The Left Scatters Like A Flock Of Startled Pigeons - Oh, Lord, What's A Mother To Do?

Bob Muzelle had proudly called himself a social justice warrior.  He knew that the term had been coopted by the Right and twisted into a caricature of anyone committed to social reform; but still when he deconstructed the term, he was pleased.

 

'Social' - for Bob that's what the struggle was all about, reversing the nefarious trend of individualism, self-interest, and personal ambition and directing America's energy towards a collective, collaborative, and compassionate goal.

'Justice' - a founding principle of the Republic, enshrined in the Constitution, hallowed in every jurisdiction of America, but ignored, dismissed, and deformed by an increasingly autocratic Right.  Restoring 'equal justice under the law' meant restoring the rights of black people who have never achieved racial parity; honoring the rights of newly emergent genders; and respecting the honest labor of the working man and giving him his due. 

'Warrior' was the most apt description of Bob.  He felt anointed, a Crusader headed off to Jerusalem, sword in hand, ready to remove the infidel from The Promised Land, the Holiest of Holies.  There was no way that the Usurper, the Interloper Trump should remain one more day in power, for each twenty-four hours produced more mayhem, more wanton destruction, and more penitential misery for the poor. 

 

For the millions that elected Donald Trump, and the millions more who have given him the highest approval rating of any modern president after his first hundred days, the original, sarcastic meaning of the term was even more appropriate now.  

These SJWs were the very caricature of the airy-fairy, fantastical, irrelevant notions of the past.  They were the self-anointed priests of an unwelcome, imposed, and increasingly hated orthodoxy - men posing as women, the black man on the top of the human pyramid, illegal immigrants ordained as freedom-seekers; and the dismantling of free enterprise, the cancelling of history, and the shutting down of free speech. 

Impossible as it seems, these SJWs were still at it, flailing like demented dervishes in a St. Vitus' dance, baying to the moon, howling, screaming to the heavens.  The country in a few short weeks was shedding the penumbra of progressivism and returning to sense and sensibility, ready to return to its Christian, conservative, Jeffersonian principles of the Enlightenment. 

When the news of Donald Trump's victory was made known, disbelief turned into a maniacal fear - all that progressives had fought for, worked for, and laid down their lives for was gone in a gully-washer, swept away like so much detritus in a flood.  Bob and his colleagues stood openmouthed, gaping at the television screens as the insurmountable votes were tallied, stood stunned and paralyzed until reality set in, and then the flailing began.  It was as though a firecracker had been thrown into a flock of pigeons - terrified chaos, each bird flipping and flapping his way up. 

Bob wandered aimlessly up and down K Street, looking for companionship, some of the old Solidarity and La Lucha Continua bravado, some post to lean up against while he caught his breath. But there was none, and he had to move into shop doorways to let pass the throngs of young, blonde, blue-eyed Trumpists headed for the White House.  The cheering, the exuberance, the sheer delight of these crowds was something to behold, but for Bob a sign of the Apocalypse, the End of Days, the beginning of the long night of misery. 

Bob found no companionship because every other SJW, startled by the firecracker hopped and jumped and ran for shelter - north to the welcoming Hate Has No Home Here neighborhoods of Northwest, east to Latino Land, west to the River, south to Anacostia and the ghetto - anywhere they might be welcomed, given shelter. 

Yet the white suburbs were giving a sigh of relief that they no longer had to hew to a progressive line that was becoming increasingly unhinged. Salvadoran house painters and leaf blowers welcomed the New Age of their young, conservative president who swept the country clean of Mara Salvatrucha MS-13 gangbangers, slapped them ex judicia into prison, and came to Washington in strong alliance with the American President. 

Only the black community was non-plussed, for national politics never concerned them in the first place, and this white boy in the Oval Office had the long knives out for them anyway. 

'What's a mother to do', was the plaintive cry of the fluttering Left, a reprise of the old Fifties ad, motherhood, old fashioned values, and children, an ironic wailing for times past. 

In the most laughable, pitiable moments since the election, former President Joe Biden and his Vice President Kamala Harris have shown up in public.  Biden who in his last years of his Presidency never knew what was what, so around the bend that he imagined the White House to be his Delaware beach house and the Oval Office his childhood playpen; and Harris who not once in her tenure ever made sense were back at it, on the stump, reiterating old, discredited notions of faux righteousness. 

What were they thinking?  What were Biden, removed from his office like old files, and Harris laughed at from within for her ditzy, black-this-black-that vaudevillian charade, doing in public? Or the old, Soviet wannabee Bernie Sanders dancing with his new date, Rep. Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez, a woman as empty-headed as a glass bowl, bound and determined to be taken seriously but with few takers?

 It was a side show of bearded ladies, two-headed babies, dwarves, and misfits.  The country had moved on, but these fools were still at it, banging away as though someone was paying attention. 

Bob's posse did regroup, and met in a cold water basement flat somewhere east of the park, huddled together in commiseration, fellowship, and anger.  This will not stand! Bob shouted to rousing backslapping and hugs, but when they emerged from their midnight cabal, Washington was still that miserably happy, white, blonde, blue-eyed grotesquerie they had left the night before.

In one fell swoop, the borders were closed, illegal immigrants were being deported, federal funds denied from anti-Semitic universities, wokeness shut down from pillar to post, a new realpolitik foreign policy in place, the harnesses, bits, and traces off the the private sector, and gas, oil, and rare earth reserves drilled, mined, and shoveled.  

Lawfare, the only recourse remaining to the discombobulated Left, was in full swing, as Democrat-appointed judges tried to block the Trump Administration from its appointed rounds.  Rather than create an outcry, it resulted in hurrahs. Finally, and hopefully once and for all, this blatant abuse of judicial authority would be stopped in its tracks.  'So sue me' was the Trump meme in his New York mean street real estate days, and was now. 

'Go home!' shouted a crowd of Trump supporters to the Farragut Square, old time, progressive revivalist rally a block from the White House; but Bob and his fellow SJWs had no place to go.  The whole country was being washed as clean as the Augean Stables of flighty notions, so no port in a storm, no accommodating, welcome place of love and companionship. 

 

The SJWs were surprised at the public reaction - so unfriendly, so unsympathetic when all they were trying to do was point the nation in the right direction; but they were as tone deaf now as they had been for decades.  

A cheered comeuppance for these hectoring boobs was the conclusion of those who took over, and not one tear was shed for the scattering pigeons as off they went.