If You Condescend To Us, Do We Not Kick Your Ass?

I’ve about had it with the same thing Digby’s about had it with:

This construction about “regular” people comes up throughout this article in varying forms. It would appear that the 55 million of us who voted for John Kerry are not regular people. If we were we would have rejected him because he was supported by those who hold Regular People in contempt. Therefore, we are held in contempt. Interesting.


There are 55 million of us freakish, irregular, unReal Americans who refuse to accept that it is a-ok for this asshole (and all of his clones) to infect this country with his hateful bile uncontested and unrebutted anymore. If that means we have to use harsh language, then fine. Real Americans are just going to have to get used to it coming from our side.

Patrick Goldstein may have been born yesterday, but some of us have been watching the Right disseminate it’s eliminationist propaganda for a long, long time. The Left isn’t shutting up because a bunch of effete “journalists” are too stupid to know when they’re being played.. Again.

The entire categorization of people into collections of consumer-based stereotypes which are then used to determine whether or not they have a right to express an opinion has just got to fucking stop. I’m personally sickest of the romanticization of the Midwest. Guys, I grew up in the Midwest, most of my friends still live in the Midwest, and let me tell you, if there’s an overriding trait you can find in all of us, good for you, because I can’t find it.

There’s assholes and insects here just like everywhere else, and the quickest way for somebody to make a dick out of his or herself is to march in here yakking about how “salt of the earth” the people are, because the people here subscribe to the New Yorker too, and they know that that’s code for stupid, and simple, and sweet, the kind of thing you’d say to a three-legged dog your friend just adopted that you don’t want to insult.

And people here are just as unreal as people on either of the coasts, and I’ve been to both fairly often. For everybody sitting on the subway in New York with a bicycle tire around her neck, there’s a guy who walks around the little town where I grew up talking to himself and yelling at the squirrels.

I suppose if Candy Crowley and her ilk were to interview my father, they might characterize him as one of the “real” people. He worked at a family-owned business most of his life, bought into it, tried to make money, mostly succeeded, raised up his kids without any government “handouts” (but took the tax breaks gratefully enough, handouts apparently only applying to welfare queens in this Fischer Price world we’ve got going on), etc. He hunts, has a mounted deer head and a room full of tools in the basement, and drives an SUV. He loves football and baseball. He has a healthy amount of contempt for professional athletes and actors who try to tell him what they think about politics.

He can also quote whole swaths of Hamlet from memory, takes groups of Muslim kids from the local Islamic school flying in his rented plane, taught his daughters to distrust organized religion and the veracity of the Bible, loves theater, collects art and antiquities, and skydives. He helps little old women cross the street and gives money to panhandlers, and gives speeches about American history (of which he’s an avid scholar) to local elementary schools. He protested the Vietnam War.

He’s the most real person I’ve ever known.

We’ve got to stop creating outlines, and start seeing people. We’ll never get anywhere if we don’t.