By Craig Hardegree | 

You know why it doesn’t matter whether Trump accepts the profoundly-devastating defeat he’s about to receive at the hand of Hillary?

You know why it doesn’t matter whether the alpha-male of alpha-males accepts the utterly-emasculating humiliation he’s about to suffer at the hand of a girl?

You know why it doesn’t matter whether his followers accept the epic smack-down and whole-cloth rejection of the putrid stank of masculinity that the whole world will witness on November 8?


Thanksgiving dinner at Granny’s house. The rent coming due next month. Deer hunting. Susie’s holiday dance recital. Christmas shopping. The possum-drop in Tallapoosa on New Year’s Eve. Disney park-hopper tickets, secured to the refrigerator door by a Mickey Mouse magnet, longingly gazed upon for weeks by little Johnny after you promised him 42 theme parks during the week of spring break.

If you’ve forgotten, we’re a country at war.

Have been for 15 years.

And to maintain public support for the war, any talk of a draft had to be immediately and forcefully squelched.

Bush had to make it illegal to take photos of flag-draped coffins returning from the battlefield.

There was no war tax.

There was no rationing of gas or tinfoil or sugar.

NFL seasons weren’t cancelled; college football unaffected.

War has support as long as it costs nothing.

As long as it doesn’t disrupt our daily routines.

As long as it demands no sacrifice.

As long as it is waged in a way that allows us to pay attention to it only when we want to; when it’s convenient; when we want to be seen as a misty-eyed patriot on Memorial Day.

True warriors were – or still are – out of the country.

But football, NASCAR, deer-hunting and scratching and spitting have continued unabated.

That’s because the chauvinistic disgusting toxic masculinity our society has come to accept as the epitome a “real man,” is but a cloak of superficial bluster donned by scared little boys to hide insecurities and inadequacies which are starkly revealed to them when they’re in the presence of a woman.

They’re gonna stomp and snort when the TV cameras are running; push and shove when they out-number a perceived enemy by 100-to-1; spray-paint ugliness on walls in the dark.

But the closest they will get to an armed uprising is buying-up all the ammo at Walmart and Academy and sitting around the Thanksgiving table talking about how many rounds they have stored in their basements and which little out-of-the-way gun shop they’ve heard still has a few boxes of the armor-piercing hollow-points that President Obama missed when he sent Homeland Security out to confiscate the bullets the government will use to force them into FEMA camps.

In 2014 Cliven Bundy sparked a national armed-uprising in Bunkerville, Nevada after the Bureau of Land Management removed his cattle from We-The-People’s lands because he refused to pay grazing fees to compensate Americans for the grass he was stealing.

Every anti-government white-supremacist Obama-hater in the country who wasn’t all-talk, gathered up his weapons and ammo and headed out to the O. K. Corral for the mother of all armed-uprisings.

But like the whistling jiggle-top on a pressure cooker, after the initial steam was let-off, it soon quietened-down.

Earlier this year LaVoy Finicum and Ammon Bundy took over a bird sanctuary owned by We-The-People in a wildlife refuge in Oregon and began an armed-uprising with visions dancing in their heads of the Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho soundly defeating General Custer and the 7th Cavalry Regiment of the United States Army at the Battle of Little Bighorn during the Great Sioux War of 1876.

Soon the heavily-armed rebels took to Facebook and issued a clarion call to everyone who is dissatisfied with the way things are going in our country, to rise up and…

…mail them some…

“snacks and energy drinks.”

After all, the Super Bowl would be live-streaming from their iPhones in a few days.

So quit worrying.

Stop fretting.

Surround yourself with positive people who love life and America and kitty videos and sunsets and rainbows and waterfalls.

It’s just locker-room banter.

Boy talk.


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