I’m pretty tired of the sore losership on the part of those who voted for the presidential candidate who didn’t win. It’s been three months now, and they should be over it by now, and moved on.
But they refuse to, and so there’s no reason for me to be a nice guy towards them.
A couple of weeks ago, for example, a couple of women’s-libbers friends of a nephew of mine—the “aesthete” who lives in Denver—stayed here because I’m halfway between where they’re from, and him.
I didn’t bother “saving” the chat that later transpired between my nephew and me, but anyway, it went something like this:
Me: Did they get there okay?
He: Yes, but how come you have to be so rude to people?
Me: I’m sorry; I wasn’t aware I was being rude. As far as I know, whatever they wanted, they got.
He: You know what I’m talking about.
Me: No, I really don’t; I was just my usual mellow and laid-back self.
[pause]
Me: But it was a little hard, because they’re such sad sacks, and so bitter.
[pause]
Me: I don’t see any point in being gracious to sore losers.
[pause]
Me: They’ve had plenty of time to get over it; two and a half months now.
He: What you do’s your own business, but do you have to do that?
Me: Hey, it’s my real-estate, my rules.
He: But for some people it’s offensive, and you know that.
Me: There wasn’t anybody here to get offended.
[pause]
Me: I checked; no old people, no children, no respectable women, no members of the clergy.
[pause]
Me: I can see where they might’ve been startled or surprised, but offended, no.
He: Well, they were.
Me: Look, my real-estate, my rules.
[pause]
Me: Seeing who and what they are, I can’t see where they’d be offended.
[pause]
Me: You know I’m not bashful, and that I sleep naked, letting it all hang out.
He: You’re hopeless.
Me: I see no point in catering to the sensitivities of sad sacks and sore losers.
