The Asshole

Saturday, November 9, 2024

I saw an Asshole.

There he was, this Asshole, right there in the airport. Standing there, puckering all over the place where anyone could see, and in the same queue of people as us.

The Asshole was small. Short and stout like in the little teapot song, but not at all a teapot.

The Asshole was more like a half melted, hard, clear, plastic beer pitcher. A clear, plastic beer pitcher filled with shit and lit on fire by some country hick who thinks it’s hilarious to fart and shit on anything good or decent or clean, and who’s got nothing else useful to do. Thanks, Obama.

So, no. Not at all a teapot. But an ugly, smelly, racist, misogynistic melted-from-shit-fire plastic pitcher. With an ugly half of a Duck Dynasty duck call beard.

The Asshole was wearing a black “Fuck Your Feelings” sweatshirt with white, tough guy semiautomatic rifle emblems on the sleeves, and ill fitting black sweatpants. The Asshole’s legs tapered into thin ankle nubs joining his shins to his hairy Hobbit feet.

I watched the Asshole the way I watch bad TV. The way I watch reality TV. Disgusted and angry and rolling my eyes every five seconds.

The Asshole got called up to the counter for service. I said, as loudly as I could without being heard, as if I were scoffing at the TV, “I wouldn’t serve that Asshole. I’d call someone else up to help and be all like ‘nope!’”

What I wanted to do was really cause a scene. A situation, even - to point out to everyone just what an asshole the Asshole was. I’d be sitting at the gate for the flight. He’d walk by and I’d stand up and point at him, my eyes wide and slightly crazed.

It would’ve been like:

Me: (screaming, with eyes wide and slightly crazed ) EXCUSE ME, SIR? SIR? YOUR SWEATSHIRT! OH MY GOD! WHAT A SWEATSHIRT! IT IS AMAZING.

EVERYONE! EVERYONE! LOOK AT THIS GUY’S SWEATSHIRT! ISN’T IT AMAZING? ISN’T IT THE FUNNIEST SMARTEST MOST ORIGINAL THING YOU’VE EVER SEEN?

OH MY GOD THIS SHIRT RIGHT? ITS JUST SO HILARIOUS!

“FUCK YOUR FEELINGS” IT SAYS! HA!

HE IS SUCH A MAN’S MAN EVEN THOUGH HE IS SHORT AND STOUT LIKE IN THE TEAPOT SONG BUT HE IS NOT A TEAPOT!

HIS MASCULINE MASCULINITY DWARFS MY OWN!

WHAT FUN FOR US ALL!”

And then I’d sit down.

And then a flight attendant would come over from the counter behind me with a walkie talkie in her hand.

Flight Attendant with a Walkie Talkie in Her Hand: Sir, you’re causing a disturbance. Please, I need you to calm down.

I’d stand back up. I’d start screaming again.

Me: (screaming again, but not in all caps) Who, me? Oh! I’m causing a disturbance? I’m the one causing a disturbance? Not the guy wearing the “Fuck Your Feelings” sweatshirt with the AR-15s on it?! You know, the AR-15s mass shooters use? The AR-15s we all think and pray about after a bunch of people are dead? That’s not causing a disturbance to anyone, but I am?! Take a hike, man!

(The flight attendant would be male.)

And then I’d sit back down. And I’d purse my lips. Hard. That’d show them.

Yeah. That’d show them.

But I didn’t say any of that. I didn’t do any of that. In fact, when I started tapping this all out, I thought to myself, “What if I really did have the chance to refuse him service? Would I do it?”

“How would I like to be treated that way? What if I just wanted to buy a gay cake for my gay wedding and I got refused service and also I lost a Supreme Court case? Or what if I wanted a gay graphic designed by a graphic designer that wasn’t even a graphic designer and I got refused service and also I lost a Supreme Court case? How would that feel? How would I feel?”

According to the Asshole’s sweatshirt, which you may recall had “Fuck Your Feelings” on the front of it, it wouldn’t much matter how I’d feel if I were refused service anyway, anywhere. In his world, I don’t matter, my feelings don’t matter, and my friends don’t matter. Nothing I do or say or vote for matters, in his muddy MAGA world.

And whether I like it or not, we’re living in more of a MAGA world than some of us have ever seen, and a worse one than most of us have yet realized.

So you know what? You’re right, ugly, bearded sweatshirt wearing Asshole who is short and stout like in the teapot song but not a teapot. You’re absolutely right. Fuck my feelings. Fuck ‘em straight to hell.

And you know what else? Fuck you, Asshole. Fuck you, fuck your cowardly ass guns, fuck your shitty ass sweatpants, fuck your cocky ass priveleged white face and dingy beard, fuck your outward facing, enabled, empowereded-to-be-a-racist-asshole racism, fuck your Republican vote, fuck your ignorant ass worldview, and fuck, fuck, fuck everyone who thinks like you.

I’m sick of it. I’m sick of the assholes and the cultists and the cult. I’m done. I will not make peace with these people. I will not extend the hand of forgiveness when they need it. I will not feel sorry for them when they can’t get insured, or their fishing lakes dry up, or they keel over from heat stroke, or their retirement investments dry up, or they can’t watch Baywatch reruns anymore, or cross state lines when they’re pregnant anymore, or they lose their SNAP, or their farms, or their internet-connected libraries, or their apartments, or their homes, or their friends, or their privacy, or their non-union jobs, or their freedom of speech, or their freedom of religion, or you know, their freedom .

I. Am. Over. It.

My capacity for forgiveness is drained. I am bone-tired. I am exhausted.

You wanna be the Asshole? Fine. But you’re on your goddamn own. And I won’t forgive you.

I don’t have to.

Guess I’m an Asshole, too.