiques. If I uttered my true thoughts, Hans would loathe me and I loathe being loathed. “The better part of valor is discretion,” wrote Shakespeare, only he gave these famous lines to Falstaff, an execrable blackguard.
Trapped, I settle on a rhetorical tactic. “Let’s grant every one of your grievances, Hans, and any more you can dream up. Pile them high as high can be. I might refute each, but who has the strength or time. Now put into the other scale one item, just one, which even you can’t deny: the loss of self-government, that is, human freedom. Trump has been clear about that again and again, only a numbskull would doubt him. He favors a dictatorship – ‘a dictator on Day One’ (hah-hah-hah). He repeatedly lauds vicious dictators as his sort of guy (Putin, Orban, Kim Jong Un, etc.). He loudly advocates the use of government power to punish his adversaries, whom he deems fiends. He would shut down this discussion if he caught wind of it and muzzle me and maybe you if you dared to differ. Is that the legacy you want to leave to your grandkids, Hans, because if you vote for that monster, you will be responsible.”
Thus Galahad in print. In practice, I grab my coat. “Got to scoot.”
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From Henry’s mailbag:
Hey Henry:
I suppose to a canine all Jewish composers look alike (Iceberg/Goldberg — it’s an old joke), but Irving Berlin and George Gershwin are not one and the same. (Would I dare confuse you with a Saint Bernard?)
Annie Oakley had the sun in the morning and the moon at night, whereas Porgy had plenty of nuttin. I assume I’m not the only person setting you straight. You should spend more time on Broadway.
Henry and I differ who was responsible for this bonehead mistake. For myself, I apologize. Henry has posted a Help Wanted for a new amanuensis.