WITH THE ELECTION only a year away, our nation is hopelessly divided between good people on one side and painfully foolish people on the other. The only thing that can bring us together is to find common ground and agree that the second group is completely out of their minds.
Nah, that won’t work. Because as much as you want righteous retribution brought down on your crazy uncle, he’s not the real problem. He’s just the pawn of greater forces that feed his tiny, brittle mind that nonetheless figured out how to get seconds on turkey before you.
No, the real deplorables are the super wealthy who, since the Reagan presidency, have built a conservative infrastructure that controls Congress and undermines our democracy. The Mercers, the Kochs, the Walmartons, and their kind have financed the seeds of our disharmony and inequality by lobbying for tax breaks, denying climate change, and supporting divisive social media. They should be the real targets of our wrath, nonviolently of course, because we’re still stickin’ with Jesus and that cheek of his.
For peacemakers, shunning and shaming are still the best strategy. I’m fully prepared to give a cold shoulder to Charles Koch if I ever see him at Home Depot. If Sheldon Adelson shows up at my dry cleaners when I’m there to get barbecue sauce out of a suit coat (who serves barbecue at a wedding?!), he’ll feel the wrath of my silent stare. And pity a Walmart heir in line at Chipotle. I’ll cut right in front of him or her before they can choose between crispy or soft tacos. Because these people are dead to me.
As for shaming, the Old Testament contains predictably stern counsel. Proverbs suggests heaping hot coals on the wicked, an ancient concept that still carries an undeniable appeal. Although I would let the coals come to room temperature first, to avoid inflicting pain and a lengthy but pampered healing process at an exclusive spa; just lots of unsightly charcoal dust and darkish smears on their shirts, much like how I look after a wedding reception. Okay, during a wedding reception.
If no coals are available, there are always water balloons. Small ones, of course, nothing dangerous, but a frequent enough threat that the oligarchs will duck every time they step out of their limousines. If we are powerless to stop them, at least we can make them fidgety in the open air. In the name of justice, I want them to fear the skies. Because there may be a balloon up there with their name on it (or perhaps “Congrats on the New Baby!” if the closest source is a hospital gift shop).
Not to mention the occasional pie.
Whipped cream pie, to be precise, thrown with accuracy and timing, the classic act of postmodern resistance. It’s poignant, newsworthy, and telegenic. And there is no dignified way to wipe whipped cream out of your eyes, praise the Lord, no recourse but to stop toasting the new Supreme Court justice you just purchased and leave the podium. (Note to deserving victims: Don’t lick your fingers. Most protest pies are filled with shaving cream, cheaper than dairy and in deference to Aristotle’s greatest oratory: “Never waste a good pie on a bad man.”)
But if it’s real cream, may the victim be lactose intolerant, and start licking.
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