THE WARRING LIBERALS

Liberals feel comfortable looking down with a wan smile in their well-educated fashion, knowing they guard the interests of the ignorant below.

Trump personifies the thuggish working class wrecker who spits in their faces.

When you have lived a privileged life, growing up in a home of professionals you get used to quiet obedience. Things run in a regular fashion, tasks are accomplished and rewards provided. Each middle class event is a perfectly warm embrace of kindliness and carefully observed manners. No feelings are bruised, emotions are carefully massaged and all bourgeois rituals observed.

It is a million miles and light years from the average working class household where raw emotion and bad manners are quite likely to be encountered. These are the attributes Trump personifies even though he does not at all stem from the middle class. He is from the gangster class, a class that has its own cold rules, regulations and rituals. His own manners were honed in rigid parallel lines never intersecting with the upper lanes occupied by the intellectuals within the cozy circumstances of the liberal elites. His venom for them comes from long years of imagined inferiority and the knowledge that no amount of money can make up for the insouciant superiority those liberals exude.

The liberal elites in their fashion are not envious. They see themselves as the crown of creation existing in glorious contentment within the world’s most blessed nation. For them nothing could possibly be wrong as long as they are left to manage the status quo that suits them and their kind. For them the universities, the worlds of art, literature and science create the self-sustaining ambiance that feeds a constant sense of benign ambience, a serene, well-rewarded and deeply contented reality where raw edges are almost unknown. Naturally they would feel at a loss if any aspect of this wonderful world was degraded, disparaged or heaven forfend, lost altogether.

These birds most certainly flock together and in times of danger this protective flotilla are joined by forces from their lesser and somewhat more uncouth species within journalism and television broadcasting. Some too will affiliate themselves from the world of business and politics. They have their own favored party after all, the Democrats.

The smoother, more liberal-like party, the Democratic Party is, they know, the party that protects them best and with whom they have most in common. It looks after and maintains their interests. Though there is a pretense that it looks after all Americans, it in fact looks after those it looks up to, the liberal elite. The smart ones that don’t have the need or inclination to  dirty their hands with direct political involvement.

The goal of the liberal elites is to stay liberal elites and ensure their status is never disturbed and that their entire panoply of high-status perks and privileges are handed down from father and mother to son and daughter in perpetuity. The Democratic Party is their vehicle for ensuring this is the case in the public sphere outside of their own perfumed worlds of art and academia and where absolutely necessary that common thing called 'work’.

But these urbane birds have had their feather ruffled. A fox has entered the roost. All is not at all well and has not been for four entire years now. The discontented squawking among them has reached a cacophony that has often threatened to, heaven forfend again (!) disturb the usual exquisite serenity of their oh so, sophisticated domains.

Trump entered with muddy boots, his raucous tones offending the ear. On his first appearance ears were terribly offended, lips instantly began to curl. Who is this bumptious ape? What manner of criminally ignorant village idiot is this? From which zoo and which cage has this monster been released to savage our delicate natures and routines? “Unclean! Unclean!” “Begone vartlet!” And yet there he stands, lips pursed in stubborn arrogance and defiance, now wiping his mud-smeared boots on your new Persian rug, readying his tiny hands to grasp you by the neck.

But wait... here comes Old Joe to save you, a known and hoary warrior who will be your champion. He is not one of you either of course, far too coarse and stained by the blood of ten thousand political wars. But he can be pushed into the fight instead of the limp-wristed Bernard who would give away some of your delightful privileges. You need a hardened warrior now, no matter that he stutters and forgets himself, all he needs are the weapons you can provide from your “friends” down at those gross TV stations.

The unbearable oaf with the skin of rotting marmalade will be tarred and feathered and rolled off the hill right into the swamp. A great rubbing of manicured hands will then resound to compete with the sighs of myriad liberals imagining they can live in peace at last.

Later, when the hoary Old Joe sits in pride of place in the puppetdrome they call The White House you will help pull his strings along with those other little helpers, the mold-makers, the lobbyists and the no-neck military manipulators. Let them have their way. Anything that protects our chattels and kingdoms can only be advantageous. You will back their wars as will those underlings that mimic your manners, all the way down to the very edges of what is known as the permanent state.

Let them war! We will wave you on. Onward to battle and die for us. We will get our friends to cover your back, don’t worry. And we will be sure to bury your dead with honors.

For we are the warring liberals.

That’s it. It’s over. We have things to do... Begone.