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Thursday, March 14, 2019


Directed to Bill Maher and all other smug assholes like him.

I confess I have never watched Bill Maher's show just as I never thought it would be fun to have a root canal just to pass the time. I have seen snippets on YouTube when others have uploaded it to show just what an asshole he is. So, that's my exposure to late night comics who, after Johnny Carson, morphed into political freaks.

See, Bill, here's the thing: most of those flyover clods you so arrogantly derogate don't have much interest in Teslas and artisanal ice cream. Even if they did, it's not as if those things aren't readily available in flyover country too, or within easy driving distance at least. Things have changed quite a bit in the heartland since you last flew over it, dumbass; even smaller cities have such things as hot yoga clinics, spas, nail salons, and even restaurants that serve food more exotic than a heapin' helpin' of fried meat and starches smothered in melted cheese.

Know what we DON'T have all that much of out here, though? Desperately lonely single women haunting those art galleries and theaters hoping in vain to meet someone, anyone, who might be willing to partner up and rescue them from retiring to a cramped, preposterously expensive apartment or condo filled with ten or fifteen cats. See, what people out here have are families: wives, husbands, and children they adore and are devoted to. I know how rare that is myself, having spent five years in NYC; you're more likely to hear bagpipes on the street than you are the sound of a bunch of kids laughing and romping around at play. The kids' moms and dads wouldn't trade you a million and one Teslas or gallery openings for the richness of their family life.

Moreover, you make the mistake of assuming that not a living soul out here in Real America has ever traveled to decaying, crime-ridden, urban nightmares like San Francisco, LA, NYC, or Chicago. Hate to bust any bubbles and all, but—they have. Way more of them than you might think, too. A fair number of them maybe even liked it, and plan to come back again. But not one of them would even dream of moving there. I brought a few friends of mine to New York back when I lived there myself, those I could actually persuade to come visit. They all had fun...and they all couldn't wait to go back home, and said so. The general consensus was always: It's all right, yeah, but how in the world do you STAND it?

The grime, the dilapidation, the crumbling infrastructure, the overcrowding and lack of personal space, the noise, the inconvenience, the expense—don't kid yourself Bill, people accustomed to spacious rooms in their own homes; private, well-groomed lawns; peace, quiet, and tranquility; polite, considerate neighbors; and their own personal transportation parked safely in a garage or driveway envy NONE of those things. Throw in a happy family life, the dearth of filthy, insane, possibly violent crackheads aggressively thrusting themselves well within smelling range to demand alms, a safe and healthy environment for the kids to grow in, and there ain't enough money in the world to induce these people to relocate.

"Envy" you, Bill? Not on your life. Now admittedly we're pissed off at you, for sure. But that's only because you caged urban rats absolutely refuse to do the one and only thing we really, really want from you: leave us alone. Stop nagging us, stop telling us how bad we suck, stop psychoanalyzing us, and above all else: stop trying to tell us how we must live our lives via your authoritarian Left-wing politics. We're fine with our shallow, dismal, plodding, unenlightened existence. We mightily wish you were fulfilled and content enough with yours to lay off lecturing us every chance you get, through your trashy, degrading movies and TV shows as well as other ways.

Go play your pseudo-intellectual, artsy-fartsy, isolated-in-a-crowd, misunderstood-genius schtick on each other to your heart's content. Pat yourselves on the back for your innate superiority, even. Applaud each other's brilliance like trained seals until your hands are bruised and bleeding from it; trust me, we won't care. Just do us one small favor and try to tear your attention away from our boring, benighted land at least occasionally, willya? In return, we promise not to leave any turds in your punchbowls. Not even to put it in a gallery and call it "art," we won't.


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